Annoying Christmas Newsletter, 2008

Ooooh, here comes Santa

Ooooh, here comes Santa
Ooooh, Santa’s drunk again

Santa Came Home Drunk - Clyde Lasley & the Cadillac Baby Specials
(From “Bummed Out Christmas” – Rhino Records)

And really, who can blame him? I mean, if you have a 401K or are depending on investments for your retirement, you’re probably drinking the holidays away this year too. Actually, rumor has it Santa may be taking a CEO golden parachute package, forcing the reindeer into early retirement (that or the glue factory, depending on who you talk to), and laying off the elves with little more severance than a plate of cookies and milk. Next year they’ll be outsourcing the whole outfit to Bangalore, ("Hello, this is North Pole, my name is Sanjay Claus. How can we be helping you this joyous American holiday?"), but you didn’t hear it from me.

Despite the economic downturn and what has been for many of our nearest and dearest, quite frankly, a very sucky year, our household has emerged from 2008 relatively unscathed, a state for which we are immensely grateful, and, were we so inclined, we would likely be suffering a severe case of “survivors guilt" about now. Fortunately that’s not our style. In stressful times our usual response is to drink and drive, though not necessarily in that order.

The year began auspiciously enough with a New Year’s trip to Yosemite, which, as always, is really swell in winter. (Half-dome looks particularly fetching in the snow.)
Yes, we drove, guided by the Garmin Nuvi Santa brought us, affectionately dubbed Sister Carla, after Tommy’s fifth grade Irish nun teacher. (Because that’s the only kind of woman he feels comfortable taking orders from.) Problem was Sister Carla totally lost it (and us ) in the Sierras, (either that or she was deliberately trying to get us killed), telling us to turn left into snow banks, right off of cliffs, and to go straight into walls of towering Sequoias. I say, screw Sister Carla. I personally want a GPS that has a sassy black woman’s voice, you know one of those slap you into shape, “I done told you to turn left fool, and I ain’t telling you again,” no nonsense types. We all know what we need.

In March we took a whirlwind trip to New Zealand’s North Island, where we sipped our way through as many of Hawkes Bay’s finest wineries as we could in a week, (finally a place where you can drink and drive on the "wrong" side of the road and still be half legal), toured a kiwi fruit farm in a big kiwi shaped train pod,
and took a side tour of hell on earth, aka, New Zealand's Geothermal Wonderland. (For a full set of our year's travel photos visit my photo website at http://saucyredhead.smugmug.com/)
And, yes, our rented GPS device down under did speak with a Kiwi accent, in case you care. (“Turn leeft, enter roundabout, take the seecond turnout, go straight to heell.”)
Later we celebrated Tommy’s acquisition of a Beemer, (which has a built-in GPS that sounds like a female version of Hal the “2001 A Space Odyssey” computer – and you know what happens if you listen to Hal), with a tour of California’s Big Sur and Monterey Bay, with a little side trip to the Central Coast wine country to drink more wine. (Are you still with me, Santa?)
You probably think with all this talk of drinking and driving we’ve had a desultory and debauched sort of year, but, no, in fact we’ve both been working out little butts off, Tommy in CBS’ Program Practices Department, still making the network airwaves a kinder, gentler place to park your peepers, and me turning video clips of car crashes, natural disasters, and other scenes of personal tragedy into eye candy for the culturally depraved. My latest project is a series of “RAMPAGE” specials for The Discovery Channel, and it is truly a labor of love. Seriously, I get all warm and fuzzy when I think of a bunch of middle- aged white guys sitting around the big screen in NASCAR t-shirts, drinking beer, eating pork rinds, scratching their balls, and shouting “hell, yeah,” when a stolen SUV full of drunken teenagers hits a median and explodes into flames. Just call me sentimental, I guess.

Big kudos to Tommy for his three-year appointment as an at large delegate to the Association of Yale Alumni Delegate Assembly. Ask him what it means and he'll tell you. All I can tell you is at least it sounds important, and it entails a trip to New Haven once a year to hang out with the guys and act 21 again. Next year count me in.

