This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that I say that the only thing worse than January is February. But at least February is shorter, and we can look forward to March, when things will become universally muddy and flowers will begin to appear: a whole different kind of thing to hate.
The problem with most Januaries is that they're a less exciting continuation of December. See, November begins to bring the dark, grey tidings of winter, but soothes us with Thanksgiving. December offers the Holly Jollies as a peace offering. January has MLK day (and Inauguration Day this year), but we generally don't offer each other copious amounts of food and gifts on MLK day. Sometimes, we just feel sad. January offers little appeasement for its dreary drudgery. In December, we get egg nog, champagne, and (at least in my house) bourbon milk punch. January brings us little need for specialty beverages.
Unlike summer. For many people, summer means cold beer, iced tea, or, if commercials are to be believed, big pictures of Sunny D. For me, summer is all about the Mint Julep.
I do not have a silver cup. Nor have I ever attended the Kentucky Derby. Nor do I wear hoop skirts or live on a plantation (despite what I once told an incredibly ignorant man in Corsica). But I do love bourbon, and keep a steady supply on hand.
While I have made my own mint juleps, I prefer it to be made by John, my husband, because it is one of his many skills that far surpasses my own. He carefully measures the Makers (our bourbon of choice for drinks that are mostly bourbon - if we're mixing, we go for a less expensive brand), makes sure the ice is properly crushed, and makes the simple syrup himself. I grew the mint, which given the ample space it had on our porch at the time, ran rampant and lush. (We'll see how it does in the apartment here).
It goes something like this:
Fill the rocks glass with crushed ice. Pour in 1 part simple syrup to 2 parts bourbon. Stir vigorously until a frost forms on the outside of the glass. The frost is essential, for reasons I'll go into later. Top with a sprig of mint.
We would gather on the couch with the kitties, each with a julep in hand, and watch DVDs or play games. At the time, we were both working pretty demanding jobs, and the heat of the Mississippi summer was, well, the heat of a Mississippi summer. The juleps would slide down, sweet with the sharp bourbon underneath, and the silky scent of the mint mingling with it all. The world would erase, and we would settle in.
Drinking them made the day better, made the horrible papers easier to grade, the arrogant students humorous, and the poorly argued cases bearable. But they're pretty distinctly a summer drink.
Now, as the January mundanes spread over me, I long for June, for a overgrown mint plant, and an open bottle of Makers. Something to lift the spirits, something that reminds us that winter is merely a part of the cycle, not the end of it, that spring is coming, and beyond that, summer.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
On Sandwiches
Can a sandwich do any good?
I asked this question to myself, last night, as I stood, hands covered in flimsy plastic gloves, arranging bread, bologna, and cheese into my share of 1,000 sandwiches in a church kitchen. Probably about 15 of us stood over metal trays, and with assembly-line like efficiency, created bologna and cheese sandwiches over jokes, small talk, and in the case of the foursome at my tray, awkward silences brought on by one man's cranky pants. We were making sandwiches for Martha's Table, an organization, that through several different channels, including the mobile soup kitchen McKenna's wagon, tries to meet the needs of the hungry in the DC area, and for Foundry United Methodist's Walk-In Mission that helps people to obtain identification, a lunch, and clothing should they need it. All of this is done under the umbrella of the Community Mission at Foundry.
I have long maintained that food makes us part of a larger community, and that preparing food for others connects you to people in a very intimate way. Why should that change if you are preparing an elaborate pasta dish for a gathering of friends in celebration or bologna sandwiches for people who you may see everyday, but may not notice or know?
I am reminded, by the name of Martha's Table (I have no idea if this story is the basis for the name, but I am reminded nonetheless), of the Biblical story of sisters Mary and Martha, who are visited by Jesus. Mary sits at Jesus's feet, listening to him teach. Martha works in the kitchen, preparing a hospitable table for her guest. Martha becomes upset that Mary does not help, and Jesus scolds her, but not for preparing food. He scolds her for her anger at not being helped. Both women are engaging in worthwhile pursuits. I grew up feeling that Martha got some poor shakes, because I am a Martha (in the sense of this story, not in the A Handmaid's Tale sense). The greatest joy for me lies in hospitality. The best way for me to access faith is through action: words are beautiful, and moving, but actions speak very clearly. In fact, I often have made the mistake of defining myself by the number of actions I undertake, until, like Martha, I emerged stressed, upset, and distant from the initial reason behind the action. But, if I truly believe that action is important, then even small actions, even the making of a few dozen sandwiches, matter immensely.
