Buttermilk

I am an inveterate recipe reader. I skim cookbooks the way other people read novels, and am constantly on the lookout for something new, something tasty, something easy and original and praiseworthy to set on the table. I think it’s a function of a weird kind of personal ADD that relates solely to food. Other people may eat the same baloney sandwich for lunch every day for years—not me. I’m lucky if I can handle the same lunch two days in a row. Obviously, my palate is not designed for leftovers. Which explains the stacks of recipes on my coffee table and the shelves of cookbooks overflowing from my kitchen.

So, it’s no surprise that, every now and then, recipe, ingredients, and stars align correctly—almost-- and I  try something new. Today it is a cranberry tea cake. With the best of cookie-baking intentions, I had loaded my pre-Christmas refrigerator with butter and eggs and an inordinate number of cranberries. (Cranberries are a problem for me; I have scones and Jezebel Sauce and cranberry bread recipes—over and above normal cranberry sauce—and cranberries are only available for a month or so. Plus they are easily freezable, so I always figure I can freeze what I don’t use.) In any event, after the scones and Jezebel Sauce and adding them to everything from fruit salad to spiced peaches this holiday season, I still have about four bags in the refrigerator.  Just the time for a cranberry tea cake recipe to come along. And it did.

The fly in the ointment (or batter, if you will) is that the damned recipe calls for buttermilk. I do not buy buttermilk. It has a unique ability to creep to the back of my refrigerator shelf and expire, unbeknownst to the casual observer (i.e. me.) Also, the only size cartons it comes in are: not enough, too much, and way-too-much. I have thrown away as much buttermilk (it being nasty in consistency AND in taste) as I care to, and am therefore faced with the powdered version (out of it; it expires faster than I can use it), substitution (yogurt or sour cream, I’m told will work) or the old ‘stir a spoonful of vinegar in a cup of milk’ routine which I have never quite trusted.

Sometimes the world doesn’t give you what you want or what you need to do what you want to do.  Sometimes the alternatives aren’t that great, either. Sometimes the only choice is which disappointment you are able to live with most easily. Whether it’s a cranberry tea cake, a cashmere sweater, a popular toy or gadget, a new job, or sometimes, just a good meal on the table, there’s always a ‘buttermilk’ ingredient that stands in the way, a compromise that we might be unwilling or unable to make, a step too far for us to take right now.

Particularly at this time of the year, fresh from Christmas wish-fulfillment fantasies, and on the verge of post-holiday let-down, it’s good to recognize again that not all wishes come true—and that that is sometimes a good thing. It can be a challenge to make things work when you’re missing part of the puzzle. Buttermilk (or the lack thereof) opens the door for experimentation and often gives you a shot at something else entirely, something better than you’d hoped for.

(And, by the way…the tea cake turned out fine. I used the milk and vinegar and, while it didn’t rise as nicely as I’d hoped, it tastes pretty darned good. And I AM now down to only three bags of cranberries..)

Birthdays

One thing I have in common with God is a December birthday. (Now, I know that this whole December thing is a Christian myth to counteract the Roman Saturnalia, but, given the whole celebration compulsion, the myth might as well be true.) I never much liked the idea of a birthday that was co-opted by Christmas, that precluded birthday parties, that gave friends and family the option of covering both birthday and Christmas with one gift. In short, I always felt my ‘special’ day got lost in the shuffle.

Perhaps Jesus and I have more in common than I thought.

It is so easy each year to lose track of the honoree in our celebration of his birthday.  There are so many other things going on that Christmas itself becomes just a sigh of relief at the end of a long month of dashing hither and yon in pursuit of all the rituals and traditions, the visits, the parties, the cards and gifts. Maybe what Jesus would really prefer is a nice quiet observance—just family and friends—with cake and ice cream, balloons, and some well-thought-out gifts.

Family and friends? I believe that would be everyone. We are all part of God’s family, even though—like many families—we have our disagreements. But families do come together for special occasions like birthdays, and (at least temporarily) bury our respective hatchets. We could do that. The cake and ice cream are a little harder, but I think Jesus would settle for a simple meal with all of us sharing one table. The gifts? What would Jesus want? That is the premier question of Christmas, and our task, during Advent is to figure that out, to take the time to think about what we can give that would be a good birthday present, that would light up his face and warm his heart. We all know the gifts that would do just that; we are just haggling over the price.  Can we afford the time and effort? How much will this cost? But Christmas is a time to be generous, and so, weighing cost against return on investment…maybe we can find time for that tutoring. Maybe we can give that extra bit for the missions. Maybe we might squeeze out an hour to serve a meal, make a sandwich, volunteer for a good cause.  So what if it doesn’t wrap up nicely in a box? I think he would understand and wholeheartedly approve.

And perhaps Jesus might be interested in my family’s solution to my badly-timed birthday.  We started celebrating my HALF-birthday in June.  What a concept that would be: celebrating Christmas in mid-year. Or …why stop there? Maybe we should celebrate him all year long, and start each day with a cheerful “Happy birthday!”

I’ll bring the balloons.

