Twelfth Night…an evening of near misses and goodbye to Christmas lights

I’m sure I’ve told this story before, but my family marks Epiphany in a way I’ve never heard of anywhere else. We each take a small branch of the Christmas tree and throw it on the fire, making a wish for the coming year. The youngest person starts, and the rotation goes by age (I’m always last). When I was a child, we had neighbors that I considered my aunt and uncle. They spoiled me outrageously, bought at least half the clothes I wore, and generally made me the daughter they’d never have. She, Auntie E., introduced my family to this custom. Auntie E. was a devout Catholic, so I doubt this came from her religious background. Who knows? It’s just a nice custom, one that I hope someday Jacob will carry on with his family. The other grandchildren are never around on Twelfth Night.

Tonight, as always, we had our burning ceremony, but it was a little abbreviated. Jordan and Christian had a big “event” to go to, so we gathered at five. The hostess declared it was a one-drink party, and indeed, I was back in my cottage by 5:45. In recent years, neighbors Jay and Susan, Phil and Subie have joined us, and that was the plan this year, But Susan was riding the horse she’s training—or the horse that’s training her. As we gathered, Subie and Phil texted that they were on their way to the emergency vet with Phil’s retired seeing-eye dog, Santiago, who had eaten some arthritis medicine. Jordan said it looked like they wouldn’t join us at all, so we proceeded with our twig burning. I tried twice, hit behind the fire once, to the side the other time (I’m getting self-conscious about this) so Jacob picked up my branch and threw it in the flames Does that count? Will my wish come true? Shhh I’ll never tell what it was.

Subie and Phil had planned to join me in the cottage for supper. In fact, they were bringing the supper. I had meant to fix shakshuka, a Tunisian dish of eggs in a tomato sauce. I think Subie feared that would leave Phil hungry, so she was going to bring left-over chicken divan. In their absence I made myself a big salad and buttered some baguette slices. Jacob still hasn’t checked in for supper, but I’ve told him I have a cereal he likes. He’s happily watching a movie.

Supper was therefore a near-miss. The cheese spread I tried was a total miss. Sounded so good—grated cheddar, sour cream, a bit of wine, horseradish. I bought potato chips to dip it. First of all, it was too runny; second, it just wasn’t good. Overnight in the fridge didn’t help it at all. Not even a recipe I could fiddle with to improve. It goes in the trash.

My next near miss was my computer. With a solitary evening, I planned to blog, finish the book I’m reading online, check Facebook. The computer wouldn’t turn on. In retrospect, I think the problem was my impatience—I turned it on; not sure I turned it on, I repeated and got to the point I wasn’t sure if I was turning it on or off. Finally, after a frantic call to Brandon, computer genius/son-in-law, I walked away from it. It turned on, and all is well. Another near miss.

As I write I still have no word on Santiago. He’s a twelve-year-old lab, a sweet, loveable, goofy guy who is an incurable food thief. I can’t imagine that the arthritis medicine tasted very good, but Santiago’s palate is apparently all-forgiving. Fingers crossed, payers said that this too is a near miss.

Theoretically, tonight is the last night for Christmas lights. I’m as scornful as anyone of people who leave their lights on in February. Jordan and Christian will have to take their tree down sooner rather than later because it is very dry. I am strangely reluctant to give up the small artificial tree in the cottage and the lighted glass brick, but I will. Still, I’m going to keep the scattered green lights that sparkle like a screen outside my French doors. I may just keep them all year.