Fast forward to Thanksgiving (and it was a fast-forward kind of year) we hosted cousin Mint and her partner Lanier, all the war from Gordon, Georgia, (see lead photo), for the holiday, had a splendid time, and ate all too well. I cooked for five days straight, and then turned around and cooked for the three weeks straight to get it together for our Christmas party. (I don’t know about you, but I think there should be a law that there is at least four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Of course, if, like me, your husband has a birthday in between you’re screwed anyway. Note to world: I'm DONE with cooking for this year!) The party was the glittering, elegant, must-have invite of the season it always is, and Tommy and fellow musicians once again entertained us with Christmas carols and holiday dirges, and, once again, he wore that cute little elf hat on the promise of bizarre sexual favors, which, as in years past, will never materialize. (Kind of like Charlie Brown and Lucy and that football, hope springs eternal and they fall for it every year.)
Stepson Matt continues to boycott the famillae Bourgeois. We heard a rumor a few months back that he was working at a Marie Callender’s in the Valley ( as in, "I'm Matt and I'll be your waiter this evening"), but didn’t feel inclined to go check it out and chance having our food poisoned. Did a Yuletide drive-by of the exes' homestead this week just to see if they still live there, and it would appear they do because I can’t imagine anyone else would adopt her unique style of holiday décor, with the mangy light-up deer and deflated blow-up God-only-knows-what, but then you never know.
(No, this isn't her house -- I don't want to get sued -- but it could be.) All in all the step-parenting experience has been totally affirming of my decision to have cats rather than kids. They’ll never need braces on their teeth, I don’t have to save up for their college educations, and they’ll be dead long before they’re old enough to cause any real problems. Besides they make much cuter Christmas cards.
If it's Christmas, that means the Santa Sluts, (aka, The Top Hats, a slice of Holiday Americana), are back at the Grove, and they are a particularly motley crew this year. Rhythmically challenged Rockettes rejects though they may be, they more than make up for it in Christmas spirit. Their beauty and grace truly epitomize the Christmas season for me.

My Christmas list this year is short, and I only hope to find one precious gift under the tree, this special and reverent frog nativity scene, a work of art clearly designed with me in mind. Yes, the spirit of Christmas is alive and well, and I can’t imagine a more suitable way to express and experience the magic of the season.
Well actually I can. We’re leaving for London on Christmas Day, (just because we want to), and, personally, I can’t wait to get on the plane for a glorious 10 ½ hours with my iPod, 1st run movies, a stack of books and magazines, and keep those little bottles of airline booze and bubbly coming, please!

So, as they say in Merry Olde, HAPPY CHRISTMAS! May your days, (and the coming year), be merry and bright! I love you all and wish you peace and chocolate.

Now, here’s that ultimate chocolate cake recipe I promised you if Obama got elected (YES, he did)! A great treat for the holidays or anytime at all!



BITTERSWEET CHOCOLATE AND ALMOND CAKE

12 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate (not unsweetened), chopped
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
1/2 cup slivered almonds, toasted
3 tablespoons cake flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
5 eggs
1 1/3 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat over to 325 degrees. Butter 9-inch spring form pan (I just spray it with Baker's Secret). Stir chocolate and butter in top of double boiler set over low heat until melted and smooth. Cool chocolate mixture to lukewarm.

Grind almonds, in food processor with flour and salt. Using electric mixer, beat eggs, sugar and vanilla in large bowl until thick, about 2 minutes. Fold in almond mixture then chocolate mixture. Pour batter into prepared pan.

Bake until tester inserted into center comes out with just moist crumbs, about 1 hour 10 minutes. Cook in pan (cake center will fall). Press edges down with fork to level top. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Cut around cake, remove pan sides. Garnish with additional toasted almonds and/or powdered sugar if desired. Serve with fresh whipped cream or creme fraiche.

Quick, deceptively easy to make, and SO good!

Eating Arugula for Halloween

The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds
Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds
The Coffin-Bangers were about to arrive
With their vocal group, "The Crypt-Kicker Five"
Monster Mash - Bobby "Boris" Pickett and The Crypt-Kickers

Walking around the hood looking for an image to grace my Halloween entry, the scariest thing I could find has absolutely nothing to do with Halloween. Or does it? Can you really imagine anything scarier than living here?

