I spent three days cooking in a hot kitchen for our Christmas / Chanukah family dinner. We split the observations because on one hand we’re a bunch of hungry Lantsmen, and on the other, my daughter dragged in her Colombian fiancee and his dad wearing their IUDs on little silver chains around their necks and my son invited his Haystacks Calhoun lookalike pal of no particular visible denomination. This necessitated a 12 pound goose, a six pound duck, trays of apple-chestnut stuffing and mixed berry kugel (noodle pudding to the uninitiated), a heaping bowl of steamed mixed vegetables, my own secret recipe latkes, my own secret recipe matzoh ball soup (I will divulge the secret to otherworldly matzoh ball soup in a subsequent post – watch for it, Jimmy) with homemade cranberry-raspberry sauce, goose gravy with mushrooms and Burgundy, my own secret recipe carambola coconut rum upside down cake after eating which you should allow yourself about four hours prior to driving, warmed in the microwave to make it amenable to a big scoop of rum raisin gelato, and of course our beloved shade-grown-in-volcanic-soil Galapagos Island coffee from the rolling hills of San Cristobal Island.
I had to learn to cook geese and ducks, but the culinary yiddishkeit was a given. I have a Talmudic pedigree stretching back to my great-great-grandfather, a Rebbe of Choderower so deep in devekuth that he could dunk a bialy the size of a cartwheel in his demi-tasse without scraping off any cream cheese on the rim of the cup. Only the greatest Rebbes could do that. My Bubbeh didn’t have to leave me any written recipes. She imparted the matzoh ball, kugel and latkes recipes to me by shining.
Here’s a photo of the clan gathered for dinner yesterday:
Needless to say I didn’t feel much like getting up this morning. Three days of slaving over a hot stove followed by three hours of engorgement followed by an hour of doing dishes and lugging the garbage out to the bin for pickup…well….
I wrote this on my laptop, lying on my back ’cause there just ain’t nothin’ to drink. Empty bottle on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink. Watching a cockaroach crawling in an old tin can. However, the master chef wishes you all a very (urrrrrpppp….‘scuse me) happy recovery day. Tomorrow, I shall arise and prowl the leftover appliance sales online in hope of scoring a great deal on a new dishwasher to replace the old one which gave up the ghost just in time to condemn me to the sink and dish rack last night.