Author Archives: Him

Picture This

Posted on February 10, 2015 | 1 comment

“Drunken Chicken Marsala?” she asked, showing me a photo on Pinterest.

The photo was beautiful.  Chicken, tomatoes, mushrooms, and a silky-looking brown sauce.  “We could have it with polenta,” she said, “and green beans.” I thought the recipe sounded good, but she had said the magic words.  (As far as I’m concerned, the recommended daily serving of green beans is How many are there?) We added the few items we’d need to our shopping list and headed off to do errands.

First stop: the Big Box Home Improvement Store. Clamps and glue to repair a dining chair were easy to find. Tile was a little harder. We need to replace flooring in the entryway, powder room, and laundry closet, and to create a  kitchen backsplash. I’m getting more at home in home improvement stores–I no longer get the sense the greeter wants to take me by the arm and say, “Here, sir, let me help you so you don’t hurt yourself with the sharp things”–but I seldom really feel like I know what I’m doing.  Being faced with the myriad choices of the tile aisle only makes things worse. (Don’t even get me started on the cabinet door pull options. It’s good to know that I’m not alone in this difficulty; there’s a lot of science suggesting that more choices makes things harder rather than easier. But she’s gently helpful, and very decisive, and in far less time than I would have taken alone, I had a handful of samples and we were headed for the checkout.

There’s a wine shop across the road from the Big Box Home Improvement Store. I don’t have any particular store loyalty, so we went there for a bottle of marsala. We should probably develop a relationship with a wine seller, someone who knows our tastes and can make useful suggestions. (Come to think of it, maybe the wine seller would have tile recommendations, too.) Fortunately, the wine devotes more shelf space to flavored vodkas than dessert wines, so I wasn’t paralyzed with indecision. We checked the recipe to make sure we were looking for a dry marsala rather than a sweet one, and picked a half-bottle in the middle of the price range.

Our final errand was a trip to the supermarket, where I felt thankfully and entirely at home.

This was her recipe, so she took the lead; I chopped vegetables and pounded chicken breasts and then made a salad and stayed out of her way. It wasn’t going well. There was much concern that the chicken wasn’t browning properly, that the wine was being absorbed too quickly, that dinner was going to be a mess and we would die of salmonella poisoning. (Actually, she wasn’t concerned that we would die; only that I would. I think this means she was afraid of killing me with a single bite, but it might mean that she would know enough not to take a second taste.)

I did my best to assure her. I know that chicken breast at this thinness takes a very short while to cook completely. If the pan looks dry, she could add more wine. The tomatoes would provide even more moisture. Most importantly, I hoped to remind her that food stylists make every dish look more beautiful than we can.

The rounds of polenta had lovely crisp bits on the outside and soft centers. The green beans were crunchy and healthy and altogether wonderful.  And the chicken marsala?  Not only did it not kill us, but it was savory and a little sweet, earthy and hearty and warm. And, for a couple of home cooks, picture perfect.

Marsala is, apparently, a dessert wine. Does it pair well with chocolate chip cookies?

Most definitely not a food stylist’s plate.

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By the Numbers

Posted on February 9, 2015 | 1 comment

It was so easy to make No-Knead Bread: 3 cups flour, 1.5 cups water, a teaspoon of salt, a pinch of yeast–put it in a bowl, stir, and wait.  18 hours later, you have dough ready to shape into a loaf.

Well, usually.

According to one of my collaborators, the worst home-baked bread is better than the best supermarket loaf. But on days when the dough is too sticky to handle, or the resulting loaf feels like it might be better for holding open a door than making sandwiches, I wonder. I believe he’s right in principal, but I wish the bread could be a little more consistent from one loaf to the next. I wish it could be as perfect as those biscuits were.

Oh, right.  Maybe scoop-and-level isn’t the best plan at bread-baking time.

“No-knead bread by weight,” I typed into Google, and the first link on the result page gave me what I wanted to see. 430 grams of flour, 350 grams of water, 8 grams of salt, 1 gram of yeast. That’s not quite as memorable as 3-1.5-1-and-a-pinch, but I’ll find a way to remember it.

