Eighteen Days Before Christmas And Top On My List? Greasing The Track.

It’s 10 p.m. Chez Wiles, and not a creature is stirring.

Unless, of course, you count Lionel, our Napoleon-complex-afflicted feline, who is stalking and pouncing on what, given the season, I imagine to be a few stray, zippy and unusually aggressive elves, who are leading a frantic chase through the living room and into the dining room.  And back into the living room.  And into the dining room.  This cat is in constant need of conquest.  This morning, he managed to track down and slay a blue gel ice pack, which Snarky Son (SS) left on the floor.  (Don’t get me started.)  That poor, floppy ice pack never knew what hit it.  I did, though, thanks to a trail of azure goo.

Likewise, Josie the rescue dog, despite utter exhaustion, can barely doze for more than 30 minutes at a stretch, thanks to regular holiday visits from those three men bearing gifts:  the FedEx man, the UPS man and the mailman.  Oh --  perhaps those bouts of explosive diarrhea could be disrupting her sleep pattern, as well.  After two nights of, well, do I have to describe it?  Can't I just say -- thanks to baby gates -- it was confined to the kitchen?  Anyhow, I finally decided to dose her up on Benefiber and now can’t decide:  Was that caring, controlling or comical?

Let’s not forget SS, who, being deprived of his cell phone and Facebook during exam prep, has resorted to enthusiastically pounding, drumming and thumping on whatever piece of upstairs furniture is immediately over my head, no matter where I am downstairs.  He says it helps him study.  I say even the cast from Stomp couldn’t study with that commotion.  This, after I insisted that a person can't study effectively while talking on the phone.  Or while reading a book.  Or while “listening” on the phone.  That’s right. New rule. No studying while listening on the phone.  Not even on speaker phone.

Darling Daughter (DD), blessedly, has been asleep for over an hour.  I wish it were because she is living up to her reputation as the “Golden Child,” but the sad truth is that she may be coming down with something. She crawled into bed and collapsed well before her usual bedtime tonight, and I've lost count of the number of times I crept upstairs to gently lay an anxious hand on her forehead.

We’re all a little out of sorts right now.  SS is facing his first exam week as a high schooler.  DD, a middle schooler, only has one exam, but it’s also a first for her.  DD’s first basketball game of the season is this Saturday, too.  SS is anticipating driver’s ed instruction later this month.

On top of that, we've got to figure out The Schedule -- who's where and when for the next few weeks -- never a pleasant or easy task for the kids of divorced parents.  And oh yeah, it’s Christmas time, too.  Sigh.

Yep.  We’ve got plenty on our plates, and I know full well what my job is in times like these:  I grease the track.

My job is to make things easy.  To make sure that favorite jeans are clean, favorite snacks are on hand and friendly adults -- repeatedly asking the inocuous "Are you ready for Christmas? -- are fended off.

Likewise, I try to choose meals that are filling, nutritious and, most important, non-controversial.  This is not the time to try out that Julia Child boeuf bourgignon recipe.  Nope. I’m looking for tried and true and loved.  Pasta will surely be playing a leading role these next couple of weeks, with the beloved sausage pasta taking center stage, but tonight, it was meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  And stockings hung with care.

Best Ever Meatloaf

What makes this meatloaf particularly flavorful is the mix of meats.  The recipe makes two loaves, so I cook both, and then, freeze one for dinner at another time.

1 onion, chopped

1 rib celery, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 pound ground beef

1 pound ground veal

1 pound ground pork

2 eggs

½ cup dried bread crumbs (I use panko)

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

¼ cup cream (or milk)

¼ cup minced parsley (unless you’re greasing the track at your own house, then omit, because it’s gross)

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon dried oregano

fresh ground pepper

In a large skillet, sautee onion and celery in olive oil over medium heat.  When vegetables are translucent and slightly browned, stir in garlic, and cook another few minutes, or until garlic is fragrant.  Remove pan from heat.

In a large mixing bowl, combine meats with your hands, using a light touch.  Mix in (still using your hands) eggs, bread crumbs and remaining ingredients, including vegetables.  If you'd like to check for season (and I do), take a tablespoon or so of the meat mixture, flatten into a patty and brown quickly in a skillet.  Taste, and add additional seasoning to the meat mixture as needed.

