I’m now 75% finished with Christmas cards. I’ve run out of the 40 I originally bought, so all the people that are new on my list, or that are beyond number 40 on my list, are getting cards that I’ve stashed from other years.

It’s sort of interesting, seeing how my moods are reflected in different cards – last year was New Yorker covers and images from the book The Polar Express, one of my favorite Christmas books. The year before that was leaping reindeer surrounded by Christmas lights, and gold trees on texturized paper, and then, in years before those, there were the Edward Gorey cards (still my favorite, ever), the High-Tech Christmas cards, three different Mary Englebreitt images (I love her artwork – it’s so whimsical), and an image of a snow-covered Golden Gate Bridge.

I try to have at least one design every year that can be used for Hanukkah as well as Christmas, and I have two Kwanza and one Ramadan card that I buy for specific people. The vast majority of my cards push peace, because I figure it’s a universal enough wish that no one could be offended, and if they are, tough.

A family friend, HMF, has her family choose their favorite card from all they’ve received each year, and there’s a part of me that knows I’ve won this informal and completely prizeless competition for the past three years, and wants to do so again, but this year’s card – three candles, one with a tree, one with a menorah, and one with PEACE, isn’t really spectacular, it’s just the one that spoke to me when I confronted the vast array of boxes at Barnes and Noble a couple weeks before Thanksgiving.

I love writing out cards to people. I love writing snailmail too. There’s something really special about a tangible letter, in real ink, on real paper. Physical mail may not be immediate, and it’s likely the information inside is completely outdated by the time it arrives at its destination, but it’s still special. It’s an act of love, just as homemade presents are.

My once-pretty handwriting has fallen victim to the combination of disuse and carpal tunnel. It hurts to control a pen, and I’m ashamed of how bad my penmanship has become. But I’m writing in almost every card, anyway. Even if what I write is really really brief. Those who receive them can trouble themselves to decipher, or not, but I’m fairly certain they’ll get the gist.

I’ve been using card writing as a mini-meditation, in the afternoons. I bring a steaming mug of tea up to my desk, and let Napster radio play the “jingle jazz” station, and I write to the accompaniment of Harry Connick, Jr., Steve Tyrell, and Natalie Cole, as well as the standard carol crooners: Sinatra, Mathis, Bennett, Clooney. It’s retro-tunage at it’s finest, and I revel in it, and sing along as I write.

It’s not yet the new year, but I’m making a resolution to do more letter writing. I have three deep desk drawers full of stationery – it’s meant to be used, and seen, and writing shouldn’t be limited to Christmas cards.

My muse of the day, an Open Diary friend I’ll refer to as “X,” suggested that I write an entry about egg nog, so I’ve spent the last half hour (which is about all the research a blog entry should require), reading recipes on the net. I’m now extremely thirsty, and mentally tallying the ingredients in my kitchen, wondering if I have any decent rum, but that’s really not the point.

The cheery red and green quart-cartons in the dairy section may be the most familiar version of egg nog, but it’s really been around forever, and most cultures have some version of this drink, which is really a heavily laced liquid custard. It’s also loosely related to syllabub, which is a milk punch mentioned in a lot of Victorian novels, but which, according to the oldest recipes I found online, did not originally include eggs.

Unlike the egg cream, which is a fountain drink made by shooting seltzer into heavy cream mixed with flavored syrup, real egg nog has eggs in it. In fact, regional variations aside, the basic recipe is pretty simple: egg yolks, sugar, milk, and the alcohol of your choice, with seasonings to taste. Americans tend to use brandy,and season with nutmeg, but I’ve developed a passion for the Mexican version, called Rompope, which uses rum and cinnamon. My philosophy is, “Anything that has rum and cinnamon in it can’t be all bad.” Not surprisingly, when I make hot chocolate on winter evenings, I tend to lace it with rum and cinnamon as well, but that’s another entry.

In my reading, I learned that the Puerto Rican egg-nog variant includes coconut milk, which is probably really tasty, but, I’m a purist, and so I offer this recipe, for Rompope, and urge everyone to try it. It’s much better than the stuff in the dairy section, which generally doesn’t have real milk or real nutmeg, let alone real eggs, or real rum.

* * *

Rompope is strong, sweet and meant to be sipped, so small glasses are in order. Refrigerated, it will keep indefinitely.
1 quart whole milk
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 cup finely ground almonds or almond meal (optional, see Note)
12 egg yolks
2 cups light rum, or brandy
Combine the milk, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon stick (and ground almonds, if you are using them) in a large saucepan. Over medium heat, bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring constantly, for 15 minutes. Remove from heat, and cool to room temperature.
Beat the egg yolks until thick and lemony. Remove the cinnamon stick from the milk mixture, and gradually whisk the egg yolks into the milk mixture. Return to low heat and, stirring constantly, cook until mixture coats a spoon. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely.