What good can a sandwich do?
Someone will eat those sandwiches, and they may be the only nourishment that someone gets on that particular day. It is hard for us to conceive of hunger if we've not experienced it: right now, I've got a box of fruits and vegetables sitting on my counter that was delivered this morning. It is difficult for me to conceive of hunger. As I made those sandwiches, I tried to imagine being grateful for one. In a real way. In honesty, I might not have eaten one - I don't really like bologna. But I tried to picture a world in which I met McKenna's wagon, and accepted that sandwich as a person who needed it. I don't know that I did a very good job of picturing that, but I realized that the small cares we put into making the sandwiches (carefully centered cheese slices, turning the heels in in case someone would reject that part of the bread) would mean a lot to someone in a position to receive them.
I am incredibly fortunate. I have my fruit bowl overflowing with fruits no one has eaten. I have a fridge that needs to be cleaned out. I have two loaves of homemade banana bread sitting on my stove. I am lucky. I am also lucky that I am in a position to go out and make sandwiches on a Wednesday night so that someone else can eat.
I asked this question to myself, last night, as I stood, hands covered in flimsy plastic gloves, arranging bread, bologna, and cheese into my share of 1,000 sandwiches in a church kitchen. Probably about 15 of us stood over metal trays, and with assembly-line like efficiency, created bologna and cheese sandwiches over jokes, small talk, and in the case of the foursome at my tray, awkward silences brought on by one man's cranky pants. We were making sandwiches for Martha's Table, an organization, that through several different channels, including the mobile soup kitchen McKenna's wagon, tries to meet the needs of the hungry in the DC area, and for Foundry United Methodist's Walk-In Mission that helps people to obtain identification, a lunch, and clothing should they need it. All of this is done under the umbrella of the Community Mission at Foundry.
I have long maintained that food makes us part of a larger community, and that preparing food for others connects you to people in a very intimate way. Why should that change if you are preparing an elaborate pasta dish for a gathering of friends in celebration or bologna sandwiches for people who you may see everyday, but may not notice or know?
I am reminded, by the name of Martha's Table (I have no idea if this story is the basis for the name, but I am reminded nonetheless), of the Biblical story of sisters Mary and Martha, who are visited by Jesus. Mary sits at Jesus's feet, listening to him teach. Martha works in the kitchen, preparing a hospitable table for her guest. Martha becomes upset that Mary does not help, and Jesus scolds her, but not for preparing food. He scolds her for her anger at not being helped. Both women are engaging in worthwhile pursuits. I grew up feeling that Martha got some poor shakes, because I am a Martha (in the sense of this story, not in the A Handmaid's Tale sense). The greatest joy for me lies in hospitality. The best way for me to access faith is through action: words are beautiful, and moving, but actions speak very clearly. In fact, I often have made the mistake of defining myself by the number of actions I undertake, until, like Martha, I emerged stressed, upset, and distant from the initial reason behind the action. But, if I truly believe that action is important, then even small actions, even the making of a few dozen sandwiches, matter immensely.
What good can a sandwich do?
Someone will eat those sandwiches, and they may be the only nourishment that someone gets on that particular day. It is hard for us to conceive of hunger if we've not experienced it: right now, I've got a box of fruits and vegetables sitting on my counter that was delivered this morning. It is difficult for me to conceive of hunger. As I made those sandwiches, I tried to imagine being grateful for one. In a real way. In honesty, I might not have eaten one - I don't really like bologna. But I tried to picture a world in which I met McKenna's wagon, and accepted that sandwich as a person who needed it. I don't know that I did a very good job of picturing that, but I realized that the small cares we put into making the sandwiches (carefully centered cheese slices, turning the heels in in case someone would reject that part of the bread) would mean a lot to someone in a position to receive them.
