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new year's eve feast
The wife came home Friday evening a little flustered.
The grocery store was closed. And, I mean, in our community, that means the grocery store was closed.
On New Year's Eve, I could see closing at 5 o'clock, but the day before New Year's Eve?
So, naturally she was a little concerned about being able to buy the supplies we would need for our New Year's celebration. (Which, I suspect is quite mild by most western standards). Not to mention all the perishables we need to stock up on after our Christmas trip. (Notice that was our Christmas trip, not "holiday" trip. I for one hate to be politically correct, especially when it happens to agree with fundamentalists of any sort, but for us, this season is about Christmas. Even though I did jokingly suggest to the wife that we take along at least one of our Menorrahs. She declined.)
So, New Year's Eve afternoon finds the wife and I grocery shopping. Intentionally timed to coincide with the first half of the big football game for the region's professional team.
And do we find the nearly vacant store we expected?
Nope.
Ran into at least three women we know, all there for the same reason... last minute supplies, and they figured now was the best time to go, because of course everyone else would be watching the football game.
Surprise, surprise. Place was unusually crowded for a Saturday.
Did eavesdrop on a conversation between a customer and store employee. Seems they were closed Friday evening for the store's "holiday" party.
Aaanyway, we found everything we needed, and a few things we didn't. Then it was home for a delightful dinner of the wife's special scones.
Complete with Hartley's raspberry jam from Scotland, and Robertson's lemon curd from England.
Yum.
Then it came time for the New Year's Eve treat, a tradition passed down in the wife's family.
Boiled shrimp.
Cooled to almost frozen by fifteen minutes before midnight, peeled and then dipped into her own special horseradish sauce.
Yum, again.
The heelers had a hard time deciding if these boiled crustaceans were really food. The mother, who any other time snaps at anything moving within six inches of her mouth, turned her nose up at every offered bite. The little maskless heeler snubbed her first offering, but took every bite afterwards, begging eagerly for more.
Her masked sister took only little bits, and only if they came from the tail.
I don't know why.
Both sisters preferred the wife's crackers.
But when all was said and done, the plates carted off to the kitchen, the masked heeler looked up at me, as if to say...
"Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of a second dinner at midnight."
"But does it have to be bugs?"