Month: December 2020

so much depends

upon

a card

board box

filled with an orange

cat

upon the kitchen

floor

I suggested to Chris that we keep dinner simple this evening. Let’s just boil some pasta and heat up the leftover jar of pasta sauce. He had the brilliant idea to add the vegan sausage he picked up the other day.

Well, we were out of pasta, and the jar was only a third full. No matter! I texted my friend and neighbor, Natasha, and asked if she could spare a package of pasta. Yes, she could. She had her favorite on hand: strozzapreti, which she discovered when she was in Bologna, Italy. They’re delicate little twists of pasta, which belies the translation of the word: priest-strangler or priest-choker (whichever you prefer).

Chris chopped tomatoes, garlic, fresh thyme, vegan sausages, and kalamata olives, and added them to a simmering pan of crushed tomatoes (fortunately, I virtually always have few cans of those on hand, and tonight did not disappoint). Within a few minutes, those little priest-chokers were al dente, and an easy and delicious meal was on the table.

These are the words of winter 2020-2021. As we continue to inch our way toward the exit of this pandemic, which still seems like a tiny dot of light way in the distance, we must find ways to stay connected and engaged with one another.

A friend of mine has been saying we must embrace the Scandinavian way of life; in other words, we need to toughen up and keep getting outside throughout the winter months.

This same friend, Jeannie, arranged for a few families to meet at another friend’s backyard patio for a fire after dinner. She planned an outdoor challenge for the kids, who range in age from 9 to 15, which included singing a Christmas song in front of one house, flossing in the church parking lot (the dance move, not part of dental hygiene), and posing on playground equipment. The original plan included an area of about 10 square blocks, but due to the frigid weather, she mercifully revised it to about a three-block radius. Each family was instructed to bring a couple little treat bags as prizes.

Jeannie laid down the ground rules for the kids, and once they less than enthusiastically departed in teams of two or three, the parents hung by the fire.

“We need to embrace hygge all winter long,” Jeannie declared.

“Well, that won’t be hard; that just means staying cozy and warm,” I replied. “I think you’re thinking of something else.”

“No!” she insisted. “It means embracing the cold! Look it up.”

I did. I was right, but I knew what she meant, and I knew there was a term for it. After a quick scroll down the page about hygge, I came across the word she was looking for: friluftsliv. It’s a Norwegian word that translates to “free air life.” Apparently, people in Norway don’t see winter as a test of endurance, but rather as something to be enjoyed. They say spending time outside improves our mental health.

After about an hour and a half of practicing the concept of friluftsliv, we were all ready to transition to the hygge portion of the evening. After we declared there would be many, many more outdoor evenings together and said our goodbyes, we raced home, the frigid air biting at our cheeks. I do declare that hygge is so much sweeter after a healthy dose of friluftsliv.

I think I might keep this tree up until MLK Day this year. I’m feeling the need to extend the cheer as long as the needles hold up. By then, it’ll be two months until spring break, and then after that, maybe just a month or two until we’re vaccinated and can return to the classroom without too much trepidation. Plus, I work just about six feet from my Christmas tree. I love the soft cheerful glow when I sit down at my desk in the morning with my cup of coffee, open Microsoft Teams, and hear the first eager ping-pings as my students begin to arrive.

We visited the Cape Hatteras lighthouse today, which was a about a 15 minute drive from where we’re staying in Avon. Though lighthouses these days are only used as a backup when electronic systems fail, they hold magic for me. If they could only speak, they’d tell countless tales of hurricanes and shipwrecks. This one, along with Bodie Island, Okacroke Island, Roanoke Marshes, and Currituck, would be full of lore; after all, these waters down here are known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic.

According to my brief research, this area is so dangerous because the Gulf Stream collides with a branch of the Labrador Current just off Cape Hatteras, which forces ships into a dangerous twelve-mile long sandbar called Diamond Shoals.

Lighthouses never fail to inspire nostalgia. When I get near one, sensations of hot summer days, sand in my flip flops, and melting ice cream cones come to mind. Today was an exception; it was the only time I can remember getting close to one during the winter.

It did not fail to excite. This one is the tallest brick lighthouse in the United States, measuring 198.49 feet from the bottom of the foundation to the top of the pinnacle of the tower. It also still has its two Fresnel lenses in operation, the light from which can be seen 20 miles away.

I love that each lighthouse has a distinctive paint pattern (called a “daymark”) and light sequence (“nightmark”), so a mariner will always know where he/she is when sailing along the coast, day or night. This one is unforgettable: a bold white and black swirl sitting atop a bright red granite base.

The first lighthouse at Cape Hatteras was built in 1803, but it was ineffective because it was too short and made of sandstone, so it blended into the background. Its signal was weak, and it was poorly constructed. Thankfully, Congress approved funds to rebuild it, and the new one was lit on December 16, 1870. Over the years, it has faced vandalism, beach erosion, and cracks in its foundation, among other issues. In 1999, it was moved 2,900 feet in 23 days to its current location and sits at a much safer 1,500 feet from the ocean. It resembles a retired grande dame in its stately and secure location; she has earned a quiet, peaceful retirement where she spends her days being admired. Ain’t she a beauty?

“When I’m old, and you and Edwin want to surprise me for my birthday, where should you take me?” I asked, as Maxine and I sat in the hot tub, looking at the ocean and sipping on our ginger seltzers.

“Is this a quiz?” asked Maxine.

“Sure.”

“The beach?”

Good girl.

