Cozy Christmas Quotes

I just love family meetings. Very cozy, with the Christmas garlands round the fireplace and a nice pot of tea and a detective from Scotland Yard ready to arrest you.

I love snow for the same reason I love Christmas: It brings people together while time stands still. Cozy couples lazily meandered the streets and children trudged sleds and chased snowballs. No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other, whenever and however it happened.

"At Christmas, tea is compulsory. Relatives are optional.

Snowflakes swirl down gently in the deep blue haze beyond the window. The outside world is a dream. Inside, the fireplace is brightly lit, and the Yule log crackles with orange and crimson sparks. There’s a steaming mug in your hands, warming your fingers. There’s a friend seated across from you in the cozy chair, warming your heart. There is mystery unfolding.

But here I am in July, and why am I thinking about Christmas pudding? Probably because we always pine for what we do not have. The winter seems cozy and romantic in the hell of summer, but hot beaches and sunlight are what we yearn for all winter.

There's nothing cozier than a Christmas tree all lit up.

Aunty Azalea was always the eccentric one in a family not widely famed for an extravagant excess of marbles.

There was a very cautious man Who never laughed or played. He never risked, he never tried, He never sang or prayed. And when one day he passed away, His insurance was denied. For since he never really lived, They claimed he never really died.

Cozy was a fun night by a fireplace with marshmallows. Cozy was a grandmother knitting Christmas sweaters. Cozy was new puppies in a litter. Cozy was not what he had in mind to do in that tent with Tes.

Cozy dusk reigned in the house under the magical glow of colored lanterns. The scents of pine resin, candy, and citrus wafted through the rooms.

You’ll probably want to jump straight to the punchline, in future, when recounting the discovery of a murder.

This is the rummiest ingredient of this rum cocktail.

I believe that Americans will buy anything so long as someone else buys one first.

We don’t seize the moment, there’ll be another foreign skirmish or some American flying a hot air balloon to the moon or someplace...

It’s very much its own reward, I find, spending other people’s money.

It’ll be just like Romeo and Juliet,” I said, “without the emotive poetry of a suicide pact —

She was to bashfulness what that Pythagoras chap was to sorting out the area of the She was to bashfulness what that Pythagoras chap was to sorting out the area of the square of the hypotenuse once and for all.

The only time I'll be caught dancing is in the end zone after scoring a touchdown.

Someone like me cares about others, but I guess you wouldn't know anything about that.

When you know the truth of who you are, you realize that it’s enough just to be,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “And when you understand that, there’s nothing left to prove.

Charlie desperately wanted to find some magic words to fix the mess and move on, but that wasn't how life worked. Instead, she needed to be brave and honest. Hopefully that would be enough.

Since you’re no’ going tae ask, I’ll just tell you tae come,” he called. “Come as you are. But if you dinna hurry, we’ll miss Christmas.” Christmas. She felt the delight of it clear to her toes. He leaned forward in the saddle, looking frozen. “Are you coming, Lael lass, or are you no’?” “I—well . . .” She turned and flew into the cabin, smoothing her hair, banking the fire, and disposing of her uneaten supper all at once. Suddenly she reappeared at the door. “I don’t even know where we’re going!” “Tae Cozy Creek. Till the new year.

Grandma, down in her own cozy room, sat listening to the blithe noises with a smile on her face, for the past seemed to have come back again. It was as if her own boys and girls were once again frolicking in the rooms above her head, as they had done forty years before.

Cookies are the cornerstone of pastry. But for many of us, they are also at the core of our memories, connecting our palate to our person. Cookies wait for us after school, anxious for little ones to emerge from a bus and race through the door. They fit themselves snugly in boxes, happy to be passed out to neighbors on cold Christmas mornings; trays of them line long tables, mourning the loss of the dearly departed. While fancy cakes and tarts walk the red carpet, their toasted meringue piles, spun sugar, and chocolate curls boasting of rich rewards that often fail to sustain, cookies simply whisper knowingly. Instead of pomp and flash, they offer us warm blankets and cozy slippers. They slip us our favorite book, they know the lines to our favorite movies. They laugh at our jokes, they stay in for the night. They are good friends, they are kind words. They are not jealous, conceited, or proud. They evoke a giving spirit, a generous nature. They beg to be shared, and rejoice in connection. Cookies are home.

