I’m packing up Santa’s sleigh and heading out for the holiday — first Xmas Eve pizza with my favorite pack of little kids, then down valley where my beloved sweetheart will be cooking a turkey at the cabin. We have half a foot of new sparkly fluffy snow, and for the first time in too many years, I’ll be waking up in a house that isn’t empty. Which is all the Christmas present I need …
Here’s hoping all of you have a wonderful holiday as well …
My new essay for Culinate was posted this morning. The Croquembouche that saved Christmas (faithful readers might remember): My inner Child — A Christmas to remember : Culinate.
My new column is up at Bookslut:
It wouldn’t be Christmas without a pile of big and fancy cookbooks just waiting to be wrapped in pretty paper and hidden under the tree. Cookbooks are one of my very favorite gifts — especially for the way they encourage people to invite one over for dinner. …
It’s now the beginning of December and I’m starting to think about Christmas boxes. For most people on my list, I recycle books I’ve read this year, and send homemade edible goodies — we’re all grownups, and we all have too much stuff, and my ideal Christmas is one where there isn’t much Stuff at the end of it.
I was watching Martha today, and her Miniature Golden Fruitcakes looked wonderful — I spent a semester in Ireland as an undergrad, and I loved English Christmas Cakes — heavy with fruit and booze with that snappy white hard frosting on them. I made a version last year, and people seemed to like them, so I’m thinking this year I’ll try this recipe I saw today.
But what else? I didn’t do a lot of canning this summer because most of our fruit crops failed … so cookies? cheese biscuits? another batch of paté?
What are you making for people for Christmas? Chime in in the comments …
I have a personal theory about Jane Austen, which is that they should immediately stop teaching her to high school students, and perhaps even college students. Jane Austen can only properly be appreciated when you’re old enough to have really messed something up, when you know that sick-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach feeling that comes from a truly missed opportunity, when you understand that you can, indeed, really mess up your own life. Then Jane Austen’s books open up, and become magnificent. That she’s considered a rom-com writer makes me apoplectic.
I’ve never been that obsessed with biographical detail, but I thought this article in the Guardian was really interesting: Cause of Jane Austen’s death not universally acknowledged | Books | The Guardian.
TB from cattle. Makes a lot of sense to me — but perhaps that’s because I live surrounded by lots and lots of cattle.