As requested, this is the Dirty Snowball recipe from what I can figure.
1 oz Irish cream
1/4 oz white creme de cacao
1/4 oz Kahlua® coffee liqueur
1 oz milk or ice cream
1/4 oz white creme de cacao
1/4 oz Kahlua® coffee liqueur
1 oz milk or ice cream
Pour Irish cream, creme de cacao, Kahlua coffee liqueur and milk into a cocktail shaker half-filled with cracked ice or into blender. Shake well, until frothy or blend. Repeat as needed.
No photos as I left my camera at home last night. I promise to wear my Christmas brooch-embellished sweater again soon and will take a picture of it.
***
As the child of faithful Protestant parents (we were Lutheran, Baptist, and Evangelical-free depending on the town), I had an opportunity every December to be part of our church's Christmas pageant. No matter where we lived or what church we attended, the same story was told in the same fashion. Angels, shepherds, a crate full of hay and Silent Night were inevitable components. Every year I yearned to be cast as Mary.
She's the star, you know, of the whole Christmas production. Sure, it's about Jesus, but every self-respecting pageant director casts a large plastic doll in that role, so obviously Mary is the star performer. Mary gets to wear the blue robe. She's the only girl part--surrounded as she is by Joseph, shepherds and wise men from afar (everyone knows the heavenly host are really boys, but since they come in a big choir, it doesn't matter anyway). A nearly wordless role, the entire audience focuses on Mary while she looks pure and holy and wonderous, gazing at the bundle in her arms.
And being chosen to play Mary meant you were a Good Girl. A Role Model. Someone Sweet and Righteous and Well-Liked by adults.
Oh how I wished to be Mary.
For three years in a row I got cast as a shepherd. I wore my dad's beige bathrobe with the dark brown trim and a towel bound around my head. I poked at little kids dressed like sheep with my staff and brushed the dust bunnies off my shoulders because my father never actually wore that bathrobe. It only came out of his closet to be worn by his daughter, the Christmas pageant shepherd.
Then, in response to a shortage of boys in my Sunday School class one year, I was brought up from the ranks to play a wise man. My props were upgraded to fancy crown and gigantic glass vase. It was a better role to showcase my thespian skills, but still not Mary.
In other years I made it in and out of the angel choir and in one particularly ambitious production I played the innkeeper's wife--a female role with 2 lines and second billing to the innkeeper himself. By the time I'd outgrown the pageant, I'd played every part except Mary--and Joseph, which really isn't much of a role.
After all of that wishing and hoping only to be denied the role of the Virgin Mary every single year, it shouldn't have shocked anyone too badly when I decided I wanted to become this virgin when I was a teenager:
If I couldn't be a virgin, I could be Like a Virgin
No photos as I left my camera at home last night. I promise to wear my Christmas brooch-embellished sweater again soon and will take a picture of it.
***
As the child of faithful Protestant parents (we were Lutheran, Baptist, and Evangelical-free depending on the town), I had an opportunity every December to be part of our church's Christmas pageant. No matter where we lived or what church we attended, the same story was told in the same fashion. Angels, shepherds, a crate full of hay and Silent Night were inevitable components. Every year I yearned to be cast as Mary.
She's the star, you know, of the whole Christmas production. Sure, it's about Jesus, but every self-respecting pageant director casts a large plastic doll in that role, so obviously Mary is the star performer. Mary gets to wear the blue robe. She's the only girl part--surrounded as she is by Joseph, shepherds and wise men from afar (everyone knows the heavenly host are really boys, but since they come in a big choir, it doesn't matter anyway). A nearly wordless role, the entire audience focuses on Mary while she looks pure and holy and wonderous, gazing at the bundle in her arms.
And being chosen to play Mary meant you were a Good Girl. A Role Model. Someone Sweet and Righteous and Well-Liked by adults.
Oh how I wished to be Mary.
For three years in a row I got cast as a shepherd. I wore my dad's beige bathrobe with the dark brown trim and a towel bound around my head. I poked at little kids dressed like sheep with my staff and brushed the dust bunnies off my shoulders because my father never actually wore that bathrobe. It only came out of his closet to be worn by his daughter, the Christmas pageant shepherd.
Then, in response to a shortage of boys in my Sunday School class one year, I was brought up from the ranks to play a wise man. My props were upgraded to fancy crown and gigantic glass vase. It was a better role to showcase my thespian skills, but still not Mary.
In other years I made it in and out of the angel choir and in one particularly ambitious production I played the innkeeper's wife--a female role with 2 lines and second billing to the innkeeper himself. By the time I'd outgrown the pageant, I'd played every part except Mary--and Joseph, which really isn't much of a role.
After all of that wishing and hoping only to be denied the role of the Virgin Mary every single year, it shouldn't have shocked anyone too badly when I decided I wanted to become this virgin when I was a teenager:
If I couldn't be a virgin, I could be Like a Virgin
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