Usually, before Christmas, we go to our city's local production of The Nutcracker. My sons used to object, but now they look forward to it as a pleasant ritual. And then on Christmas Eve there is a beautiful candlelight service in our church. After attending the service we go to my parents' for eggnog.

On Christmas Day, I cook a big turkey dinner for my family and all of our relatives who live in town. At some time during the holidays, we drive to the Texas hill country, where my husband's parents and sisters have homes, and we spend several days visiting them. If we make the trip before Christmas, we always go into the woods to help them cut down their Christmas tree.

I always look forward to Christmas, and I hope that this year's Christmas will be special for each and every one of you.

LIGHTS OUT! by Rita Rainville

A recipe from Rita Rainville:


This recipe should probably be called Grandma's Graham Torte, because the only time we ever had it was when we lived in Chicago and went to visit Grandma. When I grew up, she eventually-and grudgingly-gave me the recipe. It's one of my favorites because not only is it delicious, it's easy-and when I bake, easy is a priority with me.


GRAHAM TORTE


4 eggs

1 lb (5 1/4 cups) crushed graham crackers

2 cups milk

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 cup butter or margarine

4 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 350° F.

Combine crushed graham crackers and baking powder.

Set aside.

In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add eggs, milk and graham-cracker mixture. Blend well.

Put mixture in ungreased 9" x 13" pan. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes. Cool.

Serve with whipped cream.

See? I said it was easy. And you won't have to worry about leftovers!

Chapter One

One alligator, two alligators…

The instant the radio died, Carroll Stilwell jumped up and mentally began counting. She freely admitted that her groan, uttered as she trotted to the bay window that overlooked both her deep front yard and that of her new neighbor, was loud, self-indulgent and self-pitying. She was entitled.

Three alligators, four alligators, five alligators…

Unconsciously using her eight-year-old daughter's favorite method of tolling the seconds, she twitched the lace curtains apart and stared across the sunlit half acre of pine trees, waiting for the rangy, broad-shouldered man to erupt out of his front door.

Six alligators, seven alligators, eight alligators…

Slade Ryan had moved into the sprawling house next door-a house much too large for a single man, everyone in the small mountain community nosily agreed-just two weeks earlier, and in that time Carroll had already devoured her month's emergency stash of chocolate-covered caramels. The tension was definitely giving her an ulcer, she brooded, morbidly prodding a slim finger at her belly.

Nine alligators, ten alii-

Even though she had kept her expectant gaze riveted on the front of his house, Carroll still winced when the sturdy oak door flew open and the big, dark-haired man exploded out onto the porch and down the stairs, heading straight for her place. He wore his work clothes-faded jeans and a maroon knit shirt. Over the past fourteen days she had learned that his appearance at her door in snug jeans and a colorful shirt meant that he had been sitting in front of the computer-at least, until the power had failed.