I found the scale on the first try, pressed the unit button to display the metric measurement rather than English, and scooped away, watching the numbers.  Zeroed out the scale and added the salt.  Another zero for the yeast.  And then the water. Stir. Maybe the expectation of the result leads to the result; maybe I was fooled by what I wanted to see, but this batch of dough looked good already. I covered it and went about my day.

Morning came; time for the first shaping.  The dough did not say, “Dude, this is going to work out,” but it looked terrific, and shaped easily and without mess. Two hours later, and it looked even better. I’d like to say that the perfect little dough ball went uncomplainingly into its pre-heated pot, but it was a little sticky on the bottom; still, nothing like the problems I’ve had in the past.

An hour later, the loaf sat on a bread rack, its golden crust looking exactly like I’d hoped it would, and surprising me with little crackling noises as it cooled. Eventually the loaf was cool enough to cut. The crust was delightfully crisp; the crumb sturdy but soft. There are a few air pockets, but smaller ones than scoop-and-level gave me. And, most importantly, the bread is delicious–dangerously close to being good enough to eat a loaf all at once.

It might be that the baker who first described the no-knead method can get consistent results with volume measurements. I’m willing to bet he can detect variations from one batch to the next and make adjustments without any difficulty at all. But he bakes bread all day long; I bake one or maybe two loaves a week.  I’m still an improviser at heart, but not when it comes to this bread recipe. From now on, I’ll do it by the numbers.

No-Knead Bread, the next morning, after a slice for a snack and preparing an egg-and-cheese sandwich for her breakfast.

No-Knead Bread, the next morning, after a slice for a snack and preparing an egg-and-cheese sandwich for her breakfast.

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Scary Good

Posted on February 4, 2015 | 2 comments

There won’t be a photograph of the meal in this story. As part of a study on smartphone use and creativity, yesterday’s challenge was to take no photographs. Alas.

She started making a pot of grits; as they sat on low heat, she headed upstairs to change out of work clothes, calling over her shoulder, “Can we watch another Sherlock with dinner?” This seemed like a fine idea to me. The evening was set.

I sweated some onion, celery, and carrot in a little butter, then removed the vegetables, added a little oil and flour to the pan and made a brown roux. Meanwhile, I pulled the tails off some shrimp I’d already steamed, and thawed some duck stock we’d had in the freezer–

Seriously.  Leftover shrimp and frozen homemade duck stock. We’re not ridiculous yuppie-snob foodies. We buy good ingredients when they’re at a good price, and use every bit of them.

–and, in another pan, sautéed some mushrooms and grape tomatoes.

When the roux was a hearty-looking medium brown, I sprinkled in a little cajun seasoning, cranked the heat, added a ladleful of stock, and whisked.  The miracle of roux turning stock into a smooth gravy never ceases to amaze me.  I added more stock; the sauce came apart and then smoothed again almost instantly.  A third ladleful would be plenty.  A dab of dijon mustard, a little salt and pepper, and the vegetables joined the sauce; then, finally, the shrimp, which needed only a moment to warm. (If the shrimp had been raw they’d have needed only a couple minutes of cooking time.)

A warm bowl, a little pile of creamy grits, a scoop of shrimp and gravy, perhaps a sprinkling of sharp cheese on top; mushrooms and tomatoes alongside. It was kind of perfect, I thought.

Sadly, she disagreed. Maybe the it was the stock; duck isn’t her favorite. Maybe the seasoning was off. Maybe she just wasn’t in as much of a shrimp-and-grits mood as she’d thought. Or maybe she was too tense to enjoy dinner.