I am incredibly fortunate. I have my fruit bowl overflowing with fruits no one has eaten. I have a fridge that needs to be cleaned out. I have two loaves of homemade banana bread sitting on my stove. I am lucky. I am also lucky that I am in a position to go out and make sandwiches on a Wednesday night so that someone else can eat.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
On the Holidays
In my family, its not Christmas without sausage balls and bourbon balls. We also like cheese balls. Really, anything in a ball shape is great for us. Easy to pop in the mouth. Sausage balls are a combination of biscuit mix, cheese and spicy sausage that my mom pops in the oven on Christmas morning when its time to finally lure us out of bed (with the exception of my niece and nephew and my parents - I'll let the age jokes make themselves - we like to sleep in). Because the celebration this year was small, just John and I and my parents, she had apparently threatened not to make them. She'd had a hectic year, and hadn't even had time to wrap presents when we arrived on Christmas Eve. My father pouted his way into more sausage balls, and when told the story, I strongly seconded him. They're great breakfast food for a busy morning. They're made ahead and frozen, then popped in the oven. They reheat easily, and they're great grazing. Besides, I don't remember a Christmas without them. I can barely remember Christmases when I wouldn't yet eat them, silly thing that I was, but I can't conceive of going without them. I mean, what would we have eaten? More of the 3 loaves of various breads my mother had made? Surely not.
Even though this year I was suffering from some ailment that, according to the ER, "might be your gallbladder, but the ultrasound is clear," I insisted on participating in the sausage ball experience. We get a plate of them, warm them up (they've inevitably gone cold by the time we get downstairs), grab a mug of something hot, and curl up on the couch, waiting for the first person to break and insist on presents. That person is usually my mother. Christmas presents with my parents are always reasonable - there's no overkill - and so with only 4 of us, and with my presents to family being stuck somewhere in post office hell, the opening didn't take long. We snacked on sausage balls while waiting for lunch to heat.
The sausage balls are spicy and cheesy and a little greasy, kind of like a series of tiny bites of a really good breakfast sandwich. The bourbon balls are nuts, bourbon, cocoa and sugar (there may be a little flour in there). They too are made ahead, and left in the fridge to age (slowly get stronger tasting). The ongoing joke about the bourbon balls is that my parents, especially my mother, don't drink, but there is always a fifth of Jim Beam in the house for making bourbon balls. My mother would deny it, but once, during a particularly sleepless night, she called and asked if taking a shot would help her sleep. I advised her against it.
There are always a variety of cookies and deserts, and there's always chex mix, but bourbon balls are definitely a constant. They are an acquired taste (I once offered one to a 15 year old cousin and the face he made upon tasting the bourbon was priceless. It was a little test to see if he was drinking too much, and I guess he passed). They're also easy little sweets that unlike much Christmas candy don't make your teeth ache with sugar. Like sausage balls, the sharp nutty sweetness of bourbon balls marks the season.
One of my other favorite Christmas traditions that I have thus far managed to arrange my holidays so as not to miss is Day After Breakfast at my husband's aunt's home. For those of you not familiar with the joys of the breakfast casserole, I am very sorry. There are a series of casseroles every year, some constant and some changing. John's favorites include the breakfast enchiladas stuffed with ham, green onions, eggs and cheese and topped with enchilada sauce (duh), and the egg and sausage casserole. This year there was a new quiche (massive though it was) with red and green peppers that my mother in law raved about, and a steak and cheese casserole that the cousins strongly urged repeats on, but what these people don't know is that I've been at this a long time, and their casseroles are nothing compared to the hashbrown casserole the aunt makes. Oh heaven. You know how I feel about potatoes (if you're new here, you should read that entry, it's one of my favorites). But this is more: this is potatoes and cheese and other things that remain a mystery because refusing to give me the recipe is one way to be sure I come back to get my Christmas fix and therefore spend some holiday time with the family. I'm sure it's cream of something (chicken? celery?) soup, and some measurements of cheese that measure in pounds, but combined together, its truly fantastic. I usually take a cursory taste of one or two of the other casseroles spread out in front of us like some kind of test, or some kind of offering, but I really see no reason to divert my loyalties or appetites when I know what is going to make me feel happy and full. From my first invite to breakfast, I have raved loudly over this casserole, firmly planting it as my favorite in the aunt's mind. Through all those tense years, when no one was sure if they liked me, or if they were allowed to like me, when I knew that relaxing and being myself would be the worse thing I could do, that casserole stood as a beacon, a common ground. I could always be trusted to have a healthy appetite, and the aunt could always be trusted to feed me potatoes on the day after the most stressful day of the year.