She opened her eyes just as her pillow heaved out a sigh. “My goodness.” Vim Charpentier slept beside her, his arm around her where she was plastered to his side. Light came through a crack in the window curtains, and a quiet snuffling sounded from the cradle near the hearth. “He’s awake.” Vim’s voice was resigned. “I’ll get him. It’s my turn.” “He’s not fussing yet. You have a few minutes.” Vim sighed gustily, and his hand settled on Sophie’s shoulder. “I do apologize for appropriating half your bed. Just a few more days rest, and I’ll be happy to vacate it.” There was weary humor in his tone and something else… affection? “Vim?” He shifted a little, so Sophie might have met his gaze if she’d had sufficient courage. “I’ve never awoken with a man in my bed before. It’s cozy.” “And I’ve never been referred to as cozy before, but the Infant Terrible has reduced me to viewing that state as worthy in the extreme. You’re cozy too.” He kissed her temple, and a sweetness bloomed in Sophie’s middle. Affection. It was different from passion and different with a man than with, say, a sibling or friend. It was wonderful. “Sophie?

You’re worried about Anna?” “Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.” “Westhaven, are you pouting?” Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?” The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.” “Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.” “They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.” “You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.” Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?” “And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his gaze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man. “The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?” “I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.” St. Just was silent for a moment while the fire hissed and popped in the hearth. “So I like to sing to my daughters. Emmie bears so much of the burden, it’s little enough I can do to look after my own children.” “You love them all more than you ever thought possible, and you’re scared witless,” Westhaven said, feeling a pang of gratitude to be able to offer the simple comfort of a shared truth. “I believe we’re just getting started on that part. With every child, we’ll fret more for our ladies, more for the children, for the ones we have, the one to come.” “You’re such a wonderful help to a man, Westhaven. Perhaps I’ll lock you in that nice cozy privy next time nature calls.” Which

I took a shower after dinner and changed into comfortable Christmas Eve pajamas, ready to settle in for a couple of movies on the couch. I remembered all the Christmas Eves throughout my life--the dinners and wrapping presents and midnight mass at my Episcopal church. It all seemed so very long ago. Walking into the living room, I noticed a stack of beautifully wrapped rectangular boxes next to the tiny evergreen tree, which glowed with little white lights. Boxes that hadn’t been there minutes before. “What…,” I said. We’d promised we wouldn’t get each other any gifts that year. “What?” I demanded. Marlboro Man smiled, taking pleasure in the surprise. “You’re in trouble,” I said, glaring at him as I sat down on the beige Berber carpet next to the tree. “I didn’t get you anything…you told me not to.” “I know,” he said, sitting down next to me. “But I don’t really want anything…except a backhoe.” I cracked up. I didn’t even know what a backhoe was. I ran my hand over the box on the top of the stack. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine--so unadorned, so simple, I imagined that Marlboro Man could have wrapped it himself. Untying the twine, I opened the first package. Inside was a pair of boot-cut jeans. The wide navy elastic waistband was a dead giveaway: they were made especially for pregnancy. “Oh my,” I said, removing the jeans from the box and laying them out on the floor in front of me. “I love them.” “I didn’t want you to have to rig your jeans for the next few months,” Marlboro Man said. I opened the second box, and then the third. By the seventh box, I was the proud owner of a complete maternity wardrobe, which Marlboro Man and his mother had secretly assembled together over the previous couple of weeks. There were maternity jeans and leggings, maternity T-shirts and darling jackets. Maternity pajamas. Maternity sweats. I caressed each garment, smiling as I imagined the time it must have taken for them to put the whole collection together. “Thank you…,” I began. My nose stung as tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect gift. Marlboro Man reached for my hand and pulled me over toward him. Our arms enveloped each other as they had on his porch the first time he’d professed his love for me. In the grand scheme of things, so little time had passed since that first night under the stars. But so much had changed. My parents. My belly. My wardrobe. Nothing about my life on this Christmas Eve resembled my life on that night, when I was still blissfully unaware of the brewing thunderstorm in my childhood home and was packing for Chicago…nothing except Marlboro Man, who was the only thing, amidst all the conflict and upheaval, that made any sense to me anymore. “Are you crying?” he asked. “No,” I said, my lip quivering. “Yep, you’re crying,” he said, laughing. It was something he’d gotten used to. “I’m not crying,” I said, snorting and wiping snot from my nose. “I’m not.” We didn’t watch movies that night. Instead, he picked me up and carried me to our cozy bedroom, where my tears--a mixture of happiness, melancholy, and holiday nostalgia--would disappear completely.