We don’t watch a lot of TV or movies, but the BBC version of Sherlock was a new favorite. A lot of people we respect had been talking about it–for several years in fact; we were woefully behind the times. I’d been doling it out slowly, usually taking three days to watch a 90-minute episode. I was confident that she’d enjoy it, but she hadn’t wanted to dive in.  We’re quite alike in that regard; when something in pop culture is all the rage, we both tend to avoid it, figuring we’ll catch up later if we want to. But after a certain amount of being-behindness, it seems even harder to get started. But she was ready. And as I’d predicted, she became very enthusiastic.  There may be very little What’s My Line? until we have solved all the puzzles of Sherlock–or, at least, until we’ve watched this 21st-century Holmes and Watson solve all their own puzzles.

As befits the Arthur Conan Doyle original on which this series is based, the stories are more suspenseful than frightening, more cerebral than action-filled, more quick-talking than violent. And quirkily funny. But there’s enough action, and enough gorgeous, motion-filled cinematography, that the shows have her gasping and shrieking and clenching more than I’d expected.  I knew that horror movies were off-limits for her–which is fine, as I don’t like them either–but I was surprised at how jumpy she got.

Maybe Sherlock isn’t the best viewing for just before bedtime.  And maybe it’s not the sort of thing that engages her appetite.  Or maybe she just didn’t enjoy dinner as much as I did.

It’s a mystery.

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Breakfast During Hockey Season

Posted on February 2, 2015 | 2 comments

She asked if I would make biscuits sometime.

Of course, I said; it isn’t difficult.

It is for her, she explained; they come out hard as hockey pucks.

I suspected that the problem might have been one of measurement.  If she took flour from the canister by the scoop-and-level method, it would be easy to get too much, and end up with a weightier biscuit than she wanted.  Or maybe I have very low standards where biscuits are concerned, and mine come out hockey pucks, too.

After ascertaining that the gold standard against which all biscuits would be measured were not her beloved Nana’s, I agreed, and planned to bake them for Saturday breakfast.

The hardest part, it turned out, was finding the kitchen scale. It wasn’t on the small-appliance shelves. It wasn’t with the measuring cups, or alongside the baking tins, or even in the back of the knife drawer.  I knew we’d put it somewhere logical, but the logic eluded me.  About to give up and do the best I could with scoop-and-level, I pulled the flour canister from its cupboard and —voila!—there it was.

Our scale is a simple device–one button to turn it on and tare (a function that re-zeroes the scale to allow for the weight of the container set on its platform), one to switch the display between ounces and grams, and, of course, the weighing platform. Ours may not be quite as accurate as I hoped; I could get 15.99 ounces of flour or 16.03, but nothing in between.  Perhaps I could use tweezers to add the flour one grain at a time, or perhaps I should not worry about such incredibly fine distinctions.

The key to biscuit preparation, says Uncle Alton, is to handle the dough as little as possible so as not to warm the butter and shortening. His grandmother’s hands were colder than his own (probably due to poor circulation), so her biscuits were always lighter than his. Although my hands are frequently cold, I took no chances; I stowed the fats in the fridge while roasting some bacon to have with the biscuits and fruit.

Breakfast was served. “I should do the biscuit baking from now on?” She nodded enthusiastically, far too polite to speak with her mouth full. I don’t know if it was the precise measurement or the chilled fats, but the result was most decidedly not a pan of hockey pucks.

And she’d know.  While she probably has never tried to eat one, she’s certainly seen plenty of them; her father used to take her to games every weekend as a child.

We stopped for burgers on Saturday evening, and I noticed her glancing at the Notre Dame-Indiana game on big-screen TV above the condiment counter.

“We’re not far from Yale,” she said. “We should see a hockey game before the season ends.”

I asked if she was sure she wanted me to see her at a hockey game.

“What, afraid you won’t love me any more?”

It wasn’t that at all; I was just recalling that she’d told me once, “I’m convinced I’d be a pacifist if I weren’t a hockey fan.” Apparently I looked at her gape-mouthed, and she explained: at one of those games she saw when she was four, she yelled, “Daddy, make those skater mans fight again!”

Fortunately, we don’t fight.  But I’ll make sure to remember where the scale is stored in case things get ugly; that way our biscuits will be too light to cause any damage if they’re thrown.

