Blizzard Warning

They're saying 12-18" before it winds down tomorrow night. 

I was out and about earlier today.  Sunday, day after Christmas... it was dead.  Very little traffic; only a few people in the grocery stores.

There's a weather advisory for a foot and a half of snow, 50-knot winds, and zero visibility, and no one is out stocking up on anything.  They've already got it.  Water, check.  Food, check.  Safety lanterns, emergency radio, auxiliary heat source:  check, check, check.

Some would call this endemic pessimism.  Perhaps.  But it seems wise to me.  Expect the worst - and you are both unlikely to be disappointed, and more likely than your sunny counterpart to be pleasantly surprised. 

We will take this storm in stride.  And it too shall pass.

Christmas Day

Until about lunchtime we didn't even know if we'd be opening presents today.  It all depended on how my mother, who came home from Brigham & Women's late last night, was feeling. 

She desperately wanted to be here when the kids had their tree.  My stepfather desperately wanted Christmas dinner.

But between the pain and the medication therefore, her condition was not, as it turned out, such as to allow her to make the eight-mile trek to our house - or even to get out of bed until this evening.  Around noon we decided (mutually) that the kids should go ahead with presents (the other options being, truck everything - spiral ham, steamed pudding, and gifts - to her house and hope she was well enough to function; postpone Christmas until such time she is feeling better; or some combination thereof). 

We opted for Door #3.  The four of us had our family gift exchange, made dinner, then packed up some food and went to my mother's house, where we made a plate for my stepfather (my mother being not so interested in eating just now), delivered presents, and visited for a bit - Mother being through some combination of willpower and pharmacological assistance able to sit downstairs.  Then we came home for warmed-over ham and au gratin potatoes.

I have to hand it to my kids - they are troopers.  Especially Thing One, who had no presents from his grandparents because the last three shopping days before Christmas were spent in the hospital. 

We were all just glad to be together.

Christmas Eve

On this day in 2010: 

Oysters on the half shell

 Learning new vocabulary with Dad while he shucks the oysters

Emergency run to Wal-Mart to get seed for the bird feeders (OMG, bad idea)

Lobster stew... with buttermilk biscuits, salad and pecan pie



The kids open one present - cozy new pajamas and a book for each

Two phone calls between here and Brigham & Women's

Tracking Santa on Norad even though we started putting air quotes around "Santa" three years ago

Watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation

The next-to-last bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau

Putting all the presents under the tree

Trying to identify contents of said presents

Reading new books in new pajamas by the fire

Stockings hung by the chimney with care

Leaving out a gin and tonic for "Santa"

And to all, a good night.

Christmas Eve Eve tradition #2: Lobster Stew

Actually this is technically a Christmas Eve tradition - the eating of it, anyway - but the making of it should happen the day before.  It has to be cooked very slowly and gently and then it has to sit, you see.  Something wonderful and miraculous (which my children are too young to know about) happens overnight.

First, get half a dozen or eight (depending on the size) lobsters.  I like soft-shell lobsters because hard-shell shells are really hard on the old hands.  (At this point you can choose to introduce the lobsters to your housepets.  Or not.)

Boil a couple of inches of salted water in a big water-bath canner, then plunge the lobsters – two or three at a time – in headfirst.  Cover and cook for 15 minutes.  Remove the lobsters set aside until they're cool enough to handle.

Note:  Lobsters do not scream while being cooked.  They don’t have vocal chords or respiratory systems, both of which are required in order to phonate.  That noise people talk about – which I have never ever EVER heard in many years of cooking lobster – is steam escaping from the shell.

Pick the meat, cut larger pieces into chunks and set aside.  

Confession:  Everything up through this part is messy.  No pictures.  Camera + steam + lobster juice = bad combination.

Before:

After:



Now melt a cup of butter in a stockpot, then stir in the lobster chunks.  Simmer on low heat for ten minutes, stirring frequently.  

While the lobster is getting to know the butter, heat three quarts of half and half in a separate pot.  It should get hot but not too hot. 

This is my secret ingredient.  

Dissolve a good-sized glop (about 3 tablespoons) of lobster base in the cream.

Over very low heat, slowly stir the hot cream into the buttery lobster.  Season, then put in the fridge uncovered (lest it curdle as it cools) and forget about it until the next day.

 

Reheat gently and serve with oyster crackers, salad, and biscuits.

Here's the recipe written out:

Lobster Stew

6 1-1/4 lb. new shell lobsters

1 cup butter

3 qts half and half

3 tablespoons lobster base

Salt & pepper to taste

Paprika (optional)

Steam, cool and pick the lobsters.  Cut large chunks of meat into bite-sized pieces.

In a 5-quart stock pot, melt the butter.  Gently cook the lobster meat in the butter for about 10 minutes.  

While lobster is warming in the butter, in a separate large saucepan heat half & half and lobster base until it is hot but not simmering.

Over low heat, gradually stir the hot cream mixture into lobster, stirring constantly.  Season with salt and pepper to taste and add paprika for color if desired.

