Lure of the “Selfie”

It’s happened again.  A sign of the times.  We not only want pictures of things we’re seeing and doing, but we feel compelled to insert ourselves into those pictures too.  “See?  I was there – next to that huge alligator.  That’s my arm inside its mouth.  Isn’t that great?”  No, you idiot. Unless you’ve always dreamed of living with the nickname, “stumpy”.  Equally brainless are those parents that put young children on a railing next to a wild animal cage.  From time to time, the children fall into the enclosure, and we end up reading about the tragic consequences, or worse, watching it unfold on YouTube.

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Another “Fabulous” Milestone

No, not another “age” thing. I hear the smirking out there. The folks at WordPress keep track of my postings, and they tell me that this writing will be number 200.  I know – where has the time gone?  Who knew that I had enough in me that anyone else would want to read?  For this momentous occasion, I debated the content.  Would I write extensively on the world situation in Eastern Europe?  Would a piece on climate change be appropriate, particularly with one storm after another charging across the country, and a major blizzard due to hit us tomorrow?  Perhaps an opinion piece on voting rights.  Or I could do one of my signature “grumpy old man” bits about something that’s been driving me nuts lately, like plastic bottles tipping over or the daily phone calls about health care supplements. But no, none of those are suitable or suitably positive.  None really set the tone for the Big Two Hundred.  So . . . . .

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And the Masking Goes On

Just received a new shipment of masks.  They are the latest in a long line of mask-developments that will protect us from the latest strain of COVID, named Omicron.  Personally, I’d have called it “Phil”, which is far easier to remember.  We could reuse some of the hurricane names, I suppose, or use some that the National Weather Service has rejected, like “Timmy”.  Here’s the headline on the news:  “An update on the newest pandemic variant, first reported in Arkansas, which the CDC is calling, ‘Bucky’.”

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Great Cookie Bake 2021

We’re back.  Today is the day, one that we dream about all year long.  (At least some people do – I don’t particularly.)  Her Ladyship was perched in her designated seat of command at the dining room table, recipe book at the ready. She’s rather a combination of Mrs. Patmore and Captain Kirk – preparing to issue instructions to the kitchen, where Princess Elizabeth is prepping the ingredients, unleashing the cookie sheets, murmuring encouragement to the mixer, bringing out every conceivable utensil, the waxed paper, the parchment and foil. The day breaks bright, joyful, and full of anxious expectation.

I went shopping yesterday for the ingredients. It’s is rather like a scavenger hunt, and I at some point deploy several store employees to search some of the more difficult, obscure items.  I always seem to be looking for the really hard-core stuff.  You know, the ones that will cause normally well-trained stocking people to pause, frown, and look wildly around as if maybe my request would materialize in front of them.    Out back to the store rooms, up to the manager’s office they go.  Once again, I scour the baking aisle for a limitless variety of chocolate bits – semi-sweet, bitter-sweet, unsweetened, milk and dark chocolate, white chocolate, chocolate with bits of other stuff mixed in like peppermint, spearmint.  On Dasher, on Donner and Blitzen.

And, we’re off.  The first batch of cookie dough is brought to Herself for formation and skilled handling.  It’s scooped into little round balls. Spacing is essential, because otherwise they’re liable to melt together into one gigantic cookie. Oops, had a problem with that first one – they’ve all stuck to the foil.  We’ll scrape them off later, glaze with chocolate, and pretend they’re supposed to look unsculpted, like tree bark. An addition to last year’s lineup was something with pretzels.  I debated for what seemed like hours over the best type of pretzel to purchase, only to find out later they’re crushed to bits, so they didn’t need to be twisted sticks anyway.  I could have used floor scrapings at the pretzel factory. This year, I know better and just buy a bag of pretzel sticks. The Princess is the raw materials supervisor.  She mixes the ingredients, prepares the ovens – oh yes, we’ll keep two working constantly at different temperatures and with the oven racks spaced out so we can switch the sheets periodically.  May we assume that those on the bottom rack cook faster, slower, more evenly, until their tans are just right? The mixer is whirring, flour is flying like a sandstorm in the Sahara, pounds of butter are disappearing.  In between, she’s bringing unbaked cookies from the formation center to the oven, then bringing the cooked ones back for the final, finishing touches of sprinkles, confectioner’s sugar, whatever will give it an attractive “sheen”.  Sugars are like chocolate bits – there is quite a variety.  You have the granulated (which is the basic white sugar to the uninformed).  There is brown sugar, which has a become a family – dark brown to different shades of light brown.  Confectioner’s sugar is the finely ground, powdery one that gets everywhere, particularly all over your clothes when you eat the cookie that’s coated in it.  I’ve bought about four bags or boxes of each, keeping fingers crossed that we have enough.

The cookies are beginning to emerge from the oven and ready for inspection at the home office. “That needs two more minutes” rings out.  Most of the cookies came out as intended.  The first ones and the ginger ones spread out to the point of violating personal space, so I had to separate them, and sample a few.  I consider that quality control.  Or we could have one or two election fraud investigators make inquiries. We started freezing a bunch last year so they won’t all revert back to their original parchment state by Christmas.  They’ll be fresh and bursting with flavor if we remember to unthaw them at some point. At least that’s the story I hear as I clean out the freezer so we can fit them in.  