I’m thinking the upstairs Obama supporters are palling around with terrorists 24/7, rockin’ out to Barbra Streisand and Lil Wayne, and crunching their arugula salads and slurping their lattes, very loudly. Meanwhile the McCainers downstairs are probably entertaining Joe Six Pack, Joe the Plumber, Tito the Builder and Bubba the Bigot, (the GOP’s own version of The Village People), blasting Hank Williams, Jr. and Kid Rock on the Hi-Fi, (no that’s not a typo), and all of ‘em taking turns slow dancing with a Bible Belt Barbie (you know who that is) blow-up doll. It’s as close to hell as either household could live without getting singed.

Predictably Mr. McCain Supporter slithered out of his lair and asked me to stop taking photos. I lied. Told him I was photographing the pitiful little scarecrow he had leaning against a tree, (so pathetic you can’t even see it here), the one that resembles what McCain himself is probably going to look like after he gets the stuffing knocked out of him next Tuesday, for a photo essay on Halloween décor for the Westside Weekly. He didn’t buy it. The way he carried on you’d have thought I was going to post his address in my blog, thereby inciting the denizens of our predominately arugula eating, latte drinking community to storm his house, (like the mob in Frankenstein), smash his picture window, and steal his Obama/Palin sign. (That would be in the 800 block of 4th Street, on the NW corner of 4th and La Jolla. Bring your own torch.)

In the interest of full disclosure, I eat arugula with the best of them and, as for latte, let’s just say I forever abandoned any idea of moving back to the old hometown when Starbucks posted their hit list back in July and the only one in the town was marked for closure. Frankly, when I die I don’t much care if I go to heaven or hell, as long as there is a Starbucks at the airport when I get off the plane. You get the idea.

What’s more, I’m a card carrying member of so many so-called left wing liberal organizations, that the only campaign calls I get, robo or otherwise, are from the side of any given issue I’m most likely to agree with. Not that it matters. At this point they’re totally wasting their time. I’ve already voted. Absentee ballot. Done. Finished. And, quite frankly, I can’t imagine such calls doing any good anyway at this point in time. I mean seriously, who in their right mind is still “undecided?”

I’m with David Sedaris (one of my most favorite satirists) who says in last week’s New Yorker:

I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

I wish I’d said that.

I did a little dialing for Obama myself a couple of Sunday afternoons last month. My motives were pure and my intentions honest, but I quickly discovered I wasn’t cut out for the job. While my heart was in the right place, the words threatening to come out of my mouth most decidedly were not.

First of all 90% of the people you call aren’t going to answer when they see a number they don’t recognize on their caller ID. Most of those who do are either going to hang up as soon as you identify yourself, scream obscenities in your ear, or pretend you have a wrong number. (“I’m no longer at this number,” being my favorite.)

Then there are the inevitable Republican voters. Our script directed us to thank them for their time, encourage them to vote anyway and politely hang up. For the life of me, I could not bring myself to encourage one of those morons to vote. “Stay home, have a beer, fire up the bong, screw the wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/neighbor/cat/dog/whatever turns you on. But whatever you do, do not vote. It’s pointless. Your one measly little vote won’t mean shit. Save the gas. It’s going to continue to go up no matter what you do, and since your candidate’s a stone sure loser anyway why waste money driving to the polls. And by the way, I just talked to your sister. She’s voting for Obama.”

Finally you get the trolls who demur that they’re still undecided. At this point I’m supposed to ask them what issues might be the sticking points, but why bother? The way I figure it, they’re either lying or eight innings short of a baseball game. “Let me make it simple for you. You’ve got one party running two totally adequate, rational, and seemingly decent, (if inevitably flawed, as are we all), human beings. The other party has a demonstrably ill-tempered, decrepit warmonger running with a whacked out Christian Dominionist Twinkie who thinks Turkistan is some kind of rug. What’s to decide? And a happy Halloween to you too.”

I went home, sent a generous check to the Obama campaign as an alternate, albeit less personal and satisfying, way of doing my part, and poured a glass of California Chardonney to wash down my arugula sandwich.

Some chocolate might help too. But no recipe in this post. Until the election’s over I’m concentrating on finishing off all the leftover Halloween candy. It’s here, it’s stale, and it’s unhealthy, not unlike the junk food diet the Republicans have been force-feeding us for the past 8 years. Enough already.

Next Tuesday if things go my way, I promise you the best damn chocolate cake recipe I know. Stay tuned.