Miscellaneous

The Folger Shakespeare Library  has a book that dates to 1608--the Trevelyon Miscellany. Thomas Trevelyon would have been an amazing Facebook person. He collected information and recorded it and made a scrapbook, if you will, of the news and customs and occurrences of his times. He posted his information in a book for his friends and family to peruse--and no doubt discuss and admire and argue about. There were drawings and writings and decorative items, poetry and prose and an entire compendium of facts and useful information. It survived. And it is studied carefully, and applauded as a window into history and culture. It is the one-man Pinterest of its time, but also the Wikipedia and Facebook and scrapbook...all done over 400 years ago, without a computer.

My own Miscellany came into focus today. It is my birthday, and Facebook was counting all those who sent greetings. Ninety-six at last count. (Who knows? Maybe I can hit 100 before the clock strikes midnight?) These are the friends and relations who read my collection of poetry and prose and events and information, who have some connection to me and my interests. We don't always agree, but we are all invested in the world and in books and plays and movies, in science and humor and politics. We read and we think and we communicate about all sorts of things: our families, our activities, our likes and dislikes, our pet peeves and the things that unaccountably make us happy. This is what we are doing. This is who we are doing it with. Here is a picture of something I saw today. This is who we are, today.

There are folks who don't participate in this round-robin of information. They may be the smart ones. Perhaps we lose something by using the easy avenue of Facebook. Perhaps privacy is a casualty. Perhaps we are innocently offering hackers our lives on a silver platter. I don't really think so. I think that giving people access to the miscellanies of our lives is worth the risk. Perhaps my ninety-six is not only the number of my online friends, but a catalog number for the book that is my life and times, such as they are.

Facebook counts things--how many updates, how many photos, how many messages, how many friends. It counts what it sees--all those electrons speeding around all those circuits that coalesce into words, into pictures, into videos, into messages, relayed from server to server, to laptop, to iPad, to iPhone. From person to person. All the trivia, all the minutiae, the miscellaneous pieces of our lives, posted and read and collated on pages for our friends and relations to see and respond to and share.

Some people see Big Brother; I see my own version of Thomas Trevelyon.

Christmas on its way..

I'm decorating for Christmas, and it doesn't matter that probably the only people who will notice are JC and me. It used to be that I would scramble from Thanksgiving to the first Saturday in December, emptying all the surfaces in the house and refilling them with Christmas greenery and red birds and candles and ornaments and stuffed animals. I'd bake frantically--one year I actually counted 110 dozen cookies!--and pored over the old punch recipes and gathered ingredients (and a new mixing bucket) for the eggnog we made religiously each year for the Christmas party.

Alas, the party is no more. It disappeared around 2005, I think--though it might have been '04. The last one was at the short-lived Del Ray house, after which we decided we just couldn't do it any more.  The house was too small and the invitation list (and the workload) was too big.

So, it's different now. Decorating the tree is a two-person job, and the variety of cookies has decreased precipitously. We haven't made eggnog in far too long, and there are fewer stockings hanging on the mantel. The pressure to have it all done by the Scottish Walk weekend is gone. But I still have the compulsion to make it look like Christmas inside. Which means that the Nativity set is assembled in the living room, and the wreath is in the foyer, this year surrounded by books and typewriters, in addition to the requisite Santa. Coyote wears a Santa hat in his chair by the fireplace and Grumpy Santa has a new plaid reindeer who should be able to make anyone smile. The Grinch has his hat on, too, along with a multitude of sheep, Babar, and Curious George. The dining room has my collection of cut glass, each piece of which holds a red Christmas ball or two, just to signify the season. And the living room mantel is decked with newly-polished silver sugar bowls and creamers and teapots containing greens and candy canes.

I'm getting out the Christmas dishes, too. (What!! You don't have Christmas dishes??!!??) and putting the plain white everyday ones into temporary storage. There are candy-cane-striped placemats and gold-and-silver runners for the table, red pillows on the sofas, and Christmas music on the iPod I attach to the speaker. I'm baking cookies for no one in particular, just so I have an opportunity to sing along, off-key or not, with Bing and David Bowie and Josh Groban and Diana Krall and even Nat King Cole. Only the songs I like. No "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" here. (Bless you, Apple, for letting me pick and choose my own playlist...)

I wish I had our two precious granddaughters (currently in Scotland) to bake cookies with, and wrap presents for, and to surprise on Christmas morning. I want to share with them a Christmas at Nana and Papa's house, where the tree is huge and the lights are bright and the whole house says, "Merry Christmas!" from the front door wreath to the cookie-laden kitchen counter to the living room tree. Where the stockings are full and breakfast arrives on snowman plates and cookies are there for the asking. I wish I had both our daughters here, and Paul, and Darnell, and friends and relations in the darkened church at midnight, lighting each other's candles and singing.

But even though those wishes aren't coming true this year, I can enjoy what I have--and that is plenty!--and look toward Christmases to come. That's the thing about Christmas--it comes. Every year, with all its traditions and surprises and memories, both old and new. Every year, with family and friends and all the frills and furbelows we've attached to it. It comes. Sing hallelujah.