Monthly Archive for January, 2005

Ok, so snow’s not such an unusual thing in Michigan in January. Still, there are Januaries that go by where we don’t see much white stuff at all. Just day after day of cold, grey nothing. I don’t do winter sports, but I’m still one who says, hey, if it’s going to be cold, it might as well snow.

Well, last night it snowed. Maybe six or seven inches; it’s hard to be sure. I know it was up to the dog’s belly out in the yard, but we also had quite a bit of wind and drifting. I mean bitter, cold wind.

This morning, Clay put things off as long as he could, then he finally got out there about 11 or so to blow the stuff out of the driveway. After he went out, JDog followed me around the house with mournful eyes, and so I finally took her out, breaking my rule about not going when it’s below 20 degrees. Thought maybe I could get a couple of photos for the blog, since material’s been so scarce here lately.

Of course she was in dog la la land. She doesn’t care how cold it is. She dragged me everywhere she could — I couldn’t keep up with her in my heavy boots on the mostly unshoveled surfaces. So I let go the leash a few times and just followed along in her wake.

A mistake, of course, as she trotted out into the road in front of cars a few times and invited herself up to people’s front doors to check out some smell picked up on the stiff wind. Once I even ended up on my knees, nose to nose with her in the deep plow-flung snow at the base of someone’s driveway — me, snow up my sleeves and down my boots, trying to grab her out of the path of an oncoming car; she, thinking I’m playing tag, oblivious to the danger.

I got revenge though — I took her down the road a bit, around the bend where I could get a clear shot of the river and it’s swift flowing ice. It’s a spot where there are no houses and the wind was blowing especially fierce. I pulled her into a snowbank off the road so we wouldn’t get sideswiped by a car and she stood, tail to the wind while I hunkered down and got a couple of shots off. (My skill with a camera, however, can never match the earnestness of my effort.) When I stood up to leave, my shadow of a sled dog snorted and snuffed — icicles hanging from her chin, eyes narrowed in the biting wind  — and took off for home in a hurry. The cold finally was too much for her. Clad in my down Eddie Bauer coat, ski pants, two hats and big, lined boots, it was my turn to laugh. And I did, all the way home.

On its way to being delicious

New Year’s Eve and we did the regular usual but special, savored thing: Three sisters, our husbands and most of our kids got together in Kalamazoo for a feast prepared by sister #4 and her hub (mostly him, she’ll be quick to admit). The party goes like this:

We trickle down (or over) to Kalamazoo sometime before early evening on the 31st. Stand around in the kitchen shooting the breeze, eating M&Ms for awhile, watching Jeff start early prep for dinner.

Next, Jeff breaks out the alcohol: This year it was cosmopolitans; in the past it’s been margaritas. Of course there’s always beer, wine, soda, whatever you want. Next the cheese balls, crackers, and nuts come out; Margie throws together her yummy baked artichoke dip. Kids wander in an out looking for munchies, something to drink.

After a bit, the pizza place is called and Jeff goes out to pick up three large for the kids (yes, he has to do that, too — says delivery would take an hour and a half). While he’s out he picks up some Pepto Bismol on request. Matt and Clay have gone out on a beer run and also returned with Pepto — any and all stomach upset will be easily handled tonight.

The kids, who are these days spanning the ages of 10 to 15, invade, scoop up slices of cheese pizza, gulp their soda and disappear again. They’re in the basement playing Halo (it’s evidently not as bad as you’d heard). They’ll return just before midnight, looking to toast the new year with us. Time was they’d all be in bed by 12, but those days are long gone. In fact, I expect the three 15′s won’t even be here next year — they’ll have found something much more fun to do than hang around with parents, aunts, and uncles at a stodgy party.

Jeff winds into higher gear. He moves so easily about all the tasks of meal making that we are in awe: bread slicing and toasting;  onion chopping and sauteeing; can opening; mixing, measuring; stopping a minute to shake maritinis. We pretty  much do nothing to assist; we are helpless and mesmerized with the watching. We take what he’s doing as a matter of course and know that an excellent feast will result.

At some point he carries two slabs of seasoned prime rib out to his specialty outdoor cooker (I don’t know what it is or what it does, but it is not like any grill we’ve ever had). Opens a couple of bottles of red wine to let them breathe. In the dining room Loraine and I set the table: her best china; gold-rimmed stemware. I pour ice water into goblets; she lights candles.

Back in the kitchen Jeff is ladling onion soup into bowls over slabs of french bread and topping each serving with cheese. He slides the bowls under the broiler for a minute then carries them two at a time to the table. It’s about 8:30 and dinner is about to begin — early this year, we congratulate ourselves. There have been times when we’ve reaced through dessert and coffee as Dick Clark is getting ready for the big midnight countdown.

Matt replaces Bono and U2 with his new Sinatra CD and the six of us take our usual seats. Loraine has rearranged her table this year and it takes a minute to determine where the usual seats are, but soon we are comfortable in the familiar spots: Clay and Jeff at the head and foot, Loraine on Jeff’s right, next to me; I’m on Clay’s left. Margie is on Jeff’s right while Mat sits on Clay’s right. (Aren’t we getting so habitual?!). Jeff pours wine; we toast (“To Jeff! To Lorie! To a wonderful New Year!”) We dive into the soup. It is miraculous as always, and we say so.

The four of us always revel in this entire experience, only a little guiltily allowing ourselves to be served by our sister and brother-in-law. Next is a caesar salad followed by thick slabs of prime rib (homemade horseradish sauce on the side) and garlic mashed potatoes. Loraine is a little upset that she forgot a vegetable this year, but we are not. Everything else is too delicious. And god knows there’s more than plenty to eat.

We finish with port wine (no grappa this year) and coffee. We are too stuffed for dessert; that will come later, at the kids’ insistence. It’s cheesecake and they want to at least share that aspect of the meal with the adults. We all linger, talking, looking at photos of Evan’s hockey game at the Joe, comparing high school music programs, talking about wine and wine cellars.

Pretty soon it’s time to pour champagne (sparkling grapejuice for the kids) and toast the new year. Dick Clark is in the hospital this year (you knew it would happen one of these days), so we scream the countdown with Regis. 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-Happy New Year, we all cry, and toast, and we kiss our spouses and children. Happy 2005!