Spreading Christmas Cheer Quotes

It seems there's confusion at this time of year regarding the reason for Christmas. From shopping for presents to spreading good cheer, the world makes an overly huge fuss. But Christmas is not for the gifts we exchange. It's not about sleigh rides or sweet candy canes. Nay, Christmas is simple. A time to recall Christ's gift of atonement He gave to us all.

Do not wait until Christmas to spread a little cheer, people appreciate kindness, all through of the year.

Manipulative parents have a field day on holidays, spreading guilt as if it were Christmas cheer.

There are some wonderful aspects to Christmas. It's magical. And each year, from at least November, well, September, well, if I'm honest, May, I look forward to it hugely. The singing, eating, log fires, eating, drinking, singing, eating, the good will, the cheer, ice skating, singing, the eating, the drinking, the show, the scarves, singing, eating, drinking, eating, singing, eating. Yes, I embrace the season in all its candle-lit, log-fire-lighting, chestnut-roasting gloriousness, and ponder the people to whom I can spread bounty and joy in this glorious season of giving. *sings* 'Well, I wish it could be Christmas every da-a-a-a-ay!

galette des rois. We have found through trial and error it is usually prudent to push the fève piece toward the youngest person in the room. If you can’t lay your hand on some fèves, a coin wrapped in greaseproof paper should have the same cheerful effect in warding off the post-chrimbo blues. 1 roll ready-made puff pastry, unless you are a fantastic pastry nut (I worship you) 1 egg, beaten 2 tbsp. jam 100g soft butter 100g caster sugar (superfine sugar) 100g ground almonds 1 tbsp. brandy Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Divide the ready-made puff pastry in half, and roll out each piece into two circles. Put one of the circles on a baking sheet and spread with the jam. Whisk the butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in most of the egg. Stir in the almonds, brandy, and add the fève. Spread the mix on top of the jam, then cover with the second piece of pastry. Seal up with a pinch. You can decorate the top of the galette with a fork if you like. Bake for 25 minutes or until crisp and golden. Serve warm or cold.

IN THE SMALL Ohio town where I grew up, many homes had parlors that contained pianos, sideboards, and sofas, heavy objects signifying gentility. These pianos were rarely tuned. They went flat in summer around the Fourth of July and sharp in winter at Christmas. Ours was a Story and Clark. On its music stand were copies of Stephen Foster and Ethelbert Nevin favorites, along with one Chopin prelude that my mother would practice for twenty minutes every three years. She had no patience, but since she thought Ohio—all of it, every scrap—made sense, she was happy and did not need to practice anything. Happiness is not infectious, but somehow her happiness infected my father, a pharmacist, and then spread through the rest of the household. My whole family was obstinately cheerful. I think of my two sisters, my brother, and my parents as having artificial, pasted-on smiles, like circus clowns. They apparently thought cheer and good Christian words were universals, respected everywhere. The pianos were part of this cheer. They played for celebrations and moments of pleasant pain. Or rather, someone played them, but not too well, since excellent playing would have been faintly antisocial. “Chopin,” my mother said, shaking her head as she stumbled through the prelude. “Why is he famous?

Gabe, it’s Christmas Eve! No fucker’s working! Not even me. Go fuck off, relax, enjoy the holidays, and try to spread some Christmas cheer.” “Do I look like a fucking elf?” I snap again, the irritation clear in my voice. “Well, go find some Christmas pussy and fuck that attitude out of ya for all I care. Just get the fuck off the phone. Me and my little angel are making Christmas cookies, aren’t we?” he coos in some pathetic baby voice. “That kid’s made you fucking weak man,” I scoff. “Remember who you’re talking to. I may have not brought you into this world but I’m more than happy to take you out of it. Now f.u.c.k. off, before I kick your a.s.s.,” he spells out because of his granddaughter’s proximity to him.

Twas the night before Christmas, at a town in the South, A band of ex-Confederates gathered, down in the mouth; That the black man was now free, they felt was unfair, An abomination they’d address with terror to spare; Crosses they’d burn with white hoods on their head, Spreading their message of hate with horror and dread.” Yes, ringing in the season with Yuletide cheer, the Ku Klux Klan was officially organized in Pulaski, Tennessee, on December 24, 1865.

Serge,” said Coleman. “Are we shopping?” “No, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.” “Displays?” asked Coleman. “Big ones near the front,” said Serge. “If you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.” “But why are we wearing elf suits?” “To spread good cheer.” “What for?” “Because of the War on Christmas.” “Who started the war?” asked Coleman. “Ironically, the very people who coined the term and claim others started the war. They’re upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying ‘Season’s Greetings’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ But nobody’s stopping anyone from saying ‘Merry Christmas.’ ” “And they’re still mad?” Serge shrugged. “It’s the new holiness: Tolerance can’t be tolerated. So they hijack the birth of Jesus as a weapon to start quarrels and order people around. Christmas should be about the innocence of children—and adults reverting to children to rediscover their innocence. That’s why we’re in elf suits. We’re taking Christmas back!