Divide mixture in half, and shape into two loaves, placing each into a loaf pan.  Bake, in a preheated 350 oven for about 1 hour.  Check for doneness by poking with a skewer or toothpick.  When juices run clear (not pink), meatloaves are ready.  Remove from oven and allow to rest 15 minutes before slicing and serving.

Where Would We Be Without God, Spiderman Underwear and Bacon Bloody Marys?

Some 12 years ago, when Snarky Son (SS) was merely Sweet Son, his preschool class made a Thanksgiving “tree.”  Each child came home clutching a six-inch green felt leaf and was given the assignment of decorating it with a picture of something for which the child felt grateful.  SS didn’t hesitate.  His thankfulness was both sincere and well-placed.  For God.  And Spiderman underpants. 

I think – and laugh – about that every November.  Make no mistake, there are many blessings in my life and I am thankful beyond words for my family and friends, my health and happiness, my faith and freedom, and my country and the honorable men and women who make it a safe home for me and mine.  I can’t even begin to express my gratitude for these life-altering blessings, despite the many times our family has attempted the “write down what you’re thankful for” game at Thanksgiving dinner.

Even so, at this time of year, I can’t help but think of the other blessings in my life, including:

•  My mother and the scales in her guest bathroom.  Mom’s scales are consistently set back about five pounds.  What a gift to any guest silly enough to step on before a holiday meal.  These scales are practically a signed permission slip to head back to the buffet for more mashed potatoes and gravy.  Or just gravy.  And maybe some macaroni and cheese.  For this, I am grateful.

•  Folly River oysters.  OMG.  Salty.  Succulent.  Slurp-worthy.  Dang.  Does anyone know how to clean drool off a keyboard?  For that, I would also be grateful.

•  Christmas music.  For 47 years now, I’ve practically made a career of mangling lyrics.  It was 25 years before I realized that, in Dream On, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith was not crooning “sing women,” but instead “sing with me."  And it turns out that Jimmy Buffett stepped on a poptop in Margaritaville.  Not a Poptart.  Christmas music, mercifully, inundates our eardrums 24/7 for some 45-60 consecutive days of the year.  We begin chanting it before we begin kindergarten.  And we never have to learn new songs or lyrics.  It’s the same.  Every.  Single.  Year.  Perfect for a lyric-impaired-learner (LPL) like me.  For this, I am grateful.

•  Turkey roasted in a brown paper bag.  For details, see “Folly River oysters” above.

•  Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  But I digress.

•  Cell phones.  The only reason this might not make my children’s top five list is because I’m constantly marveling at the ways I can use my cell phone and pointing out to the kids that “back in the day” (not when dinosaurs roamed the earth, but perhaps, sabertoothed tigers), we didn’t even have cordless phones.  We were tethered to the wall – usually in the most popular room in the house – which made those tearful “I know, but WHY are you breaking up with me?” calls all the more painful.  Nowadays, I don’t know how to complete a shopping trip without someone calling me to ask, “Are you still at the store?  Well, can you go back and get some whole cloves/limeade/shoe insole inserts?”  For technology, I am grateful.

•  Food.  I know, it sounds as if I’m about to revisit that whole oyster, turkey, doughnut thing, but my point here is different.  It’s variety I’m talking about.  I still marvel over the fact that there are now some three dozen options in my local Harris Teeter for salad greens.  And you no longer have to purchase parsley in dessicated little flakes, fluttering in a jar suitable for a urine sample.  Fresh is available year-round.  And does anyone else remember the days when there were three types of peas, and all were canned?  Green Giant.  Le Sueur.  And the tragically labeled Generic.

Yep.  I’m plenty grateful.  And grateful to have so many things to be grateful for.  Like this crazy good Bacon Bloody Mary.  Not as giggle-worthy as Spiderman underwear, perhaps, but still, I am grateful.

Bacon Bloody Mary
Note that you have to begin this a couple of weeks in advance – but it’s worth it!  Would make a great holiday hostess gift, too.

Pepper Bacon Vodka
4 cups good quality vodka
1 teaspoon peppercorns
12 strips of bacon, cooked ‘til crisp and drained
1/4 teaspoon Liquid Smoke

Combine all ingredients in a glass pitcher.  Cover and keep in a dark, cool place, allowing it to steep for two to four weeks.  Strain through cheesecloth (or a coffee filter) before serving.  (Discard peppercorns and bacon.)

