Christmas tree lit and fire in stove.  Mom assigns task of grinding the aromatic cardamom to small daughter with blond "dog ears" who is reclining in den watching TV.  (Mom wants daughter to have wonderful olfactory memories of the holidays and wants her to be a part of the process.  Yes, Mom read a lot of psychology in those days.)  Daughter is not so thrilled with any of it.  She walks into kitchen with mortar and pestle and, aggrieved, says, "Here.  I did it for you.  I can't stand the smell of this stuff."  Mom thinks, "Oh well, so much for memories - maybe she'll change her mind someday.  Who knows?"  It appears that she has.

Mom also played Alfred Burt Carols by Singers of Joyce during toffee and Yulekage marathon workshops from the time Our Heroine was an infant in Valdosta - also lots of Messiah.  Our Heroine would be down for a nap and Mom would play away - stuffing that music into O.H. subliminally.  (there is also the old embarrassing story of Mom singing in a production of the entire Messiah when Our Heroine was in utero and O.H. kicking big time during "Unto Us a Child is Born" to the point that Mom's choir robe moved and was noticed by other singers.  Wondering whether that went into O.H.'s psyche somewhere.  I TOLD you I read a lot of psychology.)