Add the rum or brandy to the mixture, stir well. Transfer to a container and and cover tightly. Refrigerate for 1 or 2 days before serving. Makes 1-1/2 quarts.

Note: While not strictly traditional, many Mexican cooks believe ground almonds improve the texture and lend a delicate flavor to Rompope. I’ve had it both with and without the almonds. It’s great either way.

Below, there’s a more traditional version, offered in Spanish, untranslated. (Who said blogging wasn’t educational.)
Continue reading →

If you stand under a streetlight on a cold light, and look up into falling snow, the falling flakes look like stars, shooting past you in a personal warp field. We’re told from childhood that no two of them are exactly alike, but how many of us ever stop to check?

I never did. But I’ve had meaningful experiences with snowflakes even so. I remember cutting lacy shapes out of doilies or white paper, making paper chains out of them, or covering them with silver glitter.

I remember walking my childhood dog, a poodle mix named Taffy, through the packed powder in Georgetown, CO, and then flagrantly disobeying my mother’s rules (and common sense), by taking her down to the frigid waters of Clear Creek, down behind the post office, where the bank was climbable, and the sandbars that were islands in the summer became mini-glaciers in the winter, and my friends and I would spend hours pretending to be arctic explorers, with Taffy playing alternate parts of either a sled dog, or a polar bear. After wards, we’d trudge home (because trudging is really the only way you walk through snow), and I’d de-mat her paws, and we’d cuddle by the fire, while I drank cocoa with tiny marshmallows.

I remember walking to school through snow that came nearly to my waist, and walking back home the same afternoon, on muddy grass, because the snow had already melted -such is the norm in parts of Colorado.

I remember sticking out my tongue to taste the first snowfall, and grumbling because it snowed on Halloween, and my costume was obliterated by the required winter coat.

I remember the first snow of November falling on the day of my grandfather’s funeral, and how my hands and chin grew numb as I stared at nothing, and held onto the flag that the honor guard had presented to my grandmother. Somewhere, I still have that flag.

I remember driving with Fuzzy over snow-drifted mountain passes, and then, later in the same trip, getting iced in at Kearney, Nebraska, on the way to South Dakota, when I moved out there to be with him.

I remember my first winter in South Dakota, newly married, isolated from my family, and surrounded by endless mounds of snow. I remember re-learning how to walk on ice, and goggling at block heaters in cars. I remember everyone teasing me, by saying, “Yeah, it’s cold. But it’s dry cold.

I remember traffic stopping in San Jose, a few years ago, when snow fell for all of ten minutes, a few days before Christmas.

I remember driving through the streets of Minneapolis, over Thanksgiving, 2003, as we led our friends to a favorite breakfast spot, and nearly spinning on snow-slick streets.

I remember driving from Sioux Falls to Minneapolis at the end of the same trip, and watching the snow turn into stars as the sky darkened from bright blue to deep grey, and then night-black.

All these memories are related to the simplest of things. Little flecks of ice that half of us complain about and the other half wish for.

Snowflakes.

This entry inspired by my LJ friend K.

When I was a little girl, my favorite part of the holiday season wasn’t the presents or decorating our own tree, or even the time off school, it was getting bundled up and going for an evening drive with my mother, to look at lights.

Some years, we lived in towns where neighborhoods sponsored specific streets, where all the neighbors decorated to the nines, and there was a nominal fee, to help pay for carollers or cocoa, at the end.

Other years, we lived in quieter places, but we’d still find great holiday lights to oooh and aaah over. Willow Glen and The Rosegarden district, in San Jose, are two of my favorite such neighborhoods, because the houses are all unique, and as they’re upscale neighborhoods, the residents have the cash to dazzle passers-by.

Here in Texas, I don’t know the cool neighborhoods, but I’m finding that the one I live in has an amazing amoung of community spirit. So tonight, because we’re both tired, and needed a break from preparing for the impending arrival of my parents, we went driving up and down the streets of our neighborhood, and looking at lights.

White is the popular color around here. We used it, ourselves, in the net lights on our hedges, and the wraps on the trees, and the arched window of our dining room (our tree, however, is strung with colored lights), and it’s still my favorite for defining the eaves of a house, or twisting into trees, but we also saw some amazing multicolored displays, tons of those wire motorized reindeer, lots of spiral Christmas trees, and a few trains. I love the trains. I want a train.