Remove from heat and allow to cool, uncovered, then cover and refrigerate overnight.

Reheat gently, uncovered. 

8 servings.

Christmas Eve Eve tradition

Let's call this one "Introduction of the Animals" or "Inter-species Fellowship." 

It has everything to do with the spirit of the season and nothing at all to do with mildly antagonizing the cats.

And nothing at all to do with harassing the lobster.

The lobster has long since come to terms with his fate - he is about to give his all for lobster stew.  Watch this space.

First real snow of the season

Winter can uncomfortable and dangerous but breathtakingly lovely.  The kids moan about shoveling and hauling firewood one minute, and begging the Flying Spaghetti Monster for a snow day the next.  The meteorologists insist on a total accumulation of one inch even as there are three on the ground and it's still falling thickly (which is the situation my stepfather and I found ourselves in driving home from Boston last night at 40 mph).

Earth stood hard as irony.... 

Christmas topiaries

This weekend we have made gingerbread men, peppermint bark, peanut butter bars, toffee cookies, shortbread, gumbo, roast beef, and topiaries.  I can't wait to get back to work so I can sit down.

Here are the topiaries.  Started out a couple of weeks ago by painting some terra cotta flowerpots with a gold wash.

This afternoon we cut florist foam to fit in the pots.

By "we" of course I do mean "the help."  I adore compulsory labor.  Should have had more children.  They did a bang-up job decorating cookies today, with the exception of the anatomically correct gingerbread man, but that's a story for another time. 

I digress.

We took a couple of small Styrofoam cones and one larger one, and put three cinnamon sticks in the base of each to make a trunk.

Planted in the pot, with a healthy glop of hot glue in the (probably vain) hope that the thing will stay together.

Now the balsam tips (salvaged from the bottom branches we trimmed from the Christmas tree).

Finished with moss around the base and the top, with a red bead "star" because I didn't know quite what else to do.

I had every intention of gluing more red beads and small pinecones on the trees but ran out of glue cartridges, so we're calling it the simple look.



Allez!

The Heir had a fencing meet yesterday.

 He's been fencing since he was about 10.  He likes it because 1) it's different - no one else in his school does it; 2) it involves weaponry; and 3) the sport's physical and mental requirements suit him. 

We have to get him all the way to Belfast once or twice a week for lessons, but whatevs.

That's him in the bug hat.

Here he is without the bug hat.

 

It's really called a face mask.  The rest of the kit consists of lamé, jacket, underarm protector, glove, knickers, socks, special shoes, body cord, and electric foil.  I have to replace one of these things approximately every fifteen minutes to keep up with the growth rate.  Do you see the size of those feet?

Anyhoo, back to the fencing meet. 

The Heir's weapon of choice is foil (as opposed to épée or saber.  If you are truly interested in further explanation, a good overview is posted here.)



 These things go on...



...and on... 

Note:  I will never understand what's going on during these matches, any more than I will eventually comprehend exactly what "offsides" is in soccer.  Too many things happening too fast.

 

...and on.

It's hard work - not just physically but mentally, because there's so much strategy and concentration involved.  It's not called "physical chess" for nothing.

By the time it's over, the kids are well and truly pooped.

 

The guy in the black is who keeps showing up in the pictures is John Krauss, who runs the Down East School of Fencing.   Great guy, fantastic instructor.  He loves the sport and really gets the kids.

Another note:  kids who fence are really great.  I say this objectively, of course.  I will refrain from going into a deep psychological musing about the type of person who is drawn to a sport that combines intellectual quickness, discipline, rigorous physical activity, respect, tradition, protocol, and the ability to adhere to strict rules, other than to say there's a marked difference from certain other sports.

Here are yesterday's winners, who have gone from beating the crap out of each other with swords to best buds in two seconds flat.

Red sky in the morning

A red sunrise portends unsettled weather, while a red sunset assures calm.  Hence the old adage "red sky in the morning, sailors take warning; red sky at night, sailors' delight."

The sunrise this morning was blazing orange, which jibes with the forecast; everyone is keeping a wary eye on a nor'easter forming off shore.

I wouldn't say the kids are keeping a "wary" eye, exactly.  They're rooting for a snow day or three next week.

Yankee Swap

A Yankee Swap (in its most common form, though there are variations) is a New England holiday party tradition wherein everyone brings a wrapped, inexpensive gift.  Sometimes the gifts are obnoxious (and make the rounds of the Swaps year after year); usually, though, they're decent. 

Everyone who brought a gift draws a number, and chooses and opens a gift in the order of the drawing.  If someone who went before you got a present you like better, well, when it's your turn you just go take their present and give them yours. 

It can get brutal.

Obviously it's advantageous to get a higher number in the drawing, but best to get #1, because when it's all over #1 gets to choose from among all the presents if he or she wants to trade. 

So last night was Himself's office holiday potluck and the obligatory Yankee Swap.  I drew #17 out of 19; pretty good positioning.