The bacon was pronounced good, too. And her apple butter, on that biscuit half, is pretty superb. (Sadly, the steam rising from the biscuit when it was split did not photograph well.)

The bacon was pronounced good, too. And her apple butter, on that biscuit half, is pretty superb. (Sadly, the steam rising from the biscuit when it was split did not photograph well.)

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Preparations

Posted on January 26, 2015 | 1 comment

The snow has started.

It’s not going to stop any time soon, either.  We’re in for a serious winter storm.  We’ve had barely any measurable snow so far this winter, so I guess we were due. Not much chance it will fall only on the green parts of the world. We’re expecting somewhere between a foot and a ridiculous amount of snow, and hoping that the electricity stays on.

We both came home from work prudently early, while trains were still running and roads were clear enough for safe passage. Since then, I puttered in the kitchen and stocked the woodpile; she did what she does: she’s been writing email copy for a message that will be sent from her work account tomorrow. She helps raise money to shelter, feed, and support homeless children.  What better time to send such a message as to be read by people who’ve already hunkered down, warm and safe in their homes?

The fireplace is set.  The flashlights have batteries, and candles are at the ready. There’s plenty of cat food and litter-box filler. Prescriptions have been refilled. We have blankets and warm clothes.

And, of course, food.

A batch of pulled pork came out of the slow cooker.  She made chili. We’ve got cold cuts for sandwiches. She baked cranberry bread last night, and I have a loaf of No-Knead about to go into the oven, now that a batch of granola has come out. There are baked potatoes. Greens. Eggs–some hard-boiled, many ready for omelets or scrambling. There’s a cast-iron pot and skillet in case we need to press coals into service for cooking.

We probably ought to remind ourselves that there are only two of us, and that we live on an emergency route.

For reasons probably related to the barometer the bread dough was a sticky mess, but at last it’s in the oven and I’m not banging about. Tapping of laptop keys, the furnace blowing warm air, the cats’ fountain keeping their water fresh.  Outside, a plow truck scrapes by occasionally, sounding a little like a low-passing aircraft.  Beyond that, the world is still and silent. When the sun rises we’ll see what’s become of the world, but for now there’s the eerie calm-during-the-storm, the held breath of the pretty well prepared, and the waiting.

Long before the storm

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Just a Sip

Posted on January 18, 2015 | 1 comment

We are neither of us tee-totalers; we just don’t drink very much. She hasn’t yet found a wine she’s enthusiastic about. I like a humble glass of red with dinner once in a while, but I’m often just as happy without. I found a recipe for a grapefruit soda-and-gin cocktail that became all the rage at her mom’s surprise birthday party last June, but as the summer wore on I usually drank mine without the gin, and eventually I switched to grapefruit juice and seltzer: less sugar, almost as flavorful, and I could drive after drinking one.

She’ll have a Manhattan once in a while–she, not her mom.  (Her mom might like them, too, but that’s another matter.) Because she likes sweet beverages, I’ve learned to make a Manhattan so untraditionally fruit-filled that it’s nearly a new drink–maybe it should be called the Suburban. And I have learned to make it small: I usually make a single drink and split between us. Even then our glasses usually end up half-full, and not merely because we are optimists.

And so I giggled when I opened a Christmas gift that arrived from some old friends: the Teeny Weeny Martini Set: thimble-sized glasses, a miniature cocktail shaker, and an ice tray that makes positively Lilliputian cubes. I’m sure they thought they were being silly–or maybe they recall that I’m not much of a drinker.

We stayed in Friday night–no theatre, no movies, no restaurants, no takeout, just us–and as the chicken marinated for the recipe we planned, it seemed like the perfect time to try our new barware.  I mixed a few drops of dry vermouth with a half-a-jigger of gin, chilled it with an ice-fragment, shook-not-stirred-even-though-that-meant-a-slightly-watery-cocktail-the-way-Bond-likes-it, and poured the result into our micro-glasses.