It was dusk when Rick led Amelia and Sam toward the Old Town plaza. "Come with me. You're going to love this." Amelia could hear music in the distance. She recognized the delicate strumming of a few guitars and the faint sound of singing. As they approached the plaza, Amelia could see four men playing and singing folk songs. It was beautiful. The music was coming straight from their soul and it held her spellbound. She stood in awe and watched, loving every note that drifted toward her. "Come here," said Rick as he motioned toward some benches. "Let's sit down." After the three of them got comfortable, Rick put his arm around Amelia's shoulders. "If you think this is beautiful, wait until Christmas. They have Luminarias and sing Christmas songs in both English and Spanish.

Nonchalance was my motto. Nothing to see here.

I am entirely at your service, Sir Henry. And I feel sure you will have no reason to complain of my frankness.' H.M. blinked. 'Uh-huh. I was afraid of that. Son, frankness is a virtue only when you're talkin' about yourself, and then it's a nuisance. Besides, it's an impossibility. There's only one kind of person who's ever really willing to tell the truth about himself, and that's the kind they certify and shove in the bug-house. And when a person says he intends to be frank about other people, all it means is that he's goin' to give 'em a kick in the eye...

he purred into my ear and I felt my whole body blush.

And there goes that siren again,” grumbled Mr. Clay, putting down his paper. “Just as if we haven’t got Christmas bells, or carolers, or a goose to stuff, we must have an air raid, too!” This mild tirade was so unlike Mr. Clay that everyone in the room stopped to look at him. “Oh, get along with you all,” he ordered, waving his hands. “The boys have convinced me to take the night off, and look where it’s going to land me – the Anderson shelter!” “It’s going to be a tight squeeze,” Jozef admitted with a boyish grin. “What you call cozy, yes?” put in Jedrick mischievously. Mr. Clay grunted. “Very cozy.

He came into the bookstore the Christmas before last to buy a present for his ex-mother-in-law. The Serenity Bookshop, right here in Wellesley, Mass.—ever heard of it? It’s a nice cozy spot packed with armchairs and atmosphere. We keep some dirty novels in the back for people with real imagination. Susana opened it when she moved up here with me seven and a half years ago. She had to do something, and she didn’t want to start college, like me. So she started a bookstore instead.

He snorted.  “What’s that about?  Investigating is what it’s about.

Carstairs looked grim. “I gave Mrs. Pollifax to Interpol like a gift and they give every evidence of having discarded her like a boring Christmas tie.” Bishop said soberly, “Well, you know she doesn’t look like a gift at first glance, sir. She confuses people by looking the nice cozy grandmother type.

tea.

Louisa watched her husband shave. He was careful, methodical, and efficient as he scraped dark whiskers from his face. He kept a mug—not a cup—of tea at his elbow throughout this masculine ritual, shaving around his mouth first so he might sip at his tea. “You missed a spot on your jaw, Husband.” Husband. Her very own husband. He turned, flecks of lather dotting his visage, and held his razor out to her. Not quite a challenge, but something more than an invitation. The moment called for a shaving sonnet. Louisa set her tea aside—tea Joseph had prepared for her—and climbed off the bed. She took the razor from him and eyed his jaw. “Were you trying to spare my sensibilities last night?” “You were indisposed.” They both fell silent while Louisa scraped the last of the whiskers from Joseph’s cheek. She appropriated the towel he’d draped over his shoulder and wiped his face clean. “I know I was indisposed, but you blew out all the candles before you undressed. I’ve seen naked men before.” She’d never slept with one wrapped around her, though. Such an arrangement was… cozy, and inclined one toward loquaciousness. “You’ve seen naked men?” There was something too casual in Joseph’s question. Louisa set the razor down and stepped back. “Growing up, there was always a brother or two to spy on, and I think they didn’t mind being spied on so very much, or they wouldn’t have been quite as loud when they went swimming. I attend every exhibition the Royal Society puts on, and the Moreland library is quite well stocked.” He kissed her, and by virtue of his mouth on hers, Louisa understood that her husband was smiling at her pronouncements. He gave her a deucedly businesslike kiss though, over in a moment. As Louisa lingered in her husband’s arms, sneaking a whiff of the lavender soap scent of his skin, she wondered if married kisses were different from the courting kind. “I have married a fearlessly naughty woman,” Joseph said, stroking a hand down her braid. “And to think I was concerned that I was imposing by asking you to share my bed last night.” “You needn’t be gallant. I talked your ears off.” And he’d listened. He hadn’t fallen asleep, hadn’t patted her arm and rolled over, hadn’t let her know in unsubtle ways that the day had been quite long enough, thank you very much.

