Barry and I are NOT an interfaith marriage. We’re both atheists. That said, I grew up a church-going, sacrament-receiving, parochial-school education Catholic. He’s Jewish and hasn’t been to temple since his bar mitzvah.

Barry’s tolerant of the tree and the stockings and my manic cookie-baking marathons. I’m always willing to enjoy a plate of latkes.

But I was amused by this article in Salon about a couple struggling with a love of the fluff and glitter of Christmas on the one hand, with a repulsion for all things Christmas on the other. Their solution of a magical giant chicken sounds like the kind of thing my Dad would have come up with had he found himself in the same situation.

We had our own odd assortment of family traditions: children crawling under the table and changing the adults’ shoes on Thanksgiving, for instance. Writing poems on the mirrors for birthdays (my father’s mythical girlfriend, Zelda, always made an appearance for his birthday). Writing on the dog’s head for special occasions. A memorial poker game after a funeral.

Who says family can’t be fun?