As for garnish: just a drop of pickle brine in each. I would have tried a twist of lemon peel, but we were out.

She took a sip, and made a face. It was nowhere near sweet enough for her liking. Fortunately, a sip is all there was. As for me, I had two. Two whole martinis. Well, G. I. Joe-sized ones. I might even do it again sometime. Maybe with a different garnish.  Wonder where I can find a very small olive…

Just right for Cocktail Minute

Just right for Cocktail Minute

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Not Until Today

Posted on January 17, 2015 | 1 comment

We ate a lot of pancakes before we started dating. We’ve eaten quite a few since, too, but in the years when we were just friends, frequently meeting for theatre dates (or non-dates, to be more precise), we often grabbed a bite to eat at a diner before the show. Whatever else a diner may be good at, pancakes are usually a safe bet.

I like variety: fruit, nuts, what have you. Offering a flight of syrups? Let’s try them all in turn. Chocolate chips are most decidedly not ruined by their being tucked into batter, nor the other way around. Additional flavors can cover a multitude of sins. Usually, she’s a pancake purist: no add-ins; maybe a little peanut butter on top, but usually only butter.

She got up early this morning and started puttering in the office.  I rose a little later and joined her for a vigorous round of putting-things-in-their-proper-place. I brewed coffee and tea, and remembered that bacon had been a mid-week special at the market.  I set some to roast in the oven while the tidying continued.  Eventually the timer chimed and I announced that it was time for breakfast. We decided on pancakes to accompany the bacon.

She saw me segmenting an orange next to the griddle where banana-filled pancakes cooked beside her unadulterated ones.  She looked at me quizzically. “The orange is for both of us. Vitamin C.” (She’s been fighting a cold, and I’m trying to stay ahead of it.) “Bananas in the pancakes, maybe a little applesauce on top. And, yes, maybe a little syrup.” She raised an eyebrow. “Hey, at least I’m not putting strawberries in, too.”

We sat to eat. The bacon was a little crisper than I’d meant it to be, but she didn’t mind; it wasn’t burned. “Maybe next time you should put the bacon in the pancakes,” she said.

I thought about that for a moment. She did, too, apparently. “Chocolate chip, banana, and bacon pancakes?”

“There’s more batter,” I said.

She put aside a strip of bacon.  I did, too, and returned to the kitchen. I sliced a banana and chopped some bits off a block of good dark chocolate. The griddle was still hot.

She took a bite. Her eyes softened. I took a bite and nodded.  She was right.

Ever willing to experiment, I tried a bite with maple syrup. It didn’t improve anything. “One thing too many?” she said, then she tried a bite with peanut butter.  “Same with peanut butter.”

All those years, all those plates of pancakes, yet we hadn’t encountered this combination until today.

“Apparently chocolate chip, banana, and bacon pancakes are a thing.”

They are now. Maybe not an everyday thing, but very much a thing.

Pancake, not for traditionalists.

Pancake, not for traditionalists.

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Shelving It

Posted on January 14, 2015 | 2 comments

The First Great Sorting happened in August, when our kitchens merged.  Some parts were easy: it was clear which mugs we wanted to keep, which cutlery to use, which plates and bowls. Our pots and pans were not too numerous; her small appliances and mine didn’t overlap much; our serving pieces complimented each other’s; nearly all of the bakeware had logical uses.  Still, we ended up with a too-well-stocked kitchen.  The cabinets under the counter were full-to-bursting, and the ones above were just as bad. Nearly every time we cooked, we found ourselves taking some items out in order to get to the needed one behind or underneath–like one of those shift-the-tile puzzles I was never good at.

And thus began the second Sorting. Anything that wasn’t in daily use came out of the cabinets and took up residence on the dining table–a strategy designed to make sure we wouldn’t dawdle over deciding what to do with them.  She proposed assembling a set of shelves in a closet under the stairs. They’d be out of the way but still accessible, and less apt to get dusty than they would if we built the shelves in the garage.

