Oh Come All Ye Fruitcakes
Friends, as you read this I am on my way
back to Rehoboth from my very first Olivia cruise—a week in the
Caribbean.
But I hardly needed the outsized (bad
choice of words) eating/drinking fest that cruises encourage. This holiday
season took the cake (that which wasn't in my mouth) for the most
calorie-laden, liquor guzzling, reflux-inducing stretch of bad gustatory
behavior I have ever been a party to. Or to a party. Dozens of them.
I'm not complaining. Rehoboth is such a
geographically small spot and there are so many community events it's
possible to enjoy several in a day.
Calculate a trio of buffets times two and a
half weekend days, times four weekends in the season and the magnitude of
cookies, egg nog, red and green M&Ms, spiral hams, and Swedish
meatballs I consumed is staggering. Don we now our big apparel.
In our house, the holidays started with
Hanukkah Matzoh Balls and potato latkes to launch the December bloat
period. Fast away the old gas passes, fa la la la la, la la la la. On
Thanksgiving weekend we bought a recumbent exercise bike, vowing to start
our regimen immediately to keep pace with Christmas cookies.
The first thing Bonnie did after plugging
the thing into the wall was trip over it, breaking two toes. Exercise out,
comfort food in.
As for me, I view exercise like
drinking—not something to be done alone. Bring on the figgy pudding.
So there were cocktail parties, Bin 66 wine
tastings, Christmas dinners, and Harry & David goodies. See the
grazing fool before us fa la la etc.
And of all the wretched holiday excess I
subjected myself to this season, a pair of events, like my thighs, loom
large.
One Sunday we enjoyed a fantastic brunch at
a friends' home with Mimosas at noon, Mimosas and entrees at 3:30, and
more Mimosas well into the evening. Following this alcohol marathon, I'm
proud to report no hangover at all from the 8-hour champagne binge. I did
however have a raging case of Acid Reflux from the f-ing orange juice.
It's a sad commentary about aging.
A second memorable holiday event was the
Apple Pie Thrown Down. Not being a Food Network foodie, I figured we were
going to throw apple pie down our throats, not unlike the rest of our
seasonal meals.
Turns out a Throw Down is a pie baking
contest. At a party of about 25 people, four contestants took the
challenge. As someone not domestically partnered with a baker, I was
included among the judges.
Lobbying us, Baker and the Sous Chefs
performed a cheerleading routine. A second baker noted her rich familial
history among pastry chefs. Still another bragged she hadn't baked a pie
in two decades (would that be humble pie?). The fourth claimed home field
advantage.All to no avail, of course, as the pies had been whisked from
their makers and labeled alphabetically for a blind taste test. Wine
withstanding, some judges were blinder than others.
To universal shock and awe, the winner was
the person who had not had her paws in pie dough since 1988 and whose
culinary repertoire consists of assembling field greens. In fact, there
was suggestion of a vast right wing conspiracy, finally debunked,
suggesting Super G collaboration.
Following the pie throwing came New Years'
Eve (O'er the fields we go, eating all the way) and more gluttony. Should
old intentions be forgot and never brought to mind? Just how many Tums can
a person take without calcifying? 10? 9? 8? 7?
Happy New Year! Let's drink a cup of Maalox
please and sing of Auld Lang Syne.
Bonnie and I resolved just about the same
thing everyone else in town resolved: back to sensible food and drink
consumption. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. We hope.
And our vow was strengthened last week when
were up in Philadelphia. Leaving an appointment, we stepped in front of a
bank of elevators, pushed the DOWN button and waited. Soon, the wide doors
opened to reveal several people already aboard. We stepped in.
As the doors closed, a booming recorded
voice warned: "The elevator is now full." Now
THAT was humiliating.
I'll get back to the stationary bike and
lean cuisine after we get back from the cruise. Of course, that's right
before Valentine's Day, followed by the Chinese New Year buffet at
Confucius, then the Rehoboth Chocolate Festival and let's face it, I
should really have my jaw wired shut. The only Throw Down I should enter
is if it's my fork.
Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth
Beach Memoir and Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach. Contact her
at www.fayjacobs.com.
|
Back to Top of Page 