My Christmas is not normal. There's nothing wrong with that, though. My family hasnever been normal in the first place. Take my parents, for example: my mom is anex-nun from the Sisters of Mercy, and my father is Jewish. They're a humorouscombination, especially during a family get-together like Christmas.

OnChristmas, my Jewish relatives come to my house to celebrate Hanukkah. We allopen Hanukkah presents under the Christmas tree, the menorah flickering in thebackground. At dinner, we have an appetizer of Matzo ball soup, and our maincourse is the traditional turkey and stuffing.

My brother, after downing aglass or two - or more - of wine usually decides to make a speech. One year hisspeech included, "Some of us believe that today is the birthday of a holyMessiah while others, well, others are still waiting." My mother quicklypulled him off the chair he was standing on, and told him to shut up in thenicest holiday voice possible.

The break we take between dinner anddessert can be pretty treacherous, too. Everyone is full, sleepy, and probably alittle drunk. Things are sometimes said and wars break out between relatives. TheTreaty of Dessert is the only thing that can end the conflict. There is nothinglike macaroons and Christmas cookies to soothe the soul.

The rest of thenight is spent in front of the fire telling stories of the past, such as the timewhen my father didn't open the flue in the fireplace and almost killed us. Wetalk about the present. We hope for the future. And we stay there until the lastcandle of the menorah has burned out.