Claire's World
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Thursday, January 01, 2004 ( 4:28 PM ) Greg Griffith James Lileks writes that it's a peculiarly American thing to celebrate the eve of New Year's rather than the day itself. He also writes that New Year's is probably the worst of all the holidays we celebrate: New Year’s Eve fails, in the end; it scours the land clean of lingering Christmas, but it has nothing to offer after that. No one wakes up on New Year’s Day thinking warmly of the New Year’s Days they knew as a child. Ah yes, Mom used to make those special New Year’s Biscuits, and Dad always played our favorite New Year’s songs on a comb and a tissue. I still remember his stirring, buzzy renditions of “Yea, We Hobble Toward’st the Tomb” and “The January Jig.” No. Just headaches, a sodden tux wadded in the corner of the closet, cold cereal and Bowl Games. Oh, look. Nevada Tech is playing Oregon U in the D-Con Bowl. Goodie. I prefer to find my melancholy in the fact that this is the third New Year's that has passed since Claire has been born, which seems cruelly impossible when you realize she is the living embodiment of newness and innocence, unravaged by the years in both body and spirit. But we put on the proverbial dog, albeit in our own quiet and introspective way. Yes, we shot a few low-intensity fireworks on the front yard last night (sparklers, Roman candles, bottle rockets and jumping jacks), but inside we cooked a 7-lb standing rib roast to rosy perfection, served with braised carrots and red cabbage, and preceded by a slab of pate and toasted homemade dill bread. We drank a 2000 Whitehall Cabernet, a $40 pomposity given to me in exchange for some computer-type expertise (a huge disappointment, it cowered in mediocrity behind the $15 Leasingham Clare Valley Shiraz we had the night before). At midnight with Claire barely asleep we cracked a bottle of Mumm, which we hadn't had in years, and which was much sweeter than we remembered. We snacked on tiger butter and watched the clowns on every other television channel. Today, after drifting in and out of yet another interminable Rose Parade (brought to you without commercial interruption!... oh God, for the sweet release of a Mentos spot...), we managed to sit down to lunch at about three o'clock, after teaching Claire how to sift for treasure in her sandbox outside. Turnip greens, blackeyed peas, grits and venison grillades. A 1999 St. Supery Cabernet was an improvement over the Whitehall, but made me long for that Leasingham Shiraz again. I'm told there's some football on television, but after watching my Eagles succumb to Utah yesterday, the only game I can muster any interest over is Ole Miss tomorrow in the Cotton Bowl. I plan to lift the stopper on our decanter of bourbon, inhale gently, then sip on some water while Eli picks apart the OSU secondary. -- # |
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