Christmas Memory

I'll stop with the auto industry bailout rant. For now.

I had the good fortune yesterday to catch up with an old friend from the neighborhood. His mother, my mom, Ann Balmos, MaryLee Wallace, and Janie Towner were like a collective "Mother", watching over me, encouraging me, and supporting me in my early years, right up through college. The conversations I had with this fellow, and seeing that he favors his Mother so strongly, brought all sorts of memories to the surface. They're like the rich, fragrant bubbles in a stew as it simmers, bringing up all the complementary flavors into your nose, just like they do from the rim of the spoon, right before it favors your mouth with a big bite.

Jimmy is with me right now. He's snuggled under my fleece, making little clucking and chirping noises as I type.

This particular memory, that I'll share with you now, is of my Father making eggnog every Christmas. This was a point of pride with him, and it wasn't until just a few years ago that I learned that the recipe came out of Irma Rombauer and Marion Rombauer Becker's "Joy of Cooking", an essential reference source for every kitchen, and not from an oral family tradition, he guarded it so jealously.

Just an old ceramic bowl, brown, I don't know where it is now, even though I went through the house in Phoenix pretty thoroughly after he passed, that was filled and covered and put out on the screen porch. I remember that it was colder, more consistently, back in those days. And the snow seemed deeper back then, although we've had a couple of winters up here that have seen record snow. Like when we had 106" back in '96. But the screen porch was cold enough, though not so cold as to present a risk of freezing the nog.

He would start with a dozen eggs. Of course, it was made from scratch. Anybody that tells you that there are no stupid questions is wrong. There are two: "is this made from scratch?" and "did you tie that bow tie yourself?" Those are two stupid questions. I'm at the doctor the other day, for some damn medical thing or another, and this guy, a smart guy, the guy that excised my supraclavicular tumor last New Year's Eve, looks me in the eye, and says, "is that a real bowtie?" C'mon Doctor. And I'm trusting this guy with sharp things inside my neck?!?!? So Dad separates the eggs, yolk from white. The yolks go into the ceramic bowl, and the whites go into a two-cup Pyrex measuring cup. Gotta be glass, gotta be Pyrex. The yolks get whipped, by hand, with a balloon whisk, until they lighten up. Now "light" is a matter of your own judgment. Just how tired is your arm? Do a little more and that'll be fine. If you're using an electric mixer, and I have, then it's light like sunshine, or the color of a Peep, those little marshmallow things you find behind the couch, with a light dander of fuzz, about three weeks after Easter.

Now whip in two cups of dark rum. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and foil and put it in the fridge. If you have a screen porch that will be cold, consistently, but not too cold, then put it out there. Pour a glass of wine and put "The Sound of Music" on an endless loop. I can't put my finger on it, but that movie, one of my Top Five, sounds like Christmas to me. Suffice to say that my Sainted Paternal Grandmother, Frances Treischmann Blakney, was born and raised in Alsace, on the border of France and Germany. She couldn't sing a note, and certainly was not the daughter of Prussian nobility, but those landscapes drew her like a moth to flame.

Fast forward to the next evening. Whip in a pound of confectioners' sugar, put it back in the fridge or out on the porch. Next night: add two cups of bourbon. Dad liked to use Jim Beam, and he'd buy it by the half gallon so that there was plenty to keep the ice afloat in his lead crystal Waterford tumbler. Truth be told, I'm drinking out of that very same tumbler right now! Only, I have a few fingers of the Water of Life, a fine single malt, as Glenn prefers malted barley rather than corn mash as the basis for his spirits.

Fourth night: add another two cups of either the dark rum, or the bourbon. Also add two quarts of heavy cream. This can be just plain heavy cream, or whipping cream; at this point, it really doesn't matter. Whip it all together. You won't need the electric mixer, because you're not really whipping it, just mixing it thoroughly. Please don't whine. This is not a tonic for your heart. But, then again, you're not drinking it every day. It is not heart-healthy and it is not supposed to be. If you are in such a state that you can't have a small glass or two of eggnog at Christmas, you have my every sympathy. I had cancer and I was able to enjoy this. It's not Russian Roulette, which I understand is enjoying a Renaissance, it's not a rock of Crack, it's not a dose of Meth (however we consume that stuff these days), and it's not radioactive waste. It's eggs and cream and sugar and alcohol; all things created by God for us to enjoy. If you are an alcoholic, and I do know some, skip this post. I know that even after decades of sobriety, there's no such thing as "just one."

Fifth night, no pun intended. Add a cup of some fruit brandy. I've experimented with several and I recommend peach or apricot, anything else is too bitter and will spoil the creamy smooth sweetness of the nog. Back on the porch.

Sixth night.

Seventh day. Just like God. Whip the everloving sh*t out of the whites. Not a hard peak, but a solid, firm peak. If you have a copper bowl, the volume will astound you. I don't really understand the chemistry behind this, but the copper and the egg white come together like old teammates in the Red Zone. An eighth of a teaspoon of Cream of Tartar will make those peaks if you're having trouble, although on a cold, dry Winter's day, this should not be a problem. Also, chill the mixing bowl in the freezer for twenty minutes. You may use an electric mixer. Unless you are used to strenuous, long-term whipping, with perfect form, doing this manually will not give you the results you're looking for. And start the mixer on high immediately. Something about instantaneous violence really resonates with egg whites.

Now a cooking lesson: Fold the whites into the nog. Fold, don't whip. Use a spatula. Take a spatula full of whipped egg whites and place it gently on top of the nog. Grip the bowl with your left hand(assuming you're right-handed; reverse if otherwise), now dip the spatula into the nog, scraping down the opposite wall(the side of the bowl opposite you) and drawing it along the bottom of the bowl and up and out towards you. Turn the bowl a half turn, counter-clockwise, and repeat. Push the flat of the spatula down through the nog and up and out on the near wall. Be gentle. You've taken all that time to put all that air into the whites and you'd like to keep it there. Fold several times until the whites are, well, folded into the nog. There will be big blobs of whipped white; do not fold in all of these blobs as they lend a certain authenticity to your final product, nay, creation, and will, in short time, absorb nog all by themselves.

Get a ladle. Do not let some well-meaning, but disastrously ignorant, guest use the ladle to try to "smooth out" the nog. You serve it, with pride. Some nice mugs, with Santa or reindeer or elves, or lead crystal Waterford, are perfect. If a guest feels that Santa is, pagan, or a celebration of ancient Teutonic folklore, then they may not have any eggnog. Sprinkle some ground nutmeg on top and enjoy.

Get serious: DO NOT DRIVE. DO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY. DO NOT FLY AN AIRPLANE, DO NOT PERFORM MEDICAL PROCEDURES. One glass of this, heavenly as it is, is pretty much pure booze. Remember that it took us a week to make it? What do you think the sugar is doing with the rum and bourbon and brandy during that week? Conspiring to turn you into a drooling retard faster than you can say: "Bert and Ernie." I'm very serious. This is a powerful alcoholic beverage whose sweetness effectively masks the taste of alcohol that usually tips you off to the fact that you're drinking. Be careful. Kids can have a little. Mature Americans can have a little, but remember that your ability to process alcohol is a function of your body weight and metabolism.

I always had some. Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. It was great. Just a sip now takes me right back.

There you have it.