I really look forward to the meal. But in this Annus Horribilis I did not know what to expect.
It’s the root-y stuff that one doesn’t ever think of making at any other time: mashed turnips, brussel sprouts, parsnips that I fantasize of regularly.
Well, okay, I will admit to sneaking in a few brussel sprouts throughout the year.
I woke up at around 5:20. I planned to start with the apple pie, thoughtlessly accepting the well known horror of day old pie. Everyone knows you have to eat pie the day it is made. Even though in truth I actually quite enjoy it the next day for breakfast, one must not break with the accepted “norms.” It simple would not do.
I got out of bed to take my morning walk and felt somewhat queasy. I tried to think of what I had eaten the evening before, I don’t think I over indulged. I had had wine, but my bibulous calling is currently losing the battle to pecuniary pressures, so champagne, the only beverage I am really interested in, is out. I pulled my wool pants on over my pajamas and went downstairs to get my shoes and jacket on. I nearly did not make it to the coat rack. I couldn’t make sense of not feeling well, so I just ignored it. I walked in the dark turning left up the street; every step striking a dissident chord. I thought if I got up into the woods it would be better. I noticed that I was tilted and staggering over the road. I made an effort to adjust my walk so that I did not look like an old drunk. I could see the road that led up into a thickly wooded area and just tried to focus on getting there, having already decided that I really needed to sit down. Instead I suddenly veered toward the neighbor’s yard; I walked onto their lawn and lay down on the frosted leaves hoping that I was at least partially obscured by the tree next to me. I lay there for 20 minutes in a crisp state of peace. Dawn had broken and, uncomfortably aware of how pathetic I would look to any passer-bys, I forced myself up on my feet and back to the house.
I rolled out the dough and made the pie only ever so slightly doubled over.
After a nap, (a sure indication that I was probably near death, I may have been 4 the last time I pretended to take one) I recovered. I even ate dinner and enjoyed a little glass of the Poully Fuisse I had been saving for months. I do not know. A few days later I woke up and had a shadow of the same feeling. Perhaps I’ve been poisoned.
Rescue me Cary Grant!