I was sneakin' down the stairs on Christmas Eve, Heard a jingle, thought I couldn't believe. There was Santa in my living room, Dancin' with my wife, under the mistletoe bloom. (Chorus) Oh, Santa, Santa, what are you doin' here? Dancin' with my wife, spreading Christmas cheer. Santa, Santa, you better think twice, Before you end up on the naughty list tonight. (Verse 2) He had his red suit on, boots so shiny bright, Twirl'd her 'round the tree, in the twinkling light. I stood there in shock, couldn't believe my eyes, Santa Claus was stealin' my wife, oh what a surprise! (Chorus) Oh, Santa, Santa, what are you doin' here? Dancin' with my wife, spreading Christmas cheer. Santa, Santa, you better think twice, Before you end up on the naughty list tonight. (Bridge) He winked at me and said, "Don't you worry, man, I'm just here to spread joy, it's part of the plan." But I grabbed my phone, took a quick snap, Now Santa's famous for his holiday mishap. (Chorus) Oh, Santa, Santa, what are you doin' here? Dancin' with my wife, spreading Christmas cheer. Santa, Santa, you better think twice, Before you end up on the naughty list tonight. (Outro) So if you see Santa, dancin' with your spouse, Just remember he's spreading joy, all through the house. But keep an eye out, and hold your loved ones tight,

(Verse 1) Well, Santa traded in his sleigh for a horse named Jingle Bell, Riding through the prairie, spreading cheer and tales to tell. With a lasso made of tinsel and a hat of red and white, He’s the jolliest cowboy, bringing joy on Christmas night. (Chorus) Yeehaw, Santa’s a cowboy, riding under the stars so bright, Delivering gifts and laughter, on this magical night. With his boots and spurs a-jingling, and a heart so full of cheer, Santa the cowboy’s coming, spreading joy to far and near. (Verse 2) He’s got a sack of presents, slung across his saddle horn, With candy canes and toys, for every girl and boy. From the deserts to the mountains, through the snow and rain, Santa the cowboy’s riding, on his merry Christmas train. (Chorus) Yeehaw, Santa’s a cowboy, riding under the stars so bright, Delivering gifts and laughter, on this magical night. With his boots and spurs a-jingling, and a heart so full of cheer, Santa the cowboy’s coming, spreading joy to far and near. (Bridge) Around the campfire, he tells stories of the North Pole, Of reindeer and elves, and a sleigh that’s mighty old. But now he’s a cowboy, with a spirit wild and free, Bringing Christmas to the range, for all the world to see. (Chorus) Yeehaw, Santa’s a cowboy, riding under the stars so bright, Delivering gifts and laughter, on this magical night. With his boots and spurs a-jingling, and a heart so full of cheer, Santa the cowboy’s coming, spreading joy to far and near. (Outro) So hang your stockings by the fire, and listen for his call, Santa the cowboy’s riding, Merry Christmas to all!

A Reclusive Invitation by Stewart Stafford In a mansion crouched at the forest's edge, Gargoyles perched on a Jericho hedge, Lived Samuel Keane, with millions at least, Welcomed the locals to his Christmas feast. Self-imposed exile of wealth's solitary scene, On that evening, time for connection pristine, An alabaster white suit in a chessboard hall; Legions of armour and battle scars to recall. "Come, gather round, let camaraderie ignite! On Christmas Eve, a dream-come-true night!" Perkins, the grey butler, in reluctant festive red, Gestured them toward Keane's banquet spread. Their gracious host took his place at the end, A throne chair helped into place with a bend, Beaming, he clapped and food was brought in, To gasps and applause at the goblets of gin. A succulent feast at a baronial ball; Roasted goose, boar, a tall glass highball, Stories grew taller, just like each drink, Songs and jests sent them over the brink. Enjoyment and melody's atmosphere bright, Fleeting warmth shared in lush candlelight. Dawn looms, Les Misérables adore company: "Why does hangover guilt crave chablis?" A Father Christmas event once a year, Guests departed, a loud triple cheer, A fading smile of a host so grand, Adrift, nothing elaborate planned. The fireworks faded, the last ember died, Keane shut his mansion with secrets inside. A portcullis closed slowly on a seasonal high, A gothic arch door shut 'neath morning star sky. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

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