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| It is still Christmas in the cottage and will be until Twelfth Night, January 6. I like Santa Mac with his poinsettias. |
It
wouldn’t be bad at all, in my mind, if today set the tone for 2022—for me. I
speak for no one else. Sophie went out way too early but came back in quickly,
and I went back to bed for a nice, long doze. Sometimes I think dozing in the
morning is the best part of sleeping, But then I was up, getting ready for the
day, finishing cooking my black-eyed peas, making cornbread, and fixing myself
a stupendous New Year’s brunch—a baked egg. I put a slice of thin white bread
in a greased ramekin, added the spinach left from last night’s supper and then
grated sharp cheddar. Then I made a nest, cracked