A few years ago I won a competition (and a bunch of really nice egg-shaped Denby dishes), for this snack. It was actually the first time I made food for a Superbowl party, and I was anxious to get things authentically, respectfully correct. I turned to Google to gin up on the basics. Wings. Ribs. Pizza. Dip. Chili. Fried things with cheese. And pizza wonton bites just popped into my head.
Burns Night is a celebration of the poet responsible for such classic literary hits as A Red Red Rose, and Address to a Haggis. If you’re Scottish, like my husband, it’s an unmissable opportunity to drink whisky and say things like “Och” – i.e., a day much like any other, really.
My Aunty Jennifer, of accidental sex grass fame, has been taking part in another biological experiment.
A few winters ago my sister and I put our names on the waiting list at Serendipity. Apparently it might take a while. So we went to Bloomingdales for an hour. Yeah, it was still going to take a while. So we traveled to the island and back on the tram, then we hung around for a bit, and went to Starbucks, and hung around some more, and eventually, finally, our number was up. Our table looked as though it had been designed by a 6 year old girl, which I mean as a huge complement. We ordered frozen hot chocolate. It was totally, totally worth the wait.
Frozen Hot Chocolate (per cup)1 large scoop of ice cream (I like vanilla, Jon prefers chocolate) ½ bar of good quality dark chocolate 1 cup of milk 1 tsp brown sugar or honey 1 cinnamon stick
- Scoop a large ball of ice cream onto a tray and place in the freezer to get super cold
- Meanwhile, heat the milk, sugar and cinnamon in a saucepan until nearly boiling then take off the heat
- Break up the chocolate and drop into the pan
- Count to 30, then whisk the melted chocolate into the milk (returning to the heat if necessary)
- Pour into a mug, then float the ice cream on top
“I don’t want to be a King,” protested Arthur, when told that he had to participate in the annul family nativity show. “I don’t want to and you can’t make me.”
Overheard at 42nd street station.
As New Year’s Eve approaches, and the mulled wine flows at family gatherings, it’s time to look back at 2012. A year of dramatic career changes, of greencards, of supper clubs, of friends with new babies, of family visits, of singing, of running, of buying a fancy new laptop, of lobster rolls and discovering the local wine shop would deliver magnums of red wine for free anytime of the day or night.
Christmas is a time for nativities, pantomimes, ballets and shows. All of my nieces and nephews have been treading the boards over the last couple of weeks, being snowmen and angels, playing carols on the recorder, dancing to Jingle Bell Rock. It was ever thus, I suppose. When we were children my sister and I hardly had an evening off in December, such was our heavy schedule of choir concerts, narrator-ing and dressing up as shepherds.
The other day I was trying on potential Christmas Dresses in Ann Taylor Loft and the following music tracks played in this order: