Holiday Gifts & Gift Baskets Blog

Archive for January, 2008

Isis was creatrix, protectress, healer, and deliverer from suffering. She also offered the promise and hope of rebirth and rejuvenation, and this seems to be at the core of her rituals. Initiation into the cult of Isis in antiquity was a mysterious process, and we know very little since the steps to conversion were private and guarded, rarely spoken about, just as the Eleusinian rites to Ceres were. Apuleius does give us a glimmer of the magic moment in which he was reborn: "I underwent a near death experience as I descended to the underworld ruled by Persephone. Yet I returned. It was midnight, yet I saw the sun shining in all of its majesty. I touched the gods below and the gods above. I stood next to them. I worshiped them.... I was born again".

Indeed, this is a very powerful statement describing a very personal moment of enlightenment and union with the divine. Isis promised rebirth and salvation to those who believed. During the Isia, on a special day called the "Finding of Osiris," worshipers reenacted the myth of Isis and Osiris, sharing the grief and the joy of Isis searching for the body of Osiris and finally finding it and embalming it. They shouted in unison, "Heurekamen, synchairomen," "We have found! We rejoice together!" It is also said that in one rite during the Isia worshipers gathered in a darkened room and mourned over a prone statue of Osiris. During the ritual, a light was carried into the room; a priest then anointed the throats of the mourners with oil and whispered, "Take heart, 0 Initiates, for the god is saved, and we shall have salvation".

Hope and salvation from all of our troubles and suffering, overcoming our fear of death, and living a blessed life on earth are promises that resonate in all religions throughout the ages. These words of Isis can find meaning for each of us especially during the dark and doubt-filled days of October, when the end of the year and darkness looms in the path ahead.

Modern Ritual of Promise and Hope: The Ship of Isis

In antiquity, a yearly ritual to Isis was carried out on a beach or near water. A model ship was prepared. It was painted with sacred words and text, bearing a special message for the year's prosperous journey. Worshipers gathered around the boat, first purifying it with flame, egg, and sulfur and chanting solemn prayers. They then piled it with small gift baskets, winnowing fans, perfumes, and incense and threw libations of milk mixed with grain into the water. The small ship was set adrift and allowed to sail away on its own, following its own course. Thus, the rite ended.

• Adapt this rite, adding your own very personal prayers and messages.
• Give a small offering to the goddess. remembering that she does not ask for riches or wealth, but commitment. In return she offers faith, hope, and love.
• Set your ship adrift upon the water to be guided by the goddess.

The Promise of Isis

Behold. I come to you in your time of trouble. I come with solace and aid. Put an end to your crying and tears, send your sorrows away. Soon through my benevolence will the sun of salvation rise up. Listen to what I say with great care.

You will live a blessed life. You will have a glorious life under my care and guidance. When you have traveled your full length of time and go down unto death, there also. I will be beside you. You will see me shining on amidst the darkness.

Through your religious devotion and constant faith, you may learn that I have it within my power to prolong your life beyond the limits set to it by Fate. Through me, you may be reborn.

Long, long ago when I was a young boy who lived in St. John's, and to whom every other place in the world was referred to simply as "away", there was always snow for Christmas.

Old men lounging on the Mill Bridge would sniff the damp winds of late November and agree confidently, "This year it will be a green Christmas for sure." But they were always wrong.

Some morning in December when we youngsters were feeling the first vague stirrings of Christmas excitement, we would awaken under our mountain of soft multi-colored homemade quilts to find the bedroom window delicately laced with frost.

"It's started!"

This to my younger brother with whom I slept heads and tails. We bounded from bed, oblivious of the cold that had penetrated every cranny of the gabled upstairs while we slept, and placing our mouths close to the ice-powdered window, assaulted it with strong puffs of hot breath until tiny peepholes appeared. Then with one eye squinting through the opening we beheld the swirling snow perfect for creating sweet snowmen.

"It's going to be a big one!" I said. My brother exhaled against the glass.

"Perhaps we'll get a half-holiday," he said hopefully.

Time off from school was the first demonstrable benefit of an old-time snowstorm. But first, since there was no radio to report that schools were closed, we had to make it to the school in order to be told that it was all right to return home.

So began the complicated preparations before lunging out like Arctic explorers into the drifting whiteness.