If we were going to put more things in that closet, though, we needed to organize the things that were currently in it.  All the Christmas decorations–most of them unused this year–came out for examination.  Keep it, probably keep it, definitely not keep it: these were our categories. Plenty went into the latter: even allowing for thrifty repurposing, how many partial rolls of ribbon and slightly-used bows can one house hold?  Kitchy decor items that were gifts from students I don’t even remember?  No, thank you. It was freeing to know that we were keeping things that are actually beautiful, actually useful, or happily memorable, and saying fond farewell to items that weren’t.

By early January, I am ready to think no more of holidays. I’m not really all that fond of the Nativity set I grew up with, but it is the one I grew up with! When there aren’t any parents left to visit, it might not be the worst thing to hold onto items that remind us of them. Hers is beautiful, and much smaller. Maybe we’ll alternate: her set in odd years, mine in even?  We can decide later, over a cup of cider. Both sets are securely packed–along with tree ornaments we love, handsome stuffed bears who carry good memories, and a modest assortment of gift-wrapping supplies. What we need, what we want, and what we love.

Also in that closet now reside a well organized set of kitchen implements.  Yes, for a while we will have to go downstairs to fetch the waffle iron when we want waffles.  The same when we want the food processor for making hummus, the 12-cup coffee maker for company, and the muffin tins. Maybe we’ll realize we want the box grater closer than a flight of stairs away; if so, something else will take its downstairs place. Perhaps one of my mom’s mixing bowls or a piece of Corningware she rescued from her mom’s kitchen. It’s a work in progress.

One thing that will definitely be absent from the kitchen at the Country House: the cursing that comes when I can’t reach the measuring cup!

3 slow cookers might seem excessive, but they're really useful when you don't want to heat up the whole kitchen in summertime. If, on the other hand, I haven't made ice cream in six months, it will not make the next cut.

3 slow cookers might seem excessive, but they’re really useful when you don’t want to heat up the whole kitchen in summertime.
If, on the other hand, I haven’t made ice cream in six months, it will not make the next cut.

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My Semi-Debauched Life

Posted on January 8, 2015 | 2 comments

It had been cold in the office on Tuesday–but my “office” in this sense is a corner of a very large multi-purpose parish center with 16-foot-high ceilings, so it’s hard to control the heating.  If I could move my desk onto a 10-foot-tall platform, I might benefit from the rising of warm air, but that seems more trouble than it would be worth, since the “desk” I use most often is a grand piano. But the “office” was quiet, and I got plenty of work done, albeit done while wearing a scarf and wishing I’d brought my fingerless gloves.

I thought about dinner on my drive home.  She’d had a ham-and-swiss sandwich with caramelized onions for lunch. I had planned to have one, too, but ended up in a lunch meeting with a collaborator–rotisserie chicken over salad greens.  The sandwich seemed like a great idea, and I’d be at home to eat it which meant I could toast the kaiser roll, heat the ham, and melt the cheese.

What would go great with that, I thought, is a nice glass of red wine. 

I arrived home, picked up the mail, found her for a kiss hello, petted the cats, and set about gathering sandwich fixings.

A nice glass of red wine.

I trimmed some green beans and tossed them in a sauté pan with a few carrot coins and a couple slices of potato from the pot roast. I toasted the roll. I set the vegetables on a plate to keep warm in the oven while I finished making the sandwich.  I went back to the fridge for a little mayo, still thinking, a nice glass of red wine would go great with this.

And then I saw a half-full bottle of Vitamin Water.

…or that would be just as good.

I poured half the bottle into a glass, topped it with tap water, put the glass and my dinner on a tray, and carried it up to join her.

Richard Rodgers was, from many reports, a heavy drinker.  Alan Jay Lerner was addicted to amphetamines.  Stephen Sondheim smoked a lot of pot.

And for me?

A glass of watered-down Vitamin Water. Zero.  Not even the full-sugar stuff! Half a glass of nutrient-enhanced kool-aid, watered down because it’s too sweet when I drink it straight.