The most-swapped object was one of those ice-cream-making balls that you kick around.  (This, however, was not something I coveted; I'm perfectly okay with my Cuisinart ice cream maker, which has a delightful little device called an on/off switch and requires no physical exertion other than the flick of a finger.)

When our turn came Himself opened a very respectable 2011 calendar/planner but (having received strict instructions in advance) swapped for #4's present, which had already been swapped by #11. 

It is two balls, 120 yards each, of a delicious self-striping wool/acrylic blend in shades of blue and teal.  And bamboo circs size 9.

What, oh what does it want to be?

The Charlie Brown tree

For the second year now the kids have gone out into the woods and come back with a raggedy, crooked little white pine sapling which they doll up just a bit.  Cute.

An afternoon at the opera

We took the kids to see Don Carlo yesterday – the Metropolitan Opera live HDTV broadcast on the big screen at The Strand.  There was much preliminary moaning about the 4 ½ - hour run time, but once we got there they were fully engaged.  Hungry by the first intermission, but engaged. 

I was impressed, because Don Carlo is, probably more than any other opera, a wrenching portrayal of people who are utterly at the mercy of forces larger than themselves – political, emotional, religious, it’s all there, and it requires a certain maturity of perspective to appreciate.  

This is the third season that we’ve splurged on a family outing to the opera broadcast.  By now my punks are unfazed at being the youngest people there (attendance is heavily skewed to retirees of a certain income level) and they are better behaved than the some of the old people. 

This performance was impressive, to be sure.  In fact it was marred only by the lead tenor’s singing his big opening aria with a ginormous booger hanging out of his left nostril.  

HD is so unforgiving.

My favorite Christmas decoration

Sometimes – very rarely, but it does happen – you find the exactly the right gift for someone.  Something thoughtful, appropriate, unique, personal; something that will evoke memories and bring a smile every time they look at it.

This was one of those gifts.  (Hard to get a good shot of it without glare - sorry.)

It was presented to me maybe ten years ago by my choir in Pennsylvania, the year we tackled Craig Courtney’s “A Musicological Journey through the Twelve Days of Christmas” – wherein each verse progresses, in historical order, through musical periods (the first day of Christmas is set like a Gregorian chant, and by the twelfth you wind up in a mashup of The Stars and Stripes Forever – with stops along the way to visit Vivaldi, Tchaikovsky, Wagner and Saint-Saens.  Brilliant but brutal; I’m still not sure what possessed me that year).

The tree is a paper cutout representing the twelve days of Christmas – the twelve drummers comprise the fundament and the partridge is the crown.  The red batik-fabric background was dyed by one of the altos.  Another alto’s gallery took care of the matting and frame.

I get a warm fuzzy every single year when I put it out. 

A big shoutout to my UU homies back in Meadville:  Merry Christmannukwanzaa. 

I miss you guys. 

The season

Getting the Christmas tree is always an event. 

We have a vaulted ceiling in the great room, so we get a big one - say twelve feet.  Since the designated site is occupied forty-nine weeks of the year by bookshelves, there's a lot of work involved before the tree even comes in the door.  At the end of the season everything has to be done in reverse.

The logistics of managing a tree this size are complicated too.  It's friggin' heavy, for starters.  It requires a super-sized base.  We always anchor it to the wall, just to be on the safe side.  And the sheer number of lights involved?  Unless we win the lottery, we won't be switching to LED any time soon. 

It's a production, but by gorry when it's done it really feels like Christmas.

The kids are big enough now to help move heavy things, and this year it went quite smoothly.  We picked up the tree on Friday night.  Yesterday we brought it inside and decorated it.

It's a balsam, so the house smells delicious.  It's not the tallest tree we've ever had, but it's exceptionally full (it took the kids a full half hour to find the pickle ornament...). 

This morning's dusting of snow adds to the spirit. 

Now if I could just get inspired to write the annual family newsletter...

But who's counting...?

There are only 1.2 million people in the entire state, and most of those reside in the greater Portland area.  The population here in the midcoast is relatively thin. 

Our schools, small though they are, work hard to focus on the arts, and the high school in our particular district consistently cranks out choral and instrumental ensembles that compete successfully at both state and regional levels. 

The middle school music program is crucial in developing this talent. 

Let’s face it, though:  regardless of the untapped potential represented by any given class of fifth graders, you take these students – some of whom do not know a quarter note from page 8 – hand them a bunch of instruments, rehearse for two months, and then give a concert, consider yourself lucky if they produce a recognizable melody.

Year over year, the beginning band’s annual fall rendition of Hot Cross Buns does not get any better.  But if you want proof that miracles do happen, take that performance and compare it to the stuff the 7^th-8^th grade symphonic band pulls off.   

Saint Patricia is the middle school band director.  She takes all the silliness and spit valves and squeaking reeds and just plain bad playing and in four short years, she turns it into something worth listening to.  Somehow she also maintains her sanity and her sense of humor. 

I have been to exactly seven middle school band concerts so far. 

I have exactly seven left to go.