Christmas Dinner

We 'flew' up to Huntington Beach for a dinner party. I say 'flew' because Cathy was driving us in her new truck and Delia always says something about the velocity at which we travel. Cathy was doing a good job with her driving and not travelling at an excessive rate, in my opinion, but she did give some signs that she was less than pleased with the way others were driving.

We were told to be there at 14:00. We were among the first to arrive when we got there at about 18:00. We brought a substantial portion of the vegetables (string beans, potatoes, sweet potatoes) for the meal, returning home with a good amount of meat in its place. Others brought their specialties and there was enough in both quantity and variety to satisfy everybody, so I don't need to list what was on the table.

The usual collection of people attended, for the most part.

At the dinner table, the woman sitting next to Delia was pontificating on the subject of cancers, particularly lymphoma, when Delia started to cry. I had to explain that Delia has lymphoma, which brought a momentary silence to the table. Delia stepped in to fill the silence with her explanation of what had happened to her. Having Delia openly discuss the subject raised the comfort level for all present.

We exchanged presents. My hopes of being ignored were dashed when I was handed a large, heavy package. I have, over the years, established my discomfort with gift exchanges (it contributes to my annual state of depression) by a constant failure to provide gifts, but Delia more than makes up for my lack.

We left as early as we could, Delia trying to hold on to the party experience until forcibly persuaded that we must depart. Traffic was light on our return but the trip was marred by several drivers who either lacked the season's spirit ... or had consumed too much of it. We encountered annoyances, though, not any hazardous situations. arriving safely shortly before midnight.

Christmas Eve Dinner

When Delia and Cathy both work long hours, as for the last three weeks, it falls to me to prepare dinner. Sometimes it isn't much, but something more is expected on Christmas Eve. This year I decided to experiment with a boned lamb leg, something Cathy usually prepares. She is the expert at it.

Knowing what I was up to, Cathy dropped a pile of cookbooks on me, massive volumes individually that, together, made a heap over a foot tall. I don't follow recipes and I already had a good idea what I wanted to do but I glanced at the lamb recipes in several volumes for new ideas. I didn't get any, so I proceded on my own.

A marinade, used to break down meat fibers and tenderize the meat, typically consists of an oil and an acid, at its most basic. I chose a good extra virgin olive oil and, for the acid, both lemon juice and yogurt. I added both garam masala and freshly ground pepper to the paste. I threw in a few more herbs to round it out but those were the important ones.

The lamb leg comes in an elastic net. I carefully removed it, thinking I could replace it later instead of tying the meat up with cotton cooking twine. I cut a number of inch long slits in the meat, which I jammed full of sliced garlic, then I spread the marinade on the inside of the leg. I then attempted to replace the netting I had so carefully preserved.

Disaster! The yogurt mix leaking from inside the leg made it too slippery to replace the netting. I made several attempts, the result of which was to spray or smear marinade all over my shirt, my face and the table. I broke out the twine and tied the leg up with it.

I smeared the fragrant white paste over the bottom of the roast, flipped it onto my roasting rack, then smeared the remaining goop over the top. I popped it into a 400° oven with the timer set for one hour.

The second part of the meal was to be a barlotto, the barley equivalent of a risoto, a labor-intensive way to fix a barley-rice mixture. I had a mix of brown and wild rices in the cupboard that I had been saving for this attempt. I fried the dry rices with a slightly greater quantity of pearl barley (in extra virgin olive oil, of course). When the barley turned opaque, I added just enough chicken broth to cover the grains. I piled in a handful of dried shiitake mushrooms just before adding the second helping of broth. The secret of a barlotto, according to a Molto Mario program I had watched over a month previously, was to top up the level of liquid every ten minutes, just barely covering the grain each time, adding only small amounts to keep from cooling the mix. After each addition, I would stir the mix to evenly distribute the heat. When the meat had about ten minutes to go, I would add a finely chopped medium onion.

That was the plan, anyway. I actually decided to go when the timer showed eleven minutes to completion. Unfortunately, there was a segment missing on the timer. I realized this when the time 'dropped' from eleven minutes to sixteen minutes. The top of the seven had been missing. I compensated by turning the heat off five minutes early, putting a lid on it when I powered down.