Do you suppose Valentine is happy?” Women. They were forever pondering the imponderables and expecting their menfolk to do likewise. “Valentine delights in his music, the Philharmonic is ever after him to give up his ruralizing and come to Town to rehearse them. One must conclude his rustic existence appeals to him.” Her Grace set the letter aside. “Or being up in Oxfordshire appeals to him, or his wife appeals to him. I think Ellen is yet shy of polite society.” If their youngest son ran true to Windham form, he was spending the winter keeping his new wife warm and cozy, and perhaps seeing to the next generation of the musical branch of the family. His Grace reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “We’ll squire her around next Season, put the ducal stamp of approval on Val’s choice.

This is a disaster.” “Don’t clench your teeth, dearest.” Jenny’s pencil paused in its movement across the page. “What is a disaster?” Louisa stomped into Jenny’s drawing room—it really was a drawing room, not a withdrawing room—and tossed herself onto the sofa beside her sister. “I’m to be married tomorrow. What is the worst, most indelicate, inconvenient thing that could befall a woman as her wedding night approaches?” Maggie, arrived to Town for the wedding, took a pair of reading glasses off her elegant nose. “Somebody put stewed prunes on the menu for the wedding breakfast?” Louisa couldn’t help but smile at her oldest sister’s question. Since childhood, stewed prunes had had a predictable effect on Louisa’s digestion. “Eve made sure that wasn’t the case.” “We’re to have chocolate,” Eve said, “lots and lots of chocolate. I put everybody’s favorites on the menu too, and Her Grace didn’t argue with any of them.” She was on a hassock near the windows, embroidering some piece of white silk. Maggie had the rocking chair near the fireplace, where a cheery blaze was throwing out enough heat to keep the small room cozy. “It’s your monthly, isn’t it?” Sophie leaned forward from the hearth rug and lifted the teapot. “The same thing happened to me after the baby was born. Sindal looked like he wanted to cry when I told him. I was finally healed up after the birth, and the dear man had such plans for the evening.” An admission like that from prim, proper Sophie could not go unremarked. “You told him?” Louisa accepted the cup of tea and studied her sister’s slight smile. “Have the last cake.” Maggie pushed the tray closer to Louisa. “If you don’t tell him, then it becomes a matter of your lady’s maid telling his gentleman’s gentleman that you’re indisposed, and then your husband comes nosing about, making sure you’re not truly ill, and you have to tell him anyway.” Louisa looked from Maggie to Sophie. Maggie was the tallest of the five sisters, and the oldest, with flame-red hair and a dignity that suited the Countess of Hazelton well. Sophie was a curvy brunette who nonetheless carried a certain reserve with her everywhere, as befit the Baroness Sindal. They were married, and they spoke to their husbands about… things. “Why can’t a husband just understand that indisposed is one thing and ill is another?” Louisa thought her question perfectly logical. Sophie

I’d attend church meetings on Sunday and hang out with my Christian friends. I’d go to a Bible study on Tuesday night and hang out with my Christian friends — again. Then, I’d go out Friday night and hang out—once again—with my Christian friends. This new world of Churchland was sort of like a retreat into some sort of cozy Christian cocoon. We did good things for other people sometimes, like an annual trip to Mexico to build homes for needy families. A couple of times each year, we helped out at the local homeless shelter, serving meals and cleaning and painting the facility. We were also involved in getting help for local families each Christmas, providing meals and gifts for the parents to give to their children. But after we had finished these projects, we headed back to the suburbs to hang out with our Christian friends again. It happened so subtly, but the more I was immersed in Churchland, the more disconnected I felt from the world around me.

