If anyone’s irresponsible enough to tell their kids that Santa’s coming to town in 2020, I just hope they update that creative lie by incorporating how Santa’s visiting everyone’s homes safely during the plague. Of course, the beauty of lies is that they aren’t confined to the truth, so there’s a lot of room for invention.
Unfortunately, there was a superspreading Santa who infected about 50 people at a mall. Just in time for the holidays! Even people who attempted to evoke the spirit of Christmas by mailing off packages early were thwarted. The combination of “monster snow storms,” as nearly every news station called it and the “mission of the century,” another media-spun appellation, which actually referred to the coronavirus vaccine distribution, slowed down the delivery of Christmas packages.
At least I still got my Christmas cooking on.
This was the first time in decades that I was not home for the holidays, so I actually looked up some Christmasy recipes for a change of pace. First up: Butternut Brussels Cranberries and Pecans. Seriously. The main ingredients were all in the recipe name. The worst part was cutting up my hand to dice up that squash. The sacrifice was worth it, though. I baked all the veggies, toasted the pecans in a skillet and put it all together when the veggies were ready.
Next up: Roasted Beet Salad.
The star of this dish had to be washed, rubbed in olive oil, sprinkled with kosher salt then roasted in the oven for nearly an hour. Beets are unattractive vegetables that are absolutely beautiful when cut up. Since I’d worked with them before, I knew to cut them up in the metal baking pan rather than on my plastic cutting board. I mixed fresh squeezed lemon juice with fresh cracked black pepper and toasted sesame seed oil. Then tossed in the baby spinach, carrots, added the beets, and sprinkled feta on top. I loved the beautiful colors. Everything slowly turned purple as I ate this salad.
Technically, I could have logged on to work on Christmas Eve, but why should I tempt Christians to cuss me out? Instead, I got in on some of the cursing myself during my attempt to make figgy pudding, which turned out to be a cake, not pudding–damn Brits! The misnaming of the dessert was the tip of the annoyance iceberg. The aggravation continued as I hand chopped the figs, which stuck to the knife. If I ever make this recipe again, I’ll complete this step the day before and follow Mom’s advice to use scissors instead of a knife.
Grinding the cinnamon and nutmeg, followed by grating the orange peel were comparative walks in the park, but chopping up two mini croissants taxed my hand since it was already pre-fatigued from the figs. The rest of the batter came together easily.
Until I poured it into the bundt pan, which sat in a deep baking pan. Since I had to create a hot water bath, I transferred six cups of hot tap water, two cups at a time, into the pan. Then, lucky me had to lift that entire weighty apparatus and place it into the oven–for 2 hours!
I sipped honey-flavored Jim Beam as I waited for it to slowly cook.
Originally, I needed any ol’ whiskey in order to make the hard sauce. I bought canned salted caramel frosting and mixed in the Jim Beam. Pure perfection. Of course I added a wee too much alcohol for a frosting texture, but certain not too much for the taste nor a “saucy” texture.
By the time the cake was done, I was too anxious to try it.
I waited the requisite 10 minutes before removing it from the bundt pan, but I didn’t bother to let it cool before adding the drunken sauce. Rarely do I encounter a visual hot mess. Again, the two together were delicious. I transferred the cake to another plate, poured the sauce back into a container and placed both into the refrigerator.
In the meantime, the poinsettia chocolate cake I ordered for my parents, my sister and her son, arrived safely on Christmas Eve.
They reported that it smelled and tasted as delicious as it looks, which was a good thing given how much that edible beauty cost!
I had my Christmas morning all planned out, which is why it went sideways straight out of the gates. What was supposed to happen was a virtual 8 AM yoga class, hop in the shower, start my breakfast hash brown casserole, then jump on a Zoom call with my family. What actually happened was 15 minutes into my yoga class, the electricity went out, taking my internet connection with it. Since I’ve been doing Bikram for about 20 years, I knew the routine by heart, but human interaction was gone.
I’d just started to put away my yoga things and gear myself up for a potential cold shower.
Like a Christmas miracle, the electricity returned. I postponed my shower in order to make the casserole. Fortunately, this recipe merely consisted of stirring the ingredients together and grating cheese. Very low prep stuff. I popped the casserole into the oven, then hopped into the shower.
I joined the family Christmas Zoom call a few minutes late, but I didn’t turn on my camera. I don’t like eating over Zoom and I dislike when people, ie Mom, questions about what she sees in the background, which was why I normally sit in my massage chair that has a wall behind it. I ignored requests to turn on my camera before I was ready. As a matter of fact, I had sent a warning text that I’d join the call 30 late since the electricity had cut. Not a soul seemed concerned about that. Nor the fact that I’d managed to join the call sooner than I’d originally anticipated given the electricity hiccup.
I mostly listened in to the call, muting myself while I was eating, washing the dishes and brushing my teeth. By the time I finally turned my camera on, one of my sisters kept trying to wrap the call up. One of my previous complaints during our Thanksgiving family Zoom call was how early it took place. Since they’re all on the East Coast and I’m in Central time, they get an extra hour to get their acts together. Nonetheless, we still started the call at the same damn time. Then, all the sports fans bid their good byes and caught whichever game enticed them off the family call.
On Boxing Day, I packed up a magazine, my favorite specialty wine and leftover breakfast casserole and had lunch with a friend, her husband and fur babies.
This beautiful display was the only time during this whole holiday season I was in the same room with a Christmas tree. All the others I’d only seen on TV.
Ten months under quarantine, but at least I survived long enough to see another Christmas. Perhaps “Santa” will eventually bring my presents, which were sent mid-December. Either way, Rona nor The Grinch has not stolen my Christmas–the spirit of Christmas as been inside me this whole time. At least that’s what all the seasonal movies have told me.