One last Christmas story for the road

New Years Eve on Alki Beach
The destination to burn your tree.

Oh shit, Christmas. Every year. I hate to say it, but I collapsed during the "move on with your life" dance. Yea, I redecorated my Christmas tree this week. It just needed a little more jazz in the right places, and a little industrial rock in others.

Probably time to take this one down.

 I've chanced to walk by a few trees being callously dismantled by shopkeepers, witnessed a tree burning on New Years Eve, and then realized my uncle had given me some of my grandmother's antique ornaments, and knew they needed a little airing out. So, I wrenched my tree from its swampy stand and lay it gently on its side on the balcony. I was short a chainsaw, so for the next 20 minutes I hacked at the trunk (humming a lil' Ænema) with a hatchet to free it from its moisture seal. It had ceased to absorb the strict regiment of liquid vitamin supplements I administer weekly to keep it looking perky and was starting to smell a little too fragrant, if not a little dank. Back on its feet and newly adorned, my tree has the second chance it deserves, and I can listen to Ella's Swinging Christmas all over again.

With a little Christmas revival, it's got me thinking of all the gifts I've received, not only this Christmas, but all throughout the years. The best Christmas gift I ever received was a 2-step process, somewhere around my sixth or seventh year. Step one: As I approached the tree Christmas morning I found only a note, explaining that there had been a glitch the night before and some elf was getting suspended, (I hoped tortured), for the mix-up. Due to the alarming frequency of this problem, my gift would soon be in transit and should arrive shortly by some new, "special" unorthodox delivery method. My parents, while sympathetic, offered no advice as to how this may be avoided next year so I spent the few days retracing my steps and figuring out how I might be less-noticeably naughty in the coming year. Step two: Mere days before New Years, I received the call. My dad had received a large, bulbous parcel at work, which was across town and I'd have to wait the rest of the day to get it.

Oh God, the waiting. Unparalleled to this day, I still experience the taste every Christmas, something I squelch and cover with good cheer and concentrated sessions of deep breathing. During the rest of the year, this is probably identified as clinical anxiety.

When the time came, I emerged from my room, a study in calm, and approached a towering, butcher paper-wrapped pile. I'd waited so long, where to begin? Tear at the seams? Stab through an air pocket and rip from there? There was a measured amount of Gonzo-like apprehension and appraisal before I made my first move.

Dad. 1935-1999.

I really don't remember how it went down. I think I may have blacked out and woke up wheezing on a bed of hot wheels race track, Disney's Robin Hood, various toys and movies, and one of those race car vhs rewinders that pops up its hood to reveal a kindly rewound tape. Despite the snafu, it remains one of my most memorable Christmases, and Santa's letter, a tome curiously scripted in familiar handwriting, is still in a box somewhere, inviting me to relive it all again. Miss you, Dad.
                                  *                                *                              *

This week, in effort to curb my holiday-inspired dependency on sugar and other bad words, I've taken this party bus back to the kitchen. Surrounded by homey comforts of dish towels, cutting boards and reality, I'm trying to get back in the swing of eating with some self control. So I have taken to averting my eyes when I open the pantry and glimpse the last of our Harry & David supply, and remember fondly the day I made the decision to eat as much of the pies as I dared, and fed the rest to the compost bin. It was gross. But I'm on the other side and on the road to recovery now, making wholesome meals by day but still dreaming of sugarplums by night. One day at a time. I'm hitting some jelly beans pretty hard right now. (-) In my tracksuit. (+!)

We had some leftover smoked salmon, which almost got devoured on its own but I saved the last precious flakes for an omelet. Do try this at home, I'd love to offer a photo, but there really was no time between leaving the pan and setting my fork down. More on omelets, later, as they're my specialitee.

There's a vegetarian tikka masala I've been resurrecting a lot, both for its quick prep time and spectacular flavor (even without the cardamom, cabbage & peas), a sweet potato and apple puree I've been snacking on, banana & flaxseed smoothies here and there and of course the latest craze, Butternut Squash and potato gnocchi. Though I sub veg stock for the chicken, and ignore the chestnuts, (Tyler Florence gets a little bourgeois sometimes) (please feel free to read that as boo-zhee) this dish comes out winning every time. Oh, check it out! Doing the work of at least 3 bulky appliances, is my highly coveted Cuisinart Immersion Blender. Easy to use, easy to clean, and a whiz at slicing up your tongue when you try to lick the dregs out of it's blade well. A housewarming gift (THANK YOU BILL & CECILIA) from last year, not a day goes by that I don't wonder what I'll blend next.

So, if you have:

You can have:

And that's good to have.

The Dine of the Week: 

Thanks to Noms.in/seattle for your pic

We traveled north Friday night to Naked City, a taphouse serving a rotating selection of house beers and regional shining stars. I started with a Lips of Passion Prickly Passion Saison, an 8.5% New Belgium creation I wouldn't expect to see bottled too soon, though during the summer months I think it could enjoy fleeting stardom in stores, as long as it's competitively priced alongside Kona's Wailua Wheat Ale. Next I ordered Snipes' Christmas Creep, a 6% brown ale heightened with spices and a quiet winter night's hops, not too sweet. An all-American, balanced taste with deep Christmas tones, like me. Check out their website if you're local, it'll lure you in. Matt Norton, you'll love this place.