Cathy still wasn't home when everything was done, so I left the meat in the oven until she was there. I had wanted it rare but Delia liked it well done, so it didn't matter that much. Or it wouldn't have if the meat had actually cooked enough. As it was, the meat was uncooked in its heart. I snipped the strings, to allow the leg to relax and flatten out, then put it back for an additional twenty minutes. When I pulled it out, some was well done and some still had traces of pinkness.

The proof, of course, comes when you eat. Both Delia and Cathy repeated on both the meat and the barlotto. I thought the meat was as flavorful as any lamb I have ever eaten, the combination of yogurt and garam masala adding highlights to the flavor. There was meat left over ... but no barlotto.

For dessert we had pumpkin pie and gingerbread men.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my sixty-fifth birthday. I celebrated by not risking making my cold much worse. I spent most of my day watching movies on television.

Delia and Cathy were both working (despite Delia having a cold worse than mine). It was up to me to fix dinner. I had three Cornish game hens in the refrigerator, so I figured I'd roast them.

Fortune favored me. While doing something else, I spotted a volume of poultry recipes, six of them dedicated to Cornish game hens. All but one required splitting the bird and removing its spine, a task I didn't care to attempt on three birds, so I chose the remaining recipe. It involved smearing a mixture of curry and chili on the birds, inside and out, and popping them in the oven for a short while.

I found chili powder. I improvised a curry from its primary ingredients. I mixed extra virgin olive oil into the dry spices and turned the oven on. I quickly learned that the oil wanted to leave the spices as quickly as possible.

A gummy paste of oil and spices invites problems. The telephone rang. I ignored it. The dog got under foot, demanding attention. I shouted at the dog. The birds kept trying to slip off of the rack. Ignoring these distractions, I managed to smear roughly equal quantities of the messy paste onto and into each bird. Cathy arrived, demanding entrance because she wasn't carrying her keys. I shouted at the door. I then, calmly, washed the gunk off of my hands, unlocked the door without first kicking the dog into oblivion, and deposited the birds on their rack into the waiting oven.

While the birds cooked, Cathy broke out a selection of wines, cheeses, crackers and mushrooms. This was particularly welcome because I had neglected to eat any lunch (I forgot). While the birds, unstuffed, got stewed, I got both stuffed and stewed. There was a white wine (reisling), a red wine and champagne.

Cathy had prepared both potatoes and a pumpkin bread to accompany the hens. When Delia arrived, we served.

Cornish game hens are fat little birds. They are almost as bad as geese. A pound-and-a-half hen produces as much grease as a chicken four times its size. I left the greasy pan and rack for somebody else to clean up.

After all, it is my birthday.

By the way, the birdies were delicious.

Bank Benefits

Many years ago, back when I would play the board game Monopoly there was a Chance or Community Chest card that said, "Bank Error in Your Favor: Collect ..." some small amount of money. It sort of happened that way in real life.

We refinanced our mortgage a year ago to get a lower rate. I had them take the payments (the amount due plus $100) out of my checking account automatically. I am about to turn 65. Medicare Part B will cost me $88 per month, so I went back to the bank to ask them to drop the extra $100 from my payments so I could use that money to pay Medicare. That was no problem, but they pointed out that with the recent increases in property value, they might be able to reduce the rate on our Line of Credit too.

We aren't using the Line of Credit, but reducing the rate sounded like a good idea. Preliminary estimates showed that I could get a quarter point reduction by raising the limit based on the current value of the house ... and it wouldn't cost anything.

But that qualified both of us for savings accounts at a higher interest rate, especially higher when compared with the interest we get in our checking accounts which, while it exists, is so low as to be almost nothing. Delia took advantage of their offer.

While typing our information into the computer, they hit the wrong key and accidently issued me a new VISA Platinum account ... at a substantially lower rate than my existing VISA Platinum. When I received the card in the mail, I had no idea why it had been issued without my requesting it.

Today I went to the bank to find out why I had a new account. They explained that I had been pre-approved for such an account and an errant keypress must have started the wheels in motion to issue it. I learned that the old variable rate was over 2.5 times as high as the new fixed rate. I got them to transfer my balance to the new account, link the new account to my checking account for overdraft protection, and close out the old account.

One misplacement of a finger on a keyboard, a very minor error, stands to save me a decent amount of money. Such is the power of computers ... for good or evil.