We arrived in Avon, NC yesterday evening for a four-night stay. I picked out a pet-friendly house so we could bring Sasha, and at the last minute, we decided to bring the cats, as well. I didn’t clear this with the owner, feeling pretty confident the answer would be no. I’m not proud of myself, but they’re being such good kitties. Besides, anyone who is allergic to cats would probably stay away from a pet-friendly rental anyway, right?

The drive wasn’t so bad once we got past Fredericksburg. When we were 15 minutes away from Kitty Hawk, we called in an order for oyster po’ boys for Chris and me and Beyond Burgers for the kids. We devoured them in the car; I think it was the best oyster po’ boy I’ve ever had: the bread was light and had the perfect subtle crunch on the outside (they call it an amoroso roll?), the oysters were golden fried, as advertised, and very fresh, and the remoulade had the perfect tang. If you’re ever in Kitty Hawk, look up Two Roads Tavern.

Our bellies full, we could now endure the last hour of the dark drive to Avon. I could feel my excitement rising as the car map indicated the ocean was just over the dunes on the left. I kept rolling down the window, trying to catch a scent of it, but the kids were cold and Chris was trying to listen to the Bills game, so I relented.

Finally, we pulled up to the house, smuggled in the cats, and unpacked. Well, I unpacked. I can’t relax until I put sheets on the bed, put my clothes in the drawers, and put all the food away. Then, it was time to see what I came for.

All we had to do was walk through the backyard and across the Avon Pier parking lot, and there we were: stars, sand, ocean. Sasha was beyond delighted to dig her paws in the sand, and I was finally back where I feel part of me always remains. After chasing Sasha and letting her chase me, gazing at stars, seeing how close I could get to the water without getting wet, and taking lots of pictures, Chris finally suggested we go back to the house. As we walked through the empty parking lot, I told him, “I don’t think I’ve ever left the beach thinking, ‘Well, I’ve had enough of that for the day.'” I guess that’s part of what makes it magical.

Life sure knows how to kick you in the butt. The journey seems so linear until you reach a certain age. Here you are traveling in a straight line your whole life, for the most part, thinking the car only moves forward, only to find out that a certain point, this ride has been designed to slide backward.

All of a sudden, your kids start taking over your finances, regulating your medication, organizing home repairs, and you sense the inevitable conversation of where you’ll live when a three-story townhome just can’t work anymore. At least, I imagine that’s what my parents are thinking right about now as my sisters and I become less and less subtle.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I rely heavily on the Washington Post annual cookie section for my Christmas cookie baking, and this year I picked out Boozey Chocolate Bites. The recipe calls for melted butter and chocolate, vanilla, a very small amount of flour, and, of course, bourbon. They were delectable, and it was impossible to stop at one, but they were not touching my soul, as my mother’s bourbon balls had growing up. My sisters and I would sneak as many as we could and then pretend we were tipsy. It was great Christmas fun.

The next day, I texted my mom (she has just recently started texting) and asked her for her recipe. I wondered if I should instruct her on taking a photo of the recipe and texting it back. I knew in my heart she would copy it all down in an email (Edwin joked, “Nana will probably type it out on a typewriter and then mail it to you” – snarky, but not totally out of the question). Sure enough, a day later, I got an email with her typed directions. She had found the recipe in the old flowered family recipe binder, scrawled on an index card. Side note: our neighbor, who had been in a rock band in her youth, gave it to her before she became a born again Christian and never touched bourbon again. Side, side note: she stopped speaking to my mom when she declined to join her on her spiritual journey.

As I skimmed the recipe, I realized what had been missing: vanilla wafers! Luckily, Edwin went on a walk to CVS today and was able to pick up an overpriced box for me. So, tonight: the original bourbon balls, bourbon balls 1.0.

Maxine’s band has almost entirely been on hiatus since March. A few months ago, each band member sent the band mom and dad a recording of their part of U2’s Sunday Bloody Sunday, and the amazing dad (who leads the band and plays guitar) put them all together in a beautiful recoding. Then, things went pretty quiet again…so we thought.

About three weeks ago, the music director at our neighborhood church (who loves heavy metal, by the way), asked if the 17th St. Band would livestream a selection of Christmas songs. Most of the band was in, and they held two outdoor practices in preparation for this evening’s performance.

The band dad, Eric, started with a lovely medley on acoustic guitar, followed by a very edgy rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman by the drummer and guitarist, and then the rest of the band joined in for Little Drummer Boy, Hark the Herald, and Joy to the World.

Only the adults necessary to put on the show were present in the sanctuary, and we watched from home, two blocks away. The band is keeping the Christmas spirit alive in true rock fashion.

The 17th St. Band at Calvary Methodist Church

I’ve been giving to Rev. Warnock and Jon Ossoff’s Senate campaigns over the past month, hoping desperately that we can break even in the Senate in January. I thought I was done giving, and then I got an email from a couple of the original cast members of Hamilton. If I gave a minimum of $25, I could gain access to tonight’s live stream event. I debated for about 10 seconds before clicking and donating, and I promptly received my link for this evening’s event.

I clicked on the link at 8:30 PM, most looking forward to the performances sprinkled throughout the fundraiser, but I have actually been most taken with the candidates. These are two intelligent, articulate men of integrity. Listening to their stories and their visions has been so heartening and hopeful. Now I view my donations going to support these upstanding men instead of simply fighting the other two.

I must get back to the program now; the sublime Christopher Jackson is singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” He’s pretty easy on the ears and the eyes.

Rev. Raphael Warnock

Jon Ossoff

Hosts Jonathan Groff and Sasha Hutchings