Santa Is Psychic

I know, I know. Christmas was WEEKS ago and who wants to talk about it anymore? Me, of course, because the celebration never ends at G.C.!

In addition to his frankly creepy ability to see you when you're sleeping (really now--that's just freaky) and his knowledge of whether you've been bad or good, the portly gent in the red suit can also divine the future. And I know this because of a little something good ole Santy Clause left in my stocking.

Christmas morning I discovered a cute little basket had been left for me by the jolly fat man. Santa's Little Helper (a.k.a. the MiL) explained that it was for collecting eggs when the chickens started laying them. So I laid the basket aside (okay, so I really left it on the floor by the fireplace, because I forgot about it), figuring I wouldn't need it for months.

And then those tricky little chickens started laying eggs just one week later. Who would have ever guessed that would happen? Apparently, Santa did.

So now, every morning I traipse on out to the chicken coop with my little basket and gather the one brown egg from the nesting box and the one green egg (some breeds of chickens lay green or blue eggs) from the floor because the hen laying the green eggs can't seem to get her act together enough to lay the damn eggs in the box we built just for that purpose and nicely padded with straw. What a moron.

BUT ANYWAY.

Thanks to Santa, I have the perfect little basket for my little eggs.

Isn't that just DARLING?

Thank you, Santa! Now, about this business of seeing me when I'm sleeping . . .

Book Larnin' on G.C.

Good morning, class! Does everyone know what day it is?

I can hear the smart-ass in the back of the (virtual) room going, "Tuesday." Snickersnickersnicker.

Yes, yes. You're all very smart. It is indeed Tuesday. It is also January 6. And does everyone know what that means? It means that Christmas is officially over.

What's that? You thought Christmas was one day in December? Well, that's wrong. In fact, Christmas Day is the beginning of the Twelve Days of Christmas (of partridge-in-a-pear-tree fame) that culminates on Epiphany. Which is today. Which is also known as the Adoration of the Magi, to celebrate the Three Kings (of rubber cigar fame). I've heard that some cultures exchange gifts on Epiphany. How has the relentless marketing machine of American consumerism missed this golden opportunity to guilt people into buying ever-more gifts? Shameful.

Some people hold to the tradition that Christmas decorations should come down on Epiphany. Some people also believe it is bad luck to have the decorations up after Epiphany. I guess that means I'll have bad luck, then, because I'm not going to be getting all our decorations down today.

And just to complete your January 6 education, I will close by saying that Shakespeare's play "Twelfth Night" takes its name from the twelfth night of Christmas, which is also known as Epiphany Eve.

You can all go and impress your co-workers with your knowledge now. Class dismissed.

The Gospel According to Kristin

A couple of weeks ago, I won something on Farmgirl Fare. And I didn't even have to do anything hard, like when I pointed out all the mistakes on Sparkerly. Or when I composed a clever rant on Evil Chef Mom.* Nope, all I had to do was leave a comment about cornbread. I would do that even if I wouldn't win anything as a result. But I did leave a comment, along with about 200 other people. And my name was randomly chosen. My luck was in that day. If only I had bought a lottery ticket . . .

BUT ANYWAY.

What I won was a copy of a book called "The Cornbread Gospels," by Crescent Dragonwagon. First, I must acknowledge what may be the coolest author's name EVER. And then I must admit that I would never have bought this book for myself, because it's so specific. I gravitate more towards the multi-use cookbooks. But this is a very entertaining book, I must say. I like to sit down and read cookbooks like novels, and this is eminently readable. Also educational. For example, I have learned that while I cook cornbread like a Northerner (using flour in addition to cornmeal and adding sugar), I cut it like a Southerner (in wedges).

I am truly a citizen of the world.

The author makes much of the fact that when she was writing the book and told people she was working on a book about cornbread, every person would exclaim about how much they love cornbread. Well, yeah. I think this is true of any kind of freshly baked, homemade bread. But since I am not a baker and am unwilling to deal with yeast in any form, quick breads like biscuits and cornbread are my kind of breads.

So I made some cornbread. I started with the first recipe in the book, because it was pretty straightforward and I felt I should dip a toe in the cornbread waters (fields?) before progressing to anything that requires creamed corn. AND, I screwed up my courage and made it in a cast iron pan. I know very well that is how cornbread is traditionally made, but my mom never made it that way. The couple of times I tried it, there was a distinct taste of rust. But that was when I was using my own, relatively new cast iron pan. But NOW, here at Blackrock, I have the use of A.'s grandmother's cast iron pans. They were a gift when she got married in 1928. Almost a hundred years of frying with lard have had a good seasoning effect. And behold, they created an extra-crispy browned crust, with no taste of rust.

That cut piece went straight down my gullet as soon as this photo was taken.

While I will eat cornbread of many kinds, I have some preferences. I like cakey, slightly sweet cornbread, and I like to eat it with a gluttonous quantity of butter and honey. I suspect I am not alone in that, however.

I have no snappy ending for this post, so just consider the topic of the day to be cornbread, and go to town in the comments. Over and out.

* I seem to win things a lot online. I may try online casinos next.

Compensation

Yeah, Blackrock is cold in the winter, but then there's this:

The view from the front porch makes up for a lot.

