Saturday, Christmas, December 25, 2010. Spaghetti And Meatballs And Guacamole For Christmas. We go every year to Mary Ann's big sister's house for Christmas, and I always bring a major dessert. Usually it's a cheesecake, but this year one of Mary Ann's prime motivators entered the consideration. She found several bags of hot dog buns in the freezer while excavating yesterday's prime rib. And half a quart of egg nog. "Make egg nog bread pudding," she ordered.
I was up at seven to get started on this. I can make bread pudding with my eyes closed, but this would be a challenge. All those frozen buns were, after being thawed, too fresh to absorb any of the custard. Making fresh bread stale takes at least an hour: 200 degrees in the oven with the convection feature turned on.
And another problem. Mary Ann doesn't know the difference between a quart of half-and-half and a pint. I asked for the former, and she brought home the latter. (Not for the first time.) We are low on milk, to boot. She would not countenance a trip to the store to fill this gap. She thinks all stores should be closed on Christmas, and if they don't she'll fix them for not listening to her by staying away.
Against these odds I made the pudding and baked it at 225 degrees for two hours. That makes it very light. I let it cool to just tepid, then slathered the top with nutmeg-flavored meringue, and baked it again at 350 degrees until the meringue browned. This was my mother's most distinctive kitchen non-conformity, and I love it.
Our young adults (every time I call them kids it sounds less accurate than the time before) finally arose at ten. What a contrast! When they really were kids, they got the whole house up at five-thirty, in the dark, to open presents. This motivation is lessened now, because most of the presents under the tree were for me. How did that happen?
This may be the biggest load of gifts I've received since I was nine or so. An antique-style combination radio, phonograph, cassette player and CD player-recorded was the best prize. I've looked at this Crosley for years, but couldn't bring myself to pay $400 for such a frivolous gizmo. But the price had come down to $128, and that fact alone made it a glowing prospect for Mary Ann. I will have a good time moving my hundreds of LPs and cassettes to CDs with this thing.
At an art show a few months ago, Mary Ann saw a fountain pen she thought exquisite. I am not a fountain pen collector, but I am a very avid fountain pen user. This one is big, heavy, and made largely of wood. Now all I have to do is find a filler or cartridges for it. Mary Ann forgot to ask the guy for those, and they are non-standard.
Also in the load were four bags of flavored coffees, a USB flash drive shaped like a key from Jude, and a box of Ebony pencils (my favorite kind!) from Mary Leigh. What? No ties?
Jude scored well too, with two sets of cookware for his new house. (Which has a Viking range.) He also received various skin "products." He laughed at this, because he just read a book about how to be a man, in which was this advice: "If you know what the word 'exfoliate' means, you're missing a testicle. If you actually do exfoliate, you're missing two of them." Mary Leigh doesn't have to worry about this, and seemed to be happy with a great many of grooming items from Santa. Mary Ann insists on getting nothing, and before Christmas sends out many checks to organizations that help pathetic people around the world. I did buy her something, though: a book about someone I despise but whom she loves. Problem: I hid it, but can't remember where!
Okay. When will we go to Mass? "Noon," said Mary Ann. I don't think there is a noon Mass, I said. "No, we checked, and there is." Okay. We left the house at eleven-thirty. There were no cars parked around the church. Nobody ever listens to me.
So we kept going, to Kenner and Mary Ann's sister Sylvia's house. She has hosted Christmas dinner there almost every year since her parents--who lived a block away--gave it up as too strenuous. But Sylvia's husband died year before last, and now she is selling the house and moving soon. This is the last Christmas here, and the last time the Connell family will have Christmas in the Westgate neighborhood. The first time was 1958.
About twenty people ate spaghetti and meatballs, shrimp mold, guacamole, smoked salmon, and eggnog bread pudding. I believe this was the first time such a menu has been served in the history of the world.
The thing that always gets me about this gathering is that the little kids who were present on my first experience with the Connells are all grown up now. Some have had their own kids, and they were there to add that essential Christmas element. But Sylvia's son Gary compiled a bunch of old videotapes onto a CD, which he now displayed on a big screen. Everyone was amused, astonished, or aghast at the images of all those much younger people with hair still on their heads, dozens of pounds less avoirdupois on their frames, far fewer wrinkles, or no secondary sexual characteristics.
We left this warm home and all the memories it holds well after dark, probably never to return. This is where we had the only white Christmas of our lives, in 2004. We used to drive around looking at Christmas lights on our way home, including a pass by Al Copeland's mansion. But Al's gone now, his lights are gone, and his house is gone, too.