Like Christmas trees and Easter egg hunts and the block party on the last day of summer, we do things because traditions feel cozy and safe.

Your Grace, need I remind you that dueling is illegal?” Joseph kept his voice down, though Grattingly had yet to arrive, and the corner of Hyde Park the Duke of Moreland had found his way to was very secluded. “Illegal, is it? What a pity. The pleasures of leaving one’s duchess and one’s cozy bed in the dark of night and freezing one’s parts off aren’t to be missed. You look passably rested, Carrington.” “I am.” Joseph climbed off his horse, gratified to feel not a twinge of stiffness in his leg, even in the chill of a wintry dawn. If he survived the morning, he’d make it a point to linger half naked with his lady on hearth rugs before roaring fires often and at length. “Listen,

Jenny enjoys her dabbling, but I was rather hoping she might enjoy your company more. Was I mistaken?” Behind the genial bonhomie of a doting father and relaxed host, Elijah heard a thread of ducal steel. A cloved orange was beginning to turn brown in the middle of a wreath on the back of the study door. “We enjoy each other’s company, Your Grace, but you have to know your daughter is not content.” Moreland came around the desk to stand beside Elijah at the window. “You’re not going to ask my permission to court her, are you?” The honesty was unexpected, also a relief, like the cold radiating from the window provided relief from the fire’s cozy blast. “She would not welcome my suit. You underestimate your daughter’s devotion to her art.” The duke snorted. “You’ve spent what, a couple of weeks with her, and you presume to tell me her priorities? I’ve known that girl since she first drew breath, Bernward. She’s no better at hiding her discontent from me than is her mother. The holidays are hard on them both is the trouble. Come calling when spring is nigh, and you’ll be well received. Both ladies are preoccupied now, with all the family underfoot and entertaining to be done.” His

plate of cookies too." Will is bellowing from the living room. His butt has been welded to that chair for hours. I don't think he realizes that Karla is right next to the knife block. If he keeps this obnoxious behavior up she might be serving his head on a plate along with the turkey. I have to say, even with a house full of deadbeats, except for Karla, there really is a nice cozy, quaint and festive atmosphere in the house this afternoon. It's sunny outside and kind of chilly. It can snow here in Virginia right before or after Christmas Day, but very rarely on the 25th. We've got a tree with twinkling colorful lights while a glowing fireplace warms the room and laughter fills the air. As for the adorable English bulldog, I'm still steamed that I'm merely an afterthought, if even that. Give it a few hours and I'll give them a Christmas to remember.

freezer and put them on the counter." "Mom! How many vegetables are there? This freezer is jammed with stuff." "Eight. There are also six desserts I'll need you to get ready later on." "Have you lost your mind! Why so many?" "I sent out questionnaires this year and for once everyone responded in a timely fashion." "Hey Karla, how about another round of beers in here? We're getting thirsty. And another plate of cookies too." Will is bellowing from the living room. His butt has been welded to that chair for hours. I don't think he realizes that Karla is right next to the knife block. If he keeps this obnoxious behavior up she might be serving his head on a plate along with the turkey. I have to say, even with a house full of deadbeats, except for Karla, there really is a nice cozy, quaint and festive atmosphere in the house this afternoon. It's sunny outside and kind of chilly. It can snow here in Virginia right before or after Christmas Day, but very rarely on the 25th. We've got a tree with twinkling colorful lights while a glowing fireplace warms the room and laughter fills the air. As for the adorable English bulldog, I'm still steamed that I'm merely an afterthought, if even that. Give it a few hours and I'll

I just wish they’d remember I’m thirty-two and not fifteen.” Colin looked down at her feet, and his lips twitched. She followed his gaze. She had on a cozy red plaid onesie with fake fur lining the hood and reindeer slippers on her feet. She shrugged, smiling up at him. “What can I say? I love Christmas.

Well, if this is what being an adult feels like, give me back my juice box and crayons any day.

Miffed, Opal said, “Oh, good grief. Knock off the Southern belle act. Just because you wear my gloves and speak like a debutante doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten the first days of your twenties.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” she drawled. “Soiled. Dove. Need I say anything more?

If Pearl catches the first dead man’s hand, she’ll spend the rest of her days in the chapel.”  