First, the huddling around the kitchen stove while the splits crackled, the coal was added gradually, and the rolled oats, soaked overnight, were moved to the front damper. Gradually the heat pushed back the all pervading chill and the pleasant breakfast smells added to our sense of comfort and security.

Surely every mother born shares the same lexicon of admonishing phrases.

"Eat up."

"You need a good breakfast to keep you warm." "Wrap yourselves up well."

"Wear your mittens."

"Don't forget your rubbers."

How could anyone forget those rubbers! Great rolled red soles, heavy black tops with tongues that reached up over the laces of our heavy boots.

And then, another motherly quotation. "Use your hands to put them on." A silly suggestion, since after much practice, a sharp forward thrust of the foot, coupled with the right pressure on the heel and the rubber slipped into place with the absolute minimum of physical effort.

And the neckties!

Why undo them every night when they had to be tied up again in the morning? So make the opening just big enough to slip over the head and tighten the knot. An eminently sensible arrangement, even though after a time the knot tended to disappear under the collar tab.

For trousers we wore heavy melt on cloth breeches. They were standard dress for almost every boy in those days. Laced just below the knee, leather patches between the legs and flared on each side. They made us look like an untidy bunch of Bengal Lancers especially when the wool knee socks, an integral part of the outfit, slipped down around the ankles as they almost invariably did. Add a V-necked sweater, a rumpled jacket (loosely referred to as a blazer), cover with a windbreaker and we were ready for the real ordeal.

If mothers share common phrases, they also have a common faith in safety pins.

"Let me pin your felt winter mittens to your coat so you won't lose them." "Wrap your scarf up around your nose and mouth. Now, pin it in place. I don't want you to catch cold."

Always the same ritual and always the same aftermath. A dozen steps from the door and out came the pins. How else could a fellow throw snowballs? And wouldn't you look a real sissy walking along with only your eyes showing through a narrow slit between your scarf and the salt-and-pepper cap, complete with ear flaps?

Oh, those salt-and-pepper caps. Rough black and white material on the outside and a red silk lining.

The manufacturers and mothers believed the dignified way to wear such distinctive headdress was flat on the head like a dinner plate with not the slightest tilt to either left or right.

We boys felt differently, however. The best sartorial authorities among us dictated that the cap must be worn at a debonair, rakish angle with as much of the material as possible pulled toward the right ear, and the peak of the cap, designed so meticulously to be an almost straight-across visor, was unacceptable until it had been skillfully manipulated to drop visibly on both sides.

"If you keep that up you'll break the peak," Mother warned.

Bridge.

Newfoundland hero, Captain Bob Bartlett, leaving his Arctic base and heading straight for the North Pole.

A silent, snow-laden city. But there was an exception. Bells.

To this day I would probably confound any psychiatrist seeking to give me a word-association test.

"What word do you think of when I mention 'Christmas'?" he would ask.

"Bells," I would answer.

"What word does 'snow' bring to mind?" Again, "Bells."

"Walking to school?"

"Bells."

"Horses?"

"Bells."

Always it is bells that keep ringing in my memory and if those winters of over 45 years ago have triggered a perpetual echo, it is of bells.

Mostly, I think, it is Christmas sleigh bells. The silvery, rapid tinkle from the sleek horses of the wealthy, prancing past, hauling magnificent sleighs, and the occupants bundled under their great fur robes, like so many bears traveling in style to their winter hibernation.

Then there was the dun metallic clunk of the work-horse bells, tolling only occasionally as the poor beasts, their flanks steaming from the exertion, labored up Palks Hill or Leslie Street or Alexander Street, dragging a quarter of coal or a puncheon of molasses or a load of birch billets to what were both topographically and socially the Higher Levels of old St. John's.

And there were other bells also. Bells on our coasters on which we slid belly buster down those same hills. Bells on the inside of bull's-eye shop doors to alert the store owner in the back room that someone outside was ready to buy. (Sometimes, just for fun, we simply opened the door, shook it a few times to make the bell rattle, and we ran.)

It was the charitable aspects of these organizations that gave even rock-ribbed Protestants a warm glow of satisfaction as they eagerly indulged in the heavy business of gambling they would denounce vigorously under any other circumstances.

But the competition to help one's fellow man was intense among the many raffles. The parcel-laden passersby had to be persuaded to aid your particular philanthropy, and hence the cow bells.

Outside each raffle stood a bull-voiced huckster vigorously shaking a cow bell and hollering at the top of his lungs, "Three for five and seven for ten! The women can try as well as the men!

Turkey, goose and chicken, a winner every time!" And so it went, up and down the length of Water Street. The cow bells, the sleigh bells and the steady clang, clang of the streetcar bell creating the general impression that a tone-deaf extrovert had been let loose in a belfry where all the bells were out of tune.

Yet, the effect was exhilarating, for there was within it all a kind of simple harmony, a truce between the old town and the winter that they would make every effort to live with each other and as far as possible enjoy each other's company.

This brings me back to the first snowfall.

Once out into the drifts, some already reaching to the knees, the first task was to get rid of the safety pins. Out they came from the mittens and the scarf, the salt-and-pepper cap was properly adjusted and down you plopped into the engulfing snow, rolling in it as if you were severely afflicted and the snow had magic, health-giving properties.

And perhaps it did.

The blood surged, the breath came faster and became more visible in the cold, crisp air, the cheeks reddened, the nose ran and was wiped deftly and often on the backs of the homespun mittens.

"Let's find the boys," I said, for this kind of adventure brought out the herd instinct and we made for the usual rendezvous outside Mrs. Reddy's store.

Banner caramels! Hard as iron, chocolate covered Christmas candy, only a cent each, and if consumed properly, guaranteed to last at least an hour before finally melting in your mouth.

Now, forces having been joined and the recess money spent prematurely, off we crept single file along the unclean sidewalk, frequently pushing each other into the drifts or simply plunging in voluntarily with unrestrained enthusiasm.

"You think we're going to get a half-holiday?" The question was whipped along the wind. "If we don't I'll pip off." Shouts of approval all along the line. When there was a snowstorm it was considered an inalienable right to be let out of school early. It was not very logical for we simply stayed out in the snow anyway, but a right it was and one not to be surrendered lightly.

Up

"Get yourself good and wet," cried one veteran of these anti-school campaigns. "Then they'll have to send us home."

The advice was superfluous for by now knee socks hung limply around our ankles and the legs of our long drawers were wet and soggy as if we had waded through a surging torrent. Whether it was our bedraggled appearances or the fact that the teachers also welcomed the day off so near Christmas (as we often suspected), we all gathered in assembly, the principal mumbled a short prayer, we sang something about all things being bright and beautiful, and were told we could go home.

I have often thought that God is secretly on the side of school boys for we had barely begun the trek back along the tortuous route we had come when the snow stopped, the winds died and the watery winter sun did its best to make up for lost time.

"Let's go to Water Street," I said, and there was a chorus of approval. Now it was down over Springdale Street, chasing after horses and sleighs, leaping on the runners until irritated drivers scared us off with a gentle flick of their whip. Where the snow had become hard and slippery on the steeper inclines, we slithered up and down until we had a surface as smooth as glass. Then we slid down it one foot ahead of the other with all the grace of an Alpine skier braving the upper reaches of the Matterhorn.

Tiring at last of our sport we moved on, leaving the slippery patch to trap some unsuspecting pedestrian, unless, as often happened, a nearby resident ended the slope's usefulness by covering it with ashes from the kitchen stove.

Oh, there was so much to see on Water Street during those long-ago Christmases. In fact, the great thoroughfare, great to us at least, excited all the senses.

I have spoken of the sounds, the bells and the clamor. And then there were the smells, the exotic smells in the Christmas fruit arrangements and candy gift stores, the pungent smell of leather, oakum and tar in the hardware stores, and in the general stores an indescribable mixture of the aromas of dry goods, groceries, and the ever-present whiff of salt cod that penetrated even the most high-class emporiums, seeping in from the adjacent harbor wharves where all manner of vessels called enticingly to the wanderlust in every boy who has ever lived with the sea at his doorstep.

But of all the senses it was sight that made Water Street the winter wonderland of the Christmas childhood. Intricate old-world lettering over the shops proclaiming proudly the names of the owners. More names in gold on the windows and doors. The sides of old store buildings converted to primitive billboards - importers and exporters said one, general dealer another; harness maker, ironmonger, cakes and pastries, all proclaimed their trade or lines of business, and the totality of the impressions told the school boy better than any lesson of the great mercantile history of this oldest street in all of North America.

"What do you want for Christmas?" we asked each other as we traversed this magic place. And it was a mark of the times that it was always asked and answered in the singular.

"What do you want?" really meant "What one thing above all others are you hoping for?" So the choice was excruciatingly difficult and minds were changed at each shop window.

The Champion steel-runnered coaster at Knowling's gave way to the Chum Boys Annual at Dicks and the book in turn lost out to the newly introduced tube skates at Martin-Royal Stores.

Down one side and up the other we went, detouring at Beck's Cove to see the men at work shoeing horses in the forge on George Street. Are blacksmiths always kind to children? Any I have known were. Always they let us enter the forge to enjoy the heat and sometimes to pump the bellows, to watch the iron turn red hot and be hammered into shape and to marvel as the horses stood on three legs as the hoof was trimmed and the sharp new shoes skillfully applied.

And now that I think of it, almost everyone in St. John's was kind in those faraway days. We wandered unhindered in and out of stores. People were never too hurried to ignore our questions and a "Merry Christmas, Mister!" always drew the cheery response, "The same to you, son!"

Back home, after the day-long reconnaissance, came the moment of truth. Subtly, parents had to be advised about what that one important Christmas gift ought to be. What Santa put in the stocking was separate, of course. An apple, an orange, hard candy, a small mechanical toy or two, and the inevitable mittens.

But even the most devout believer in Santa Claus knew that hints regarding the big gift had to be passed to parents as insurance, if nothing else. And as a rule, the insurance paid off.

And then the year came and it came early for me, when I realized that my world had changed, and that hints would not any longer be enough.

Suddenly one Christmas, my father was no longer there. At 13, I was an orphan, the eldest of six.

Was it my imagination or was the wind colder now, the snow less inviting and the bells muted? Why was I more cautious in response to the question "What do you want for Christmas?" I guess I knew - all of us knew - that things had changed.

So we could not pay the man to bring a Christmas tree as we used to. Very well, I could cut one myself, on the South Side Hill and drag it home on my sled.

Mother made fudge to replace the store-bought candy. I took some of mine, wrapped the pieces in used tinsel, and gave them back to her in an old Christmas chocolate gift box.

We made fancy lanterns out of wrapping paper colored with crayon and a star out of the cardboard of a shoe box, covered with the silver wrapping from a chocolate candy bar.

And then, magical things began to happen.

Relatives we scarcely remembered sent presents, not the usual utilitarian things to dull a child's expectant heart, but toys like red fire engines with real sirens, games of Ludo and Snakes and Ladders and even a pair of the new tube skates.

And friends we had not thought of as friends began dropping by... one with a chicken, another with a cake. Our grocer, a dear old Scott, threw in a box of Christmas cookies even though we were two months behind with the bill. And the woman next door found a pair of overshoes for me that her son had mysteriously outgrown, even though they were brand new.

Well, that Christmas Eve with Mother alone was different of course, but far happier than we had expected. There was good food, there were presents and there was a tree in its usual place between the organ and the big Morris chair in the parlour.

There were no electric lights for Christmas trees then, but there were candles, real ones, and special holders that clipped onto the tree branches. My father had always reminded us that they were dangerous as well as beautiful. Only he would light them and then only for a few minutes at a time while we turned off all the lights and gazed at the glorious sight.

But now Father was gone.

And as we brought out the box of decorations, I watched more intently than the others as the familiar ornaments were put in place - the fragile glass balls on the tips of the branches, the delicate birds with their plumed tails placed closer to the centre and then the candleholders.

One after the other, Mother put them in place and inserted the birthday type candles and turning to me, she passed me the matches.

"Light the candles, Son," she said. "You're the man of the house now."

Well, the long road of memory has many signposts. Each marks an incident, an event, an encounter that we weave into the puzzling mosaic of our total existence. And as we look over the intricate patterns on a birthday, an anniversary, or other special occasion, we are filled with wonderment at the variety, the richness and the value of life.

For me, the first dawning of this awareness came on that night long ago when an awkward 13-year-old boy became a man in a matter of minutes in the flickering candlelight from an old-fashioned Christmas tree.

Patrick Street

we went single file like the gold-hungry prospectors in our history book making their way over the mountains into the Yukon.

The day's work was over, the evening meal finished and the stove was filled to the top with green alders that would burn just fast enough to keep a resting man comfortable.