I’m no Rodgers.  No Lerner.  No Sondheim.  No Eugene O’Neill.  No Tennessee Williams.

I ate a sandwich with a plate of vegetables, I drank a theoretically healthy beverage. I carried the tray back to the kitchen and put the plate and glass in the dishwasher. Apparently I’m no good at the whole tortured-artist thing.

No Tonys, no Emmys, no Grammys, no Oscars.  No rehab. No cirrhosis. Such is my semi-debauched life.

I guess I can live with that.

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Untraditional

Posted on January 4, 2015 | 1 comment

This Sunday after New Year’s has been unseasonably warm. I’m not complaining, mind you; it’s not been t-shirt and shorts weather, just pleasant enough for a late-afternoon walk in a light jacket.  She wore gloves, too, and we enjoyed seeing that ours was not the only house in the neighborhood where Christmas lights are still shining.

The holidays were lovely, with bits that were quiet and peaceful and bits that were bubbly and full of company. Decorations were kept to a bare minimum–stockings by the fireplace, some lights outdoors, a sprig of mistletoe. We didn’t decorate a tree, but her mom brought a ceramic tea-light holder that’s sitting proudly on the mantle; it’s shaped like a tree, glows softly, and gives off a lovely evergreen scent when lit.  By the time the dust settled–literally, from the renovations–and was mopped away again, we were so happy to have the living room clean and serene that the thought of pine needles falling was just too much to bear. The candle holder is tree enough, this year.

None of the trappings of the holidays were extravagant, in fact. Decorations, gifts, travel, food–all were modest and joyful.  Especially the food: we had wonderful meals, but not banquets that took so long to prepare that we were too tired to enjoy them.

* * *

For some families, it’s not Christmas Eve unless there are seven sorts of fish on the table. For others it’s pierogi.  Or Yorkshire Pudding. Or a slice of pizza grabbed on the run between church services. We’re still working out what our traditions might become.

Many say that what one does on New Year’s Day determines how they’ll spend the rest of the year.  Others say that the state of one’s household on New Year’s Day indicates the state in which it will be for the rest of the year.  For them there is a New Year’s Eve observance called Hogmanay. We kept this custom with a flurry of activity that left the house beautiful and me a little cranky. I apologized, but probably not quite profusely enough.

We had fried rice for a late supper on New Year’s Eve with a friend we were delighted to welcome; but by this point the day had taken its toll. She was falling asleep on the sofa long before midnight, and I was not far behind. I looked at the clock and realized we’d missed the big event. I found a cat toy that lights up, and our friend made a quick video we could show her later: the New Year’s ball drop our way.

* * *

“We could have popcorn for dinner,” she said, in the early evening of January 1.  After more masses and a long afternoon run, I was in favor of a minimal-fuss supper.  Still, it didn’t seem quite right.  Although my family didn’t have any particularly strong Christmas-dinner traditions, something vague and grandmotherly said there should be pork (fat indicating prosperity?) and greens (the color of wealth, I think) on the New Year’s Day table. While the oil heated for popcorn, I sliced a little leftover pork into a skillet, then in tossed the spinach we’d forgotten to put in a lentil stew on the 29th. It was just a couple bites of each, sort of an appetizer before a bowl of terrific popcorn, but a little protein and some vegetables seemed healthful as well as honoring tradition. Making music, running, eating simple and tasty food, and spending time together: if this is what 2015 holds, it will be a wonderful year.

Today’s weather wasn’t what we might expect of early January; but, then, my cup of cocoa is a little warmer than expected, too. I may have added a pinch more cayenne pepper than I meant to.  Hers was made the same way, but she hasn’t objected. It’s just a little untraditional.

A tiny tree, some cheese and crackers, a snickerdoodle, and a mimosa by the fireside: maybe the most perfect Christmas luncheon ever.

A tiny tree, some cheese and crackers, a snickerdoodle, and a mimosa by the fireside: maybe the most perfect Christmas luncheon ever.

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