There was no blood.
or, teaching cooking on Christmas day.
Christmas starts on Christmas Eve. I walked out of the store at 2pm; this was not a miracle but the great gift of my boss. I got to See’s and Safeway and Smart & Final and walked in our front door at 3:30. That was a miracle. I did what prep I could and was in bed, after the best, most draining week of book-selling I’ve ever known, by 8:30.
This year Christmas fell on a Sunday, so Philip was supposed to have all Saturday to clean the house. But then there was the dishwasher problem and a desperate afternoon call from the choir director at St. Augustine’s who needed the all-reading basso, like, right then. One of the joys of being middle-aged is realizing that the beef is bought, the potatoes are boiled and sleep is better than obsessing about an unclean house.
The great day began very well with regular Sunday service and our church decked out in Christmas greenery. Most of the guests were arriving on or about 3pm. Joshua and Stacie came early, to decompress, eat pie, drink champagne and become my willing hands. I knew that Joshua could sweep and iron, so, for some reason, I thought that he could do food prep. He’s a smart guy, he sings killer Bach and likes to talk religion, so he should be safe with a sharp paring knife, right? “You believe that, Jane, if it brings you comfort.”
I set the dear man to peeling boiling onions. This pleased the Stacie no end because she loves them and knows that they take time to prep. I am not a good teacher. I took that paring knife and showed that smart man how to top, bottom and peel those little buggers. And every time I turned around I had a moment of heart-stopping terror, seeing him getting ready to open an important vein in his hand. On the third go round I finally realized that he was seeing things backward and then stood in front of him, exampled once again, and all was well. I told you he was smart.
Now, let’s talk about the oranges. Being a native Californian, I think that all people know how to address and dispatch oranges. My section leader and sous chef is not a native and what he did to those poor innocent oranges beggars belief. There was pulp, there were pieces of peel in strange shapes and there was pith everywhere. Oh, well, it’s still early in the citrus season and by the time we are done, the great tenor will be able to produce supremes worthy of any salad.
It must be said here that Stacie has good knife skills. She made quick work of the carrots and parsnips. I didn’t need to worry about her. She is threatening to get fish off the boat from Half Moon Bay and bring it over. I want to cook more with that girl.
Dinner itself was just what I wanted: spinach with the aforementioned onions, the carrots and parsnips, garlic mashed potatoes and the beef of Merrie Olde England. Because I had time to reduce the beef stock, the gravy was the best of my career. Christopher was very happy to dine, almost exclusively, on mash and gravy. Many wines flowed and all were very good but the best of all was the Norman Monster. (Go to the Paso Robles Appellation, just go.) The company was so convivial that the clock raced toward 7pm when Verah, Joshua and Philip all had to be back at church for Compline service (I do not understand why any service is necessary on Christmas Day.) Stacie went to hear her sweetie sing and the Kulas wended the way to their respective homes.
For a couple of hours I was alone in my home. Self-reflection on Christmas Day can be very dangerous. Old sorrows and fears can raise their ugly heads. But no ghosts came to darken my day. I petted my cats, enjoyed my tree (the Christmas curmudgeon thinks it’s too big but everyone else says it’s pretty) and relaxed.
After Compline the exhausted Larsons got themselves up the stairs, into the house and collapsed. But with a little pate, wine, chocolate and Scotch, life returned to our dear friends and they were ready for a story. Philip told the tale of Scapa and Highland Park while I got all dreamy-eyed about Orkney.
Of such things the perfect Christmas is made. We sang, we cooked and there was no blood. “Who could ask for anything more?”