Bloody Mary Mix
46-ounce bottle V8 juice, chilled
2 cups Pepper Bacon Vodka
Juice of six limes
¼ cup prepared horseradish
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
½ teaspoon celery seeds

Garnish
Crisp strips of bacon
Lime wedges
Celery sticks

Combine all ingredients in a large pitcher.  Stir well, and serve over ice, garnishing with bacon, etc.

The Day Before The Night Before Thanksgiving, And We’re All A Little Bit Nuts

For our family, no holiday is as draped in tradition as Thanksgiving.

Most obvious, there’s the food – eagerly anticipated and unfailingly abundant.  Then, there are the activities:  truly, there’s an unsettling sense that the earth might violently split open and gulp us down whole if we didn’t shuck oysters at Dad's on Wednesday, or whine about driving through the Festival of Lights after the Thursday feast, or slip out way before dawn to shop with Super Sis on Black Friday. 

There’s the music, too.  From this moment through December 25, only holiday music (and variations thereof, including, but not limited to, anything that’s ever been heard on a Peanuts television show) will blare in my car.  And should Darling Daughter and Snarky Son complain, (as they will even before their seatbelts are buckled), I’ll also sing.  Loudly.  Enthusiastically.  Off-key.  With no respect for actual lyrics.

We are also proud defenders of the “I forgot my toothbrush” tradition – which usually isn’t even acknowledged until a good 48 hours after we hit I-77.  There’s a variation of this at Thanksgiving dinner as well.  Just after we’ve said the blessing and everyone has been served, Mom will announce, “I forgot the rolls/salad/cranberry sauce.”  And we'll all be thinking the same thing: “For the love of Pete.  I don’t want any rolls/salad/cranberry sauce.  But lookey there, I can make extra space if I just shove this marshmallowed sweet potato casserole on top of that molded lime gelatin salad.”

All of this, of course, follows the decades-old tradition of pulling the turkey from the fridge and remarking, with great surprise, “Hmmph.  This turkey is still frozen!”  Come on.  I don’t care what it says on the label --  no self-respecting turkey can thaw after two nights in a refrigerator.  Sadly for our family, we can only remember that fact once a year -- Thanksgiving Day -- and no sooner.

Throughout the weekend, our family will also remain entrenched in the fine tradition of picking up other people’s full drinks and claiming them as our own.  Until, of course, that drink is sucked down below the ice line (or, if a beer, below the coozie line), at which time it’s necessary to subtly abandon that drink and claim someone else’s.  I actually tried to “remedy” this tradition one year, by handpainting our names on a set of glasses.  Didn’t work.  The glasses were pretty, though.

The best Thanksgiving tradition of all, though, is the stories.

I'm not certain, but in the TV shows I’ve seen, other families don’t engage in the full-on, get-down-and-dirty tattletaling we revel in.

There’s nothing like those “remember the time?” dinner stories that leave your face streaked with tears, your hands clutching your freshly fattened sides, and your eyes darting wildly about to make sure the kids didn’t catch the details and innuendoes.  Most of the stories are about us growing up, but there are gracious plenty about the adults we knew back in the 70s, too.  The way we see it is, “Hey, if you don’t want us to talk about you, then you ought to drag yourself to Thanksgiving.”

Nah.  That’s a lie.  Everyone is fair game whether they're here or not.  But if you were here, at least you could defend yourself.  Or distract everyone with a story about someone else.  (And no, I’d rather not hear yet another re-telling of the night the bridge was stuck and the parents couldn't get home after work and we teenagers were left to our own devices.  I was young, OK?  And stupid.)

I guess we’re all kind of nuts.  But it’s not just the time of year.  It’s just us.  And oddly enough, we all look forward to it.  Just like these Sugar and Spiced Pecans.

Here’s to family.  And traditions -- even those that are a little bit nuts.

Sugar and Spiced Pecans

2 egg whites

1 tablespoon water

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups sugar

4 teaspoons cinnamon

2 teaspoons nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne

2 pounds pecan halves

Beat egg whites, water and salt until frothy, but not stiff.  Stir in sugar and spices.  Add pecans and mix until all nuts are coated.

Spread on cookie sheets sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake in a 225 degree oven for one hour or until dry, stirring every 15 minutes.  Separate nuts and let cool.  Store in resealable freezer bags.  Can be made 3-4 days in advance.