This year she was sick, and we missed her. As we're all on great terms now, I felt very sad, but was touched when the casseroles were delivered by a friend, who said that the aunt had made a point of including and identifying the hashbrown casserole. "Don't forget that one," she had said. "That's Kate's favorite."
Even though this year I was suffering from some ailment that, according to the ER, "might be your gallbladder, but the ultrasound is clear," I insisted on participating in the sausage ball experience. We get a plate of them, warm them up (they've inevitably gone cold by the time we get downstairs), grab a mug of something hot, and curl up on the couch, waiting for the first person to break and insist on presents. That person is usually my mother. Christmas presents with my parents are always reasonable - there's no overkill - and so with only 4 of us, and with my presents to family being stuck somewhere in post office hell, the opening didn't take long. We snacked on sausage balls while waiting for lunch to heat.
The sausage balls are spicy and cheesy and a little greasy, kind of like a series of tiny bites of a really good breakfast sandwich. The bourbon balls are nuts, bourbon, cocoa and sugar (there may be a little flour in there). They too are made ahead, and left in the fridge to age (slowly get stronger tasting). The ongoing joke about the bourbon balls is that my parents, especially my mother, don't drink, but there is always a fifth of Jim Beam in the house for making bourbon balls. My mother would deny it, but once, during a particularly sleepless night, she called and asked if taking a shot would help her sleep. I advised her against it.
There are always a variety of cookies and deserts, and there's always chex mix, but bourbon balls are definitely a constant. They are an acquired taste (I once offered one to a 15 year old cousin and the face he made upon tasting the bourbon was priceless. It was a little test to see if he was drinking too much, and I guess he passed). They're also easy little sweets that unlike much Christmas candy don't make your teeth ache with sugar. Like sausage balls, the sharp nutty sweetness of bourbon balls marks the season.
One of my other favorite Christmas traditions that I have thus far managed to arrange my holidays so as not to miss is Day After Breakfast at my husband's aunt's home. For those of you not familiar with the joys of the breakfast casserole, I am very sorry. There are a series of casseroles every year, some constant and some changing. John's favorites include the breakfast enchiladas stuffed with ham, green onions, eggs and cheese and topped with enchilada sauce (duh), and the egg and sausage casserole. This year there was a new quiche (massive though it was) with red and green peppers that my mother in law raved about, and a steak and cheese casserole that the cousins strongly urged repeats on, but what these people don't know is that I've been at this a long time, and their casseroles are nothing compared to the hashbrown casserole the aunt makes. Oh heaven. You know how I feel about potatoes (if you're new here, you should read that entry, it's one of my favorites). But this is more: this is potatoes and cheese and other things that remain a mystery because refusing to give me the recipe is one way to be sure I come back to get my Christmas fix and therefore spend some holiday time with the family. I'm sure it's cream of something (chicken? celery?) soup, and some measurements of cheese that measure in pounds, but combined together, its truly fantastic. I usually take a cursory taste of one or two of the other casseroles spread out in front of us like some kind of test, or some kind of offering, but I really see no reason to divert my loyalties or appetites when I know what is going to make me feel happy and full. From my first invite to breakfast, I have raved loudly over this casserole, firmly planting it as my favorite in the aunt's mind. Through all those tense years, when no one was sure if they liked me, or if they were allowed to like me, when I knew that relaxing and being myself would be the worse thing I could do, that casserole stood as a beacon, a common ground. I could always be trusted to have a healthy appetite, and the aunt could always be trusted to feed me potatoes on the day after the most stressful day of the year.
This year she was sick, and we missed her. As we're all on great terms now, I felt very sad, but was touched when the casseroles were delivered by a friend, who said that the aunt had made a point of including and identifying the hashbrown casserole. "Don't forget that one," she had said. "That's Kate's favorite."
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