 Uncle Bill lay on the outside edge of a bunk with his long rubbers under his head for a pillow and listened to the younger men and teenage boys haphazardly discussing the events of the day. The talk was of the number of sticks of wood cut and hauled, the condition of the snow-covered hauling roads, the rabbits that were caught in the snares tailed the day before as well as those that were smart enough to escape, and even the jays that had invaded the clearing where they boiled the kettle for their mid-day meal.

The teenage boys forced to spend their holidays in this way did not object to this enforced labor for if a young man wished to attend school this was expected of him. Few ever contemplated a world where school holidays were idled away instead of being used to help out one's family. During a lull in the conversation, young Danny asked Uncle Bill what the Christmas holiday season was like when he was a boy.

Well, boys, the old man began, I've seen a lot of Christmases come and go but generally speaking they are much the same now as when I was a boy. We all have more now, for there's more to be had, but the feeling is the same. When Christmas comes you learn to enjoy what you have, be thankful you have it and to share what little you have with those who have less.

In three score years, I have known a lot of bad Christmases from the point of view of the worldly goods we had, but we always tried to bring some happiness to everyone by cutting a few corners here and there. On Christmas morning everyone in the family had something, not very much I suppose by the standards of today, but certainly something. Do you know what was special about those Christmases? It was the feeling that everyone had that what they received was due to a sacrifice on the part of someone else. The children today get what they ask for, but they know that very little sacrifice on the part of their relatives is required to give them what they want and so whatever they get is not appreciated.

However hard the times were, Christmas was fun. We entertained ourselves at the school concert. We got a glass of syrup or lime juice with cake and Christmas cookies in every home in the village. On every night except Sunday, from Christmas Day to Old Christmas Day we went mummering. The young folk would go all around the village right after supper and around eight o'clock those past their mid-teens and the adults would begin. We always tried to get someone with an accordion to accompany us and we would have a "step" in every house. However bad the times were, there was nearly always a drop of shine on the go and in many of the houses that we visited we were given a drink. Some young men and women who had lots of energy took a punt, rowed across the tickle and visited every house there as well.

When we lived on the islands, our lives were completely different from what they are up here in the bay. The work was different, the language was different, the homes were different and we had different ways of entertaining ourselves. Many of you who were grown men before you were shanghaied by that fellow Smallwood, will remember the island Christmas concerts.

Those concerts were recognized by all as the highlight of the cheery Christmas season. The children who took part got a chance to show off in front of their relatives and friends. The teenagers, during the many practice sessions, got an opportunity to meet with their opposites away from the eagle eyes of their parents. In a school that was very dimly lit with one or two kerosene lamps, there was always an opportunity for a hug or a kiss in a darkened corner when no one was looking. If you carried out a survey along the whole shore among the people over fifty you will find out, I'm sure, that a large percentage started their courting during the long practice sessions for the Christmas concert. It is certainly understandable when you consider that a number of teenage boys and girls were waiting around together during the time when others were practicing their parts.

The closer to Christmas Eve it got, the more excited became those who were taking part and the more expectant those who would make up the audience. However, the old schoolhouse had to undergo certain alterations. A temporary stage had to be built at one end and a curtain rigged that could be hauled back and forth. The big inside jib of Uncle Noah's bully was hung from the ceiling in one corner of the stage for a dressing room and seating accommodation provided for the total population of the island with extras for those who would undoubtedly arrive from the nearby villages.

A considerable proportion of the populations of the island village were actual participants. Many boys and girls from five to ten years of age delivered short recitations. Older children took part in skits or sang and many young adults, married and single, participated if they were known to have any particular talent in dialogue or song. Everyone who took part got a hearty endorsement for a large percentage of the audiences were relatives and were expected to be generous with their acclaim.

It was the general custom at these Christmas concerts to provide for a visit from Santa Claus, which occurred immediately after the last item on the programme came to an end. There was no long waiting period which seems to be general in big cities. I remember a time last fall when I was visiting my son in St. John's seeing a crowd of men, women and children lined up by the side of Prince Philip Drive from nine-thirty to twelve o'clock waiting for Santa to make an appearance. That was two and one half hours and I could not help thinking that in that much time, the island concert could start and end and Santa come and go with still time to spare. Every boy and girl in the village was remembered and at times also there were gifts for other people. Many a teenage boy, too shy to present a Christmas gift to his favorite girl, secretly bought and wrapped a present to be delivered by Santa after the Christmas concert.