Those stories look more like premeditated murder and less like random predictions.

Sitting inside a warm and cozy cafe laced with soft music, plush furniture, the smell of fresh coffee, books and newspaper, eating brunch served on a table made of cedar, surrounded by exposed brick walls, while looking at the locals run in the rain during Christmas time. The perfect day

I inhale deeply, watching the frosty cloud of my breath dissipate in the air when I exhale. I need a moment to myself, to enjoy this silence and take in everything that happened tonight. Commit it all to memory. I want to wrap this euphoric feeling around me like a cozy blanket.

He was irresistible. And dangerous. As much as I wanted him to be a cozy fire on a snowy winter day, he could just as easily be an out of control blaze, and burn my heart to a crisp.

In idealizing or romanticizing America, a Jewish songwriter would inevitably change it. Irving Berlin suppressed his own Jewish identity, but he also did something much more dramatic and extraordinary. In a memorable riff in Operation Shylock (1993), Philip Roth dubs Berlin “the greatest Diasporist of all” and writes, “The radio was playing ‘Easter Parade’ and I thought, but this is Jewish genius on a par with the Ten Commandments. God gave Moses the Ten Commandments and then He gave to Irving Berlin ‘Easter Parade’ and ‘White Christmas.’ The two holidays that celebrate the divinity of Christ—the divinity that’s the very heart of the Jewish rejection of Christianity—and what does Irving Berlin brilliantly do? He de-Christs them both! Easter he turns into a fashion show and Christmas into a holiday about snow.” The passage is hilarious, the tone that of a tummler, but the argument couldn’t be more serious. “Is that so disgraceful a means of defusing the enmity of centuries? Is anyone really dishonored by this? If schlockified Christianity is Christianity cleansed of Jew hatred, then three cheers for schlock. If supplanting Jesus Christ with snow can enable my people to cozy up to Christmas, then let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”21 Though the passage is unequivocal in its endorsement of Berlin’s “means of defusing the enmity of centuries,” note that Roth himself, whom Jewish critics used to lecture for showing disrespect to the fathers and the faith, could not sound more Jewish in this passage and in Operation Shylock as a glorious whole. The

I

at all the empty seats, imagining them filled with people. I’d sing, dance, recite passages from books that

I liked setting up Christmas. It was the gateway to the holidays, transforming regular homes into warm vessels that shipped you straight into coziness and joy, where it was socially acceptable to build a small house out of candy and immediately eat it.

Promptly, I order a box filled with the doughnuts I know she loves, every autumn recipe rebelling against the Christmas flavors that shouldered their way in the day after Thanksgiving. No chocolate and peppermint or gingerbread and eggnog for Kate. She loves pumpkin pie and spiced apples, cinnamon and maple syrup, everything that reminds her of the grandeur of turning leaves, the cozy joy of starlit bonfires and sipping mugs of cider, the quiet beauty of waking up to a misty autumn morning.

mulled

I would like to note that this book is basically a Hallmark movie with spice. Minimal angst and drama, lots of Christmas cheer. Sometimes, you just want something warm and cozy and fluffy (and spicy, don’t you worry) this time of year,

I rested my forehead against the whiteboard. I considered banging it, but a brain injury wasn’t helping anyone. Also, I was a witch mentor. I was supposed to be mature and levelheaded. Head-banging on walls was neither of those.

There was a lot of huffing and puffing and groaning and eye rolling as only a corgi can do.

It’s so cozy to do Christmas Cookie Bonanza and have the lights twinkling on the tree and Christmas music and the whole house smelling like sugar and butter.

Sure, I normally liked to get to the bottom of things, but not now.  Now would be a thoroughly inconvenient time for mystery and intrigue.  It was Christmas.  And Solstice.  And … that weird vampire mourning festival, too.  It was time for tinsel, bright lights and overindulging.

I took it all in. The soft snores, the flicker of flames on each of the lit candles swaying to a draft I couldn't feel, the cinnamon sticks simmering in a pot atop the stove, their aroma adding to the coziness. How is it possible, I asked myself, that I'd arrive at a place in life where everything felt perfect? A man like me, who had made so many bad choices and mistakes, was waylaid by detours and false hopes, and wasn't always smart enough to get out of the way of the Mack trucks full of crazy? The snow had turned everything into a wonderland, but I knew it would one day melt. I knew that Will might not make it to another Christmas, and that, yes, Atticus was getting older as well, and would eventually leave me behind. Yet I felt blessed. p168

I wanted to feel warm and cozy and hopeful, to wrap myself up in everything powerful and all-consuming about love. I

Fall has a big job of taking us from summer to pre-Christmas.