Photographic Evidence

You all know Blackrock is cold, right? But you only know that because I've told you that. What if I'm not trustworthy? What if I've been lying to you?

Your lack of faith hurts me.

I have not been lying, and now I have the photo to prove it.

I took this yesterday in the north bedroom. Where, as I have mentioned before, ice forms on the walls in the winter.

I TOLD YOU SO.

Now technically, I suppose that's really frost I scratched that into, not ice. And I can't tell you how cold it actually was in the room at the time because someone (NAMED A.) dropped the thermometer and busted it. But I think you all get the point: It's really, REALLY cold in our house, y'all. Ain't no denyin'. At least in the north bedroom.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hug the woodstove.

Health, Wealth, Happiness, and Damn Good Food

Are you one of the unfortunates who had to go to work today? You know A. did, which means I got up early too, so if you ARE at work, take comfort in the fact that today is not a holiday for me either. Although (I can hear you--and A.--saying now), isn't every day kind of a holiday when you don't have a job? Sure, every day you don't have to shovel the world's longest goddamn driveway BY HAND.

BUT ANYWAY.

Today is not about my many (MANY) impressive feats of strength and endurance--today is about food. Wheee! That's MUCH more fun.

I have already told you that I'm not much for New Year's Eve, but I do have a tradition for New Year's Day that I refuse to relinquish no matter the circumstances. Every New Year's Day since A. and I have been together, I've made the traditional New Year's Day meal to ensure health, wealth, and happiness. This is a Southern tradition, passed along to me by my mom, who is from New Orleans and who I may have referred to as Mama Sue on this site, even though that isn't really what anyone calls her EVER and I'm not really that Southern. I think I may be considered a Southerner once-removed? Whatever, I still make the New Year's Day dinner, because we could all use some more health, wealth, and happiness. Plus, it tastes really damn good.

So. Different areas of the South have different variations on this meal, but Mama Sue's meal always includes pork for health (I know--the irony, right?), greens for wealth, and black-eyed peas for happiness. This year, the pork was a big ole pork loin roast, the greens were a mixture of turnip and collard greens (cooked a LONG TIME, until they're dead--this is no time for crunchy greens), and the black-eyed peas were the ones I always make that are pretty much exactly the same as the red beans and rice, except . . . well, with black-eyed peas instead of red beans.

And you always have to make a whole pot of black-eyed peas, which means you'd better have some guests to help you eat all the food. And also, it's always good to spread the health, wealth, and happiness around. So we had two of the MiL's friends over for dinner (everyone say hi to Mikey-not-the-Life-kid and her husband!). And the MiL made my birthday cake (a chocolate roulade, which is a flourless chocolate cake rolled jelly-roll style around whipped cream--it is the BEST cake in THE WORLD), except we all sang "Happy New Year to All" instead of happy birthday to me. And then we all ate too much. A good time was had by all.

So if you haven't had your health, wealth, and happiness meal yet, you'd better get on that. I can't speak to the effectiveness of it if it's not eaten on New Year's Day, but at the very least, you get to eat pork, greens, and black-eyed peas. That should guarantee you happiness for the duration of the meal, anyway. But as for the health and wealth . . . well, you're on your own for those.

Ringing In the New Year with a Whimper

Happy New Year, duckies! I hope everyone had an exciting, glamorous New Year's Eve! If only to make up for my own lameness.

I've never been a big fan of New Year's Eve. It feels like there's all this pressure. And I don't like pressure. Especially when it results in me staying up past 9 p.m. So we had no plans for last night. Good thing, too, because I was in no fit state to go anywhere, anyway. NO, I was NOT falling-down drunk. I was falling-down exhausted.

Yes, you do get an explanation of that. But of course.

Tuesday night, when I plugged in the chickens' heat lamp, I blew the whole fuse. Okey dokey. I figured it was the scary, half-stripped fire hazard of an extension cord that connected the heat lamp in the coop to the electrical source WAAAAAY down in the house. But it was late and it was dark, so I figured the chickens could tough it out for one night and I'd deal with it in the morning.

Bright and early the next morning, I'm trudging through 5 inches of snow, with more whirling and blowing down my neck as I attempt to locate the source of the electrical surge that kept blowing the fuse. After about a dozen trips back and forth to the chicken coop, replacing various cords and connectors, I finally determined that the old, crappy heat lamp itself was the culprit. So I tried another, even older and crappier heat lamp we had hanging around. No luck. Finally I plugged in a trouble light up there with a 100 watt bulb next to the chickens' perch, figuring it was better than nothing.

So that was my morning.

In the afternoon, I discovered that what with the approximately 10 inches of snow that had fallen and the rest that had drifted across the driveway, there was no way A. and the MiL would be able to get their cars up to the house. So I shoveled about 250 feet of our 500 foot driveway. Let me repeat that: 250 FEET. With a HAND SHOVEL.

And that was my afternoon.

Then I made dinner (spaghetti with sausage) of which I ate a very large amount, had a mug of wine, and dragged my sorry, spent body up to bed at 8:30 p.m.

And THAT is how we celebrate at Blackrock.

Please tell me you did something more exciting than that.