Well, ho-ho-ho, only 364 shopping days till next Christmas. I hope you had a splendid day, full of joy and laughter.
Sir and I, for the past 20 years, have had our tradition of eating whatever we like or what is on hand, and making eggnog and glavana on or before Christmas Eve.
If you recall, glavana is a Croatian dish, somewhat akin to quiche in a sausage. So over the years we’ve tweaked the recipe and made it ours. It’s an awful mess to make, and I will happily part with the recipe if you’d like it.
Having gone to the grocery store last Friday, and Sir having said he wasn’t all that hysterical about making glavana this year, I arrived back home with enough for five days, vowing in a rather Scarlett O’Hara manner that no we would never go hungry again, and that Sherman could burn me out of my house, but I wasn’t going anywhere near a store until after Christmas.
I don’t do well with crowds anyway, and dealing with these crowds who didn’t really know what they wanted but were hoping for a flash of inspiration next to the carrots, or divine intervention by the rib roasts and tri-tips, just doesn’t fill me with the joys of the season. I know exactly what I want and where it is – get out of my way, intent woman coming through.
Saturday afternoon Sir decided we just had to have his beloved dish and knew that trying to coerce me to go shopping was going to be entirely fruitless, he donned his battle gear and actually voluntarily went to the store armed with the list he persuaded me to make.
Try, if you will, to imagine our kitchen on Sunday. Sir is carving up two huge loaves of white sliced bread, previously frozen to aid precision cutting, ready to be enovened for baking into croutons. I am at the kitchen table chopping green onions, slicing and dicing ham and bacon, salt and pepper is flying, eggs are whisked.
Meanwhile, I’m on the eggnog trail. I’ve separated my four eggs, beating the whites into a frothy submission, adding the sugar to just the right sweetness, flinging milk and cream around with gay abandon. Folding my egg yolks lovingly into the mixture, getting ready for the really good solid whack of brandy I’m going to add – and I come to an enormous ‘uh-oh’ moment ...
“Um, sweetheart? You know the eggnog? Well, it’s going to be really eggy, as I’ve just added the eight glavana eggs to it. This therefore means that I’m four eggs short for the glavana, and I only have two left”.
I can’t begin to tell you of the harrumphing that ensued, but like the trouper he is, the happy little Vegemite I married, sighing hugely, he struggled back up to the store for the second day in a row to correct my obvious ovule error.
It’s a good thing I didn’t add the green onions to the drink, and the sugar to the sausage really, but in the end it all worked. You just can’t mess with tradition after all.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.