Holiday Traditions

Yorkshire pudding is the bane of my existence. Every year for dinner on Christmas, accompanied by the traditional standing rib roast, I attempt to recreate the memory of hubby's grandmother's special dinner. Every year is a disaster, more or less. Sometimes part of it puffs. I think all of it puffed slightly once, then fell before I got it to the table. I consider myself a damn good cook, and I take this very personally. It doesn't help that the best Yorkshire pudding I've had was made by hubby's late father, a man who could barely boil water.

A good Canadian friend of Scots descent helped me out last year with a really great recipe. I tried to follow the instructions, really I did. As hubby often says when the food presentation fails, "It tasted good!" Fortunately, my gravy making skill overcomes my complete ineptitude when it comes to Yorkshire pudding.

Then my English neighbor invited me for tea on Friday, and I found myself surrounded by ladies who hail from the other side of the pond. I figured I had it made. I solicited their advice. Oven and pan hot, batter cold, rest it for at least an hour -- I am prepared! This year I shall prevail! Wait, did I just ask for cooking advice from a bunch of Brits, people from a land where the only edible food is Indian? How low have I sunk?!

As I began my preparations, I discovered that I'd neglected to buy milk and had to send hubby out into the snowy night... um... scratch that snowy night crap... into the sunny afternoon for a short walk to the convenience store. But I'm sure he'd have gladly braved a nor'easter for his damned Yorkshire pudding. How could I have forgotten to get milk? You don't think I did it unconsciously on purpose, do you?

Perhaps it was the pinch of additional angst, perhaps it was guilt for making hubby go out for the milk, perhaps we'll never know, but this year's pudding was, dare I say it, PERFECT! It puffed and browned and was absolutely loverly! Hallelujah!

Maybe next year we'll go out for Chinese.

Of Crabs & Cats

I never kept a diary when I was a kid, so I don't know what makes me think I'll keep a blog now, but here goes...


The sad sack in the photo is a Dungeness crab on its way to dinner -- to be dinner, that is. A couple of crab boats were docked near the fisheries at the end of the pier at Pillar Point Harbor, and we spent a few minutes watching them hoist trash cans full of the critters off the boats. It's surely a tough life, for both man and beast.


From the feline front: Both of our geriatric kitties, Doc and Jessie, are still hanging in there. Jessie has had a tough day or so. She decided to make a rare foray outdoors yesterday while I was next door having tea with my neighbor. I turned the house upside down looking for her before I started searching outside. Luckily, she likes to yell when I call her name so I found her fairly quickly and she seemed to be fine. Later in the evening, though, she started having seizures and had them fairly continously for over an hour. This is the first time in over a week that she's had any whatsoever. She settled down finally, spending most of the night wrapped up in a sheepskin in the middle of our bed. As I type, she's curled up asleep next to my elbow on the dining room table. I think she's exhausted -- that was an awful lot for a 17 year old puddy to endure. Given her age, there's not much we're going to do about this except keep her safe and as comfortable as we can. Needless to say after her adventure yesterday, I've blocked off the doggie door so no one can get outside. Since we're dogless at the moment, this isn't a big deal. Doc will just have to adjust. With his age and health, he shouldn't be wandering about either.

Okay, so there's my very first blog entry. Woohoo. I think I might like this Blogger thing better than Yahoo! Now there's a surprise!