I want to make it clear that I am not a Swedish wanna-be.

My grandfather got off a boat from Bohemia, and my grandmother said “Make out the lights”, the literal translation from the German, until the day she died. I am almost always content to be what I am, an American of Czech / German descent.

However, on one day of the year, I long to be Swedish. That special day is December 13, St. Lucia Day in Sweden.

How St. Lucia, a very Italian saint, has come to be adored by a nation of Swedes is lost in the murky mess of history. What is certain is that she is the saint of light, and the Swedish people want her to visit their homes and bring back the light to their dark, northern nation.

The Swedes accomplish this feat by lighting up their big sisters. Early on December 13, the oldest girl in the family dons a white dress with a crimson sash, puts a lingonberry leaf crown with lighted candles on her head and serves her family breakfast in bed. Even the sweet rolls, luciakatter, are special. They are almond, raisin, saffron flavored buns.

Living in the upper Midwest, I feel a compelling need for a Lucia girl. When they were younger, my granddaughters could be pressed into doing Lucia duty. Teenagers are more skeptical about these matters.

I may have to run a classified ad. “Wanted, one Lucia girl, no experience necessary. Crown and candles provided. Just bring back the sun.”

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My neighbor the next road over got a free peacock, or more correctly, a free peahen. She did not win this bird in some oddball raffle or sweepstakes. The peahen just walked into our neighbor’s yard and decided to stay. Maybe this bird was just tired of looking at some guy’s big tail.

The peacock joined the chicken which arrived three years earlier in a similar fashion; i.e., out of the blue.

No one in our neighborhood has reported any missing peacocks. And no signs have appeared on telephone poles with a fetching photo and the words, “MISSING, our beloved peacock, Persephone. Reward.”

Maybe our homes have giant, invisible animal magnets. My neighbor’s house has an avian magnet; ours is decidedly feline.

Peacocks are native to India, a place with a much toastier climate than here in Wisconsin. Our winter is setting in. Another neighbor has offered the peacock and chicken heated quarters for the winter. The trick will be luring them in. After all, they are birdbrains.

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I am a minimalist. I try not to have more stuff than I can care for.

To that end, I frequently say to myself, “Do I really need this?”

The answer is frequently negative. For example:

• Television – Not needed as it has the frightening capacity to bring Nancy Grace into my house.
• Dishwasher – Also not needed. How many dishes can two people make?
• Microwave – I have a really big one. It’s called an oven.
• Bathtub – Absolutely unnecessary. I agree with the Japanese… why sit in your own scum?
• Ice cubes – Doesn’t the refrigerator make all drinks cold?
• A barbecue – Too dangerous. I should never be left alone with charcoal starter.
• Air conditioning – It’s called Lake Michigan.

Since I have so little stuff, lots of room is left for cats and books. Cats don’t have to be dusted or washed. They are great heating pads and can also perform mouse duty.

The rest of the empty space is filled with books. In this regard, I’m a total maximalist.

I believe I hate turkey dressing as the result of a big misunderstanding when I was 4 years old. Seated at my grandmother’s well-laden, lace tablecloth covered table, I spotted a big bowl of brown stuff. “I want that, please,” I said to my mother. “You’re not going to like it, “she replied. I might note that in her entire life, my mother never made a turkey or dressing. “Please,” I begged.

She put a big scoop on my plate, and I was shocked when I tasted it. I was certain the brown stuff with celery was one of my favorite foods – tuna salad. I’ve never recovered from that moment.

Fortunately, my grandmother made mounds of mashed potatoes and schlag laden pumpkin pies. She also had the best salt and pepper shakers in the world, a pair of Nippers, the RCA Victor Dog. I inherited them and still find them charming.

When my grandmother could no longer produce the Thanksgiving feast, I grew up on chop suey or Swiss steak for the big day. Yet, I longed to be like everyone else in America with a big turkey and mashed potatoes. I could simply say, “No dressing, please.”

As a newlywed, I vowed never to have a Thanksgiving sans turkey. Wild rice would be the stuffing. My first excursion into turkey cookery was memorable. Who would imagine someone hiding a plastic bag of neck bones, hearts and gizzards INSIDE a bird? Not me. I roasted them.

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My grandmother was poor, but she had one prized possession, her 150 piece set of Homer Laughlin dishes. Like many women of her era, she set an abundant table with a dish for every purpose. Scores of dishes including two gravy boats, celery plates, and gigantic meat platters proved that the American dream was real.

My mother decided to go modern when she was married in the height of the Depression. She bought Homer Laughlin dinnerware, too, but hers was the radical new Fiesta® Dinnerware (click here) .

How lucky I was to eat every meal of my childhood off those Matisse colored dishes. By the time I was five, I decided that the deep cobalt blue plate was the most prized. If I didn’t get the blue one, then red, green, yellow and white were my favorites in descending order. Perhaps I veered to a career in art because of those paintbox colored plates.

I started marriage with a small set of earth tone dishes. But my dish philosophy took a radical turn one day in a delightful Montreal restaurant. Our family ordered different entrees, and each came on unique dishes. The Asian inspired food graced a Chinese plate. An elegantly flowered plate set off the French entree. And the creamy white pasta arrived on a sleek, black platter.

Not being strapped with 150 matched dishes, I decided then and there to go home and comb the thrift stores for unique plates that matched my cooking.

Like my grandmother, I now have many, many dishes. Unlike my grandmother, I have cupboards full of mismatched plates. I wouldn’t dream of serving mac & ched on white china.

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