Poor fella must be a few drumsticks short of a picnic.

Debbie’s Delicious Christmas Cookies Cookies – Ingredients List #1: 2-1/2 cups flour 1 cup white sugar ¼ tsp. salt 1 tsp. baking soda 2 tsp. cream of tartar *Mix dry ingredients in large bowl   Cookies – Ingredients List #2: 1 cup butter, softened 2 eggs 1 tsp. vanilla *Mix wet ingredients Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees Mix both wet and dry ingredients together. (You can also refrigerate dough so it “firms up.”) Roll cookie dough on floured surface.  Cut with cookie cutters. Place cookies on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 6 – 10 minutes (depending on thickness)  *You can add more flour if the mixture seems “doughy” Frosting ½ cup solid vegetable shortening ½ cup softened butter (not melted) 1 tsp. vanilla 4 cups powdered sugar 2 tbsp. milk food coloring Cream butter & shortening Add vanilla Slowly add sugar Add milk Beat on high until fluffy.  (This recipe will test your mixer.  I recommend using a heavy-duty mixer, but it is not required.  Just keep an eye on the mixer so it doesn’t overheat.) *You can also add a little extra milk, a tablespoon at a time. Separate frosting into bowls.  Add drops of food coloring until color desired is achieved. Frost cooled cookies.  Decorate with sprinkles, etc.

So she was still single. She wondered sometimes if Blake was being deprived of male companionship solely because of her attitudes. It bothered her, but she didn’t want to change. “Snow is awesome,” he sighed, using a word that he used to denote only the best things in his life. Cherry pie was awesome. So was baseball, if the Atlanta Braves were playing, and football if the Dallas Cowboys were. She smiled at his dark head, so like her own. He had her slender build, too, but he had his father’s green eyes. Bob had been a handsome man. Handsome and far too brave for his own good. Dead at twenty-seven, she sighed, and for what? She folded her arms across her chest, cozy in the oversize red flannel shirt that she wore over well-broken-in jeans. “It’s freezing, that’s what it is,” she informed her offspring. “And it isn’t awesome; it’s irritating. Apparently, the electric generator goes out every other day, and the only man who can fix it stays drunk.” “That cowboy seems to know how,” Blake said hesitantly. Maggie agreed reluctantly. “I know. Things were running great until our foreman asked for time off to spend Christmas with his wife’s family in Pennsylvania. That leaves me in charge, and what do I know about running a ranch?” she moaned. “I grew up on a small farm, but I don’t know beans about how to manage this kind of place, and the men realize it. I suppose they don’t have any confidence in working for a secretary, even just temporarily.” “Well, there’s always Mr. Hollister,” Blake said with pursed lips and a wicked grin. She glared at him. “Mr. Hollister hates me. He hates you, too, in fact, but you don’t seem to let that stand in the way of your admiration for the man.” She threw up her hands, off on her favorite subject again. “For heaven’s sake, he’s a cross between a bear and a moose! He never comes off his mountain except when he wants to cuss somebody out or raise hell!” “He’s lonely,” Blake pointed out. “He lives all by himself. It’s hard going, I’ll bet, and he has to eat his own cooking.” He sat up enthusiastically, his thick hair over his brow. “Grandpa said he once knew a man who quit working for Mr. Hollister just because the cook got sick and Mr. Hollister had to feed the men.” Maggie glanced at her son with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “He probably fed them some of his

she found a worn and well-loved copy of The Night Before Christmas. She curled up in her armchair and found herself fantasizing what it might be like if it were just the two of them, cozy and snowbound, with herself in her kerchief and George in his cap, settled in for a long winter’s nap.

Hang on to your hats, everyone. We have a Christmas crisis on our hands." - Milk, Cookies, and Murder

To say it was chaos in the police station would be an understatement. It would have been calmer if Santa had shown up and started giving out winning lottery tickets. - Milk, Cookies, and Murder: Whispering Lake book 2