As I mentioned, Herself is Commander In Chief.  The Princess is next in command, rather like Daisy in the kitchen at Downton Abbey, and reprimanding her father for getting in her way. My role in this is several steps down the ladder. It’s somewhere between footman and house elf.  I was historically called that several times in the past when emergency washing of the mixer bowl or whips was called for. I lend a hand when needed.  “Rotate the cookie sheets.”  “Put two more minutes on the clock.”  What is this, the NFL?  I wipe down the mixer paddle for the next go-around, keep the scrapers, bowls and spatulas coming, occasionally making a dash to the spice rack. Or, if you prefer, I’m like one of the nurses in surgery, handing the surgeon equipment.  In past years, the princess has been known, in a commanding voice, to request “SPATULA”, extending a hand as she hunched over the mixer bowl. 

It looks like this year’s bake has turned out successfully. The cookies are nestled away snuggly in their plastic containers, which we save specifically for this purpose from year to year.  They’re stacked on top of the fridge, awaiting distribution.  I’m pleased to announce that, all in all, a good bake. That’s the last official preparation for the season except for Christmas dinner.  I’m not sure if every household has protocols and strict time frames as we do.  Her Ladyship, even in times of incapacity, still maintains order and schedules. Should you wish to adopt our system, there is the initial shopping, beginning midsummer to early fall.   Then the serious shopping begins and continues until about Thanksgiving. We begin the house decorating, which happens in phases, concluding with the Appearance and Decking of the Tree. That’s followed up closely by the Christmas card writing. It takes a day or two of hunting down what we have in stock, determining whether we like them or not, and should we buy more? Do we have return labels?  This year, the inventory was completed expeditiously during the first week of December. There are one or two days writing out of the cards, with a pruning of the Christmas Card List, additions and subtractions.  Sometimes, subtractions become re-additions, as we get cards from those that we’d crossed off the list in hopes they’d forgotten about us. I don’t do any writing because, as I’ve been regularly informed over the years, my handwriting is quite frankly substandard, so Herself does this, perched over her workspace like a monk in a monastery. Once they’ve been delivered to the Post Office for mailing, we can turn our attention to the wrapping protocols.  I’ve described this in great detail in other writings, so if you’re truly interested, feel free to visit previous blogs.  It is, however, an event of epic proportions. Finally, the Cookie Bake looms on the horizon like the final free skate and giant slalom at the Winter Olympics.  

This concludes the cookie bake for another year.  Five varieties, enough to induce a sugar coma by New Years.   I’ll put on my facemask and take some to the neighbors.  I’ll sample a few before my afternoon nap. Then a few more with my evening tea. Yes, friends, once again the cookie bake is in the record books.  The cooling racks are tucked away and the cookie sheets returned to their shelves.  The mixer is breathing deeply, like a senior climbing three flights of stairs. The trash is overflowing.  The chocolate inventory has been recalibrated and repacked, along with the pecans. All is calm, all is bright – until I hear the fateful words, “We’ll make the macrons tomorrow.”.  Oh, dear God. 

Peace and joy to all within our readership. Have a wonderful Christmas, and, again this year, stay safe.

The Great American Wrapping Show

From time to time, I can’t resist reposting some things that are truly ageless.  One is wrapping Christmas, birthday, or other big event gifts.  I really can’t abide those new car commercials with a bow on the hood.  Really?  No thought went into that whatsoever.  There’s a Toyota commercial this year that has a bunch of cars fully wrapped for the holidays.  Now that’s more like it. As our house fills up with new arrivals and takes on a certain “warehouse” look obscuring the house decorations we put out in a nod to tradition. Because in rereading this, much still works, and I’m therefore sharing the joy again.  While more’s the pity that some of the worl doesn’t wrap, here in the United States, the boon that we provide to retail is equaled only by the astronomical purchases we make to help the wrapping paper and ribbon industries flourish.  We’re making these ventures Build Back Better.  I’m suggesting that, as the Great British Baking Show is wildly popular, and now with chocolate version that I enjoy watching but hope never to attempt, it’s time for the Great American Wrapping Show.  Twelve contestants are selected to compete wrapping and decorating all sorts of shapes and sizes of presents.  There could be Bike Week, or Boots without Boxes.  Anything with rectangles or squares is off the table.  No bags, no gift boxes, no premade bows. Contestants must fashion their own decorative embellishments, and anyone caught sneaking accessories from Walmart around the tent flaps is immediately dismissed.   Her Ladyship could be the Paul and Pru of decorative gift wraps. HGVT and the Hallmark Channel might produce webinars, and emergency ZOOM available conferences should someone’s wrapping go really badly.

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Thanksgiving Traditions Return

Thanksgiving is coming back.  People are traveling, the airlines can’t keep up, gas prices shooting through the roof. Some guy’s loaded handgun went off during a luggage inspection in Atlanta the other day. Don’t you wonder what kind of family gathering he was heading to? Infection rates are going back up, but no matter.  The only masks in the supermarket are the cashiers and myself. Yes, indeed, America is returning to normal. Bouncing back to our normal levels of insanity. While I write this, there’s a huge wild turkey poking its way through the front garden.  I look at it, and it looks back at me with a certain interested yet defiant attitude.  It’s perfectly safe because we’ve already got a Butterball in the fridge. I decided to repost here some of my favorite Thanksgiving memories because, well, in truth, it’s timely and I’m too lazy busy to start from scratch.

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