The concert was not staged to raise funds but simply to provide entertainment for the whole population of the island village. However, there was a very small admittance fee, usually five or ten cents, which I presume went to the local school board.

The annual Christmas concert is just another example of how the small, isolated island communities provided for their own needs. Just as they built their own homes and boats, grew their own vegetables and made their own clothing, they also attempted to create their own entertainment. The local teacher usually provided the leadership, all the young people took part and the whole community became the audience.

The various practice sessions gave the young people something to do during the long nights of early winter. It provided the young men with the opportunity to meet with the young women. It gave all those who took part the opportunity to speak, act or sing before an audience and it became one night during the long winter when the men left their knitting needles and the women their mat hooks.

On October 17, 1878, Sir John A. Macdonald became prime minister of Canada for the second time. In 1838 or 1839, Sir John served as the second in a duel and was dissuaded from fighting a duel of his own in 1849. Dueling has a long history:

• Judicial duels began in 6th-century Burgundy, as trial by combat to learn the "judgment of God." As recently as 1817, an accused murderer in Britain had to be acquitted because he chose the right to "wage his battle" over trial by jury, and no one wanted to fight him.
• On the European continent, the challenger in a personal duel had the right to choose the weapons, usually swords or pistols. In English-speaking countries, the challenged party had this right. In r843, billiard balls were the weapons in a fatal duel fought in France.
• Duels were fought in New France as early as r646. The last recorded fight in what is now known as Canada took place in St. John's in r873' The death toll in the years between: at least nine in New France, two in Lower Canada, five in Upper Canada, two each in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and one in Newfoundland.
• The last legal duel in Canada was fought on the campus of Dalhousie University in 1816. Although such encounters were consiered a crime, Canadian juries consistently refused to convict duelists if they thought the fights had been fair.

October is the time to think of the beloved dead. Visit the cemetery if possible to honor the graves of those departed. Alternatively, find a quiet place outside, close to the earth, and meditate for a few minutes upon those dear ones who have died: think over each loss experienced this past year whether from death or separation. Allow the tears to come and gently comfort yourself with warm memories of fond times. Learn to express sadness and grief! Remember it was the tears of Isis that started the annual life-giving Nile floods.

In Sicily, legend has it that the dead leave their tombs during these days, raiding the best pastry shops to bring children gifts or special treats such as these Dead Man's Cookies.

Dead Man's Cookies (makes about 5 dozen)

These cookies are eaten in Italy on All Soul's Day, when they are shaped to look like fava beans, a symbol of the dead in ancient Rome. Recall the May ritual to the dead spirits, the Lemuria, where beans were used to propitiate the dead.

"The grappa [an Italian brandy] in this Venetian sweet gives the cookies a distinct and slightly bitter edge. The same cookies are made in Rome without pine nuts or grappa by reducing the almonds to a fine powder, adding at tiny bit more butter, and flavoring them with cinnamon."

• 1 1/2 to 1 3/4 cups blanched almonds
• 1 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
• 1 1/2 tablespoons pine nuts, coarsely chopped
• 1 tablespoon grappa
• grated zest of 1 lemon
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 1 egg
• 1 egg yolk
• 1 egg white for glaze

In a food processor fitted with the steel blade or with a sharp knife, chop the almonds into fine grains, but not a powder. Move them to the bowl of an electric mixer or to a large mixing bowl and add the sugar, flour, pine nuts, grappa, lemon zest, butter, egg, and egg yolk. Mix on the lowest speed in the electric mixer or stir together by hand. The dough initially seems very dry, but does eventually smooth out and come together. If you are really having trouble, add egg white, a teaspoon at a time.

Butter and flour baking sheets or line them with parchment paper, Divide the dough into several pieces. On a lightly floured work surface roll each one into a long narrow log about ¾ inches wide. Cut into 1-inch segments, about the size of a fava bean. Roll each one slightly to smooth out the edges, and then press a small indentation in the center, so that the cookies really do resemble the fava beans. Set on the baking sheets. Whip the egg white until it is frothy and brush a little bit on each autumn themed cookie.

Bake cookies at 300 degrees until pale gold in color. 20 to 25 minutes.

Cool on racks.