The magical houses, though, were the ones that were a little unconventional. One such house had their trees decked in alternating strands of blue and green, giving the appearance of an under-sea fantasy. Another had strands of white stars, about the size of my hand, hanging from their trees. They seemed softer than regular twinkle lights, and as they swung in the breeze, they shimmered beautifully.

We’re not quite mid-way through December, not even close to Christmas, really, but I’m already finding that I can move past the hype, call up my inner seven-year-old, and get lost in the magic.

I can’t wait to drive my parents from the airport to my new home, detouring through the local park and nearby streets, to see the lights, and let them feel the magic, too.

As I was lying in bed last night, with the window open just a couple of inches, I heard the wind outside, rustling the trees, and felt the faintest movement of cool air on my face, and I smiled into the darkness of my room, and felt at peace.

When I woke this morning, the chill of night had been replaced by a wintry sort of sunshine, but the trees were still rustling, though with more force than they had. If you close your eyes, the leaves sound like the ocean, sometimes. Or maybe it’s the ocean that sounds like trees. Aren’t all things just a matter of perception?

I spent a good twenty minutes sitting on a cushioned lounge chair sipping tea, this morning. The tea was mint, the sun was just warm enough to be soothing, and I noted that even here, farther south than I have ever lived, in warmer temperatures than I am accustomed to, the light is paler, cooler, and yet, somehow softer, because it is December.

The girl-dog came to ask for attention, jumping onto the small space of cushion between my feet, sitting for a moment, then licking my hand and wandering off to explore the great dog mysteries that are hidden beneath the ivy that grows against the back fence.

The boy-dog came next, and in the sun I realized how grey he is really starting to be, a small breed, prematurely old because of his wonky brain chemistry (he is epileptic). He sat on my lap, and let me scratch behind his ears, run my finger between his eyes and down his muzzle, rub his belly. Then he padded off to stretch on the sun-warmed boards of the deck, and bask, the way only chihuahuas and cats know how.

As mornings go, it was pretty close to perfect.

Today, Fuzzy did battle against the deadly furnace. Well, not really, but at least he managed to light the pilot light without blowing up the house, so, that’s a good thing.

This house has two a/c units, both of which live in the attic, one, which functions gloriously, controls the second floor. The other, the temperamental one, controls the first floor. (Personally, if I was responsible for heating that much open space, I’d be temperamental, too.)

Before we moved in, there was repair work done on the downstairs unit, because there was a problem with the water line, or something, but it cooled just fine, and when I tested it in early fall during a cold morning, the heater seemed to work. At least, when I walked under the kitchen vent, hot air blew in my face.

But since then, it hasn’t worked.

I’ve been nagging Fuzzy to climb up the pull-down ladder into the attic and check the pilot light for about a month now, because I think it’s really stupid to keep the upstairs furnace BLASTING in an attempt to heat the entire house, but he’s refused, citing his toe, and other reasons.

Admittedly, I have no intention of EVER going up there. It isn’t dark – there’s a light and stuff – but it’s cramped and there’s no real floor, and even though, from the hallway below the trap door, I can’t see any evidence of spiders, I’m CERTAIN they are lying in wait for me, and that they know Fuzzy doesn’t fear them, so there’s no reason to leave their dark corners for HIM.

He insisted, today, that the best thing to do was call TXU, but, as they confirmed, TXU is not PG&E and they don’t come out and light pilot lights. (They suggested a plumber, which confuses both of us. Because HVAC and plumbing are not usually handled by the same people). After that, he finally agreed to attempt to light the pilot lite (we’d determined yesterday that that was the actual problem).

He did mention that he was nervous about doing so, since the furnaces are gas, and he didn’t really feel the urge to blow up the house, but I pointed out that an ezisting pilot light was burning in the same space already, and therefore, the house would already be in cinders if there was an issue, and anyway, we have insurance. In fact, we somehow managed to pay the whole year in advance and still have our closing costs be lower than planned, but that’s a phenomenon of Texas math (apparently values are different here?) and not really relevant just now. He pointed out that there were sixteen steps in the lighting process, including flipping the breaker off – we tried that, actually, and the designated breaker did NOTHING. Yeah, lovely.

First attempt was with one of my butane candle lighters. It wasn’t small enough. So Fuzzy tromped downstairs, and searched the kitchen for the box of wooden matches (“They’re on the counter by the sink,” I told him. “I don’t see them,” he said, while facing a completely different counter.) But they were too short. So he went off to the grocery store to buy fireplace matches (and tuna, because we were out), and then returned, for another attempt.

Five minutes later, we had heat, and we still have heat. And the formerly frigid dining room can now double as a sauna.

Oh, right, and nothing blew up.

Yay, Fuzzy.

Some days just scream for cozy cooking. You know the type, grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, meatloaf and green beans. It’s not quite kid-food, though there’s a definite aspect of nostalgia for childhood that enhances the familiar, comforting, flavors.

Today was such a day for Fuzzy and me. He stayed home sick, but wound up working from home because of the four people in his group, two had already called in sick and the other had just announced that he was leaving for another company.

As for me, well, I work from home, anyway, so I made tea, posted rates, did some loan stuff, started laundry, did more laundry, and generally puttered about, cleaning things, and prepping the living room for the Christmas tree, which I also dragged in from the garage.

A friend had posted a blog entry of her own, recently, about her new banana bread recipe, and since we had bananas that were rapidly turning into scary things on the counter, and we both love banana bread, I emailed her for the recipe, and decided to try it. I modified it a bit, doubling the cinnamon, adding a touch of nutmeg, and, since the bag of walnuts I had was 2 cups, and not the 1.5 that the recipe called for, increased the amount of nuts as well. After all, who needs half a cup of walnuts just lying around?

While the banana bread was in the oven, and the sweet cinammony smell was oozing out of said oven, and wafting through the house, I did something I rarely do – I made lunch. Now, it must be known that I despise most forms of tomato soup. And Fuzzy adores it. So, I get thousands of extra wife points today, because when I made lunch, I not only made grillled cheese sandwiches, but I ALSO made soup. TOMATO soup. The smile on his fevered face was almost worth the fact that I had to eat the stuff.

He went back upstairs to his office after that, and I (after calling him back down to help with the tall parts), have been puttering with the tree ever since. I’m currently in the middle of shaping it (my mother will be visiting us over the holidays, and as she’s allergic, we have yet another plastic tree. This year, it’s pre-lit.) I’m not doing ornaments tonight. I never do ornaments the first night. I like to live with the lit tree for a few days and get a feel for it, and sort of plan my attack. But let me tell you, having the pre-lit tree has totally made my year.

While I was working, I let TiVo play back two episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation (Spike is currently running season three, the first season the uniforms had collars), an episode of Strong Medicine, and then tonight’s episode of The West Wing. I think CSI NY is playing now, but I’m waiting for my meatloaf to cool so I can eat.

Oh, right, I also made meatloaf.
And green beans.

I’m such the domestic goddess today.

So, there you have it. A gray day, not particularly cold until the sun went down, but dreary, nonetheless, made better with a little banana bread.

I hope this doesn’t make Fuzzy expect me to cook every night…

One of my blog-buddies, John, commented about the fact that I already have Christmas lights up. Well, the truth is, I do, and I don’t.

I have my lights up on the outside of the house – the hedges, the front window, the trees in the curb strip. I don’t generally put ANY lights up this early, but we were gifted a couple days of dry weather over Thanksgiving weekend, and since the park around the block (the neighborhood park) is decked out, and we were asked to please try to have our own lights out early, as there is some kind of competition for niftiest neighborhood, or some such, I took the opportunity, and did the outside lights, most of them, that weekend.

Of course, I severely underestimated the amount of lights it would take, so I had to go back to Home Depot and get more, but now they’re ALL up.

Outside.

Inside’s another matter.
The room that will eventually be a library is still “box central” as we don’t have enough shelves for all our books. In fact, since we ditched the shakier shelves before we left California, we have even less shelving here than we did there, and we didn’t have enough then.

The dining room needs to have the carpet cleaned. I’m balancing on the edge of scheduling hell, because I need it done early enough to be able to have it in order before the parents arrive on the 18th, but late enough that the dogs won’t get in and leave lovely little dog-presents on the carpet.

The Tree and the ornamements, meanwhile, are sitting just outside the door from the garage into the laundry room, and when I say ‘just outside’ I mean that they don’t quite block the door. Still, I’m forced to see them, brush by them, every time I go that way, and that reminds me to call the carpet cleaners, and have them come. I’m thinking if I schedule things for the 15th, that will be about right, timing-wise. I hope.

In other parts of the house, the preparations continue in other ways. Today, I’m finishing the Christmas cards that were supposed to be done a week ago. My card list keeps expanding, though, so at some point I may have to face the fact that it’s an endless task, and doing ANY is just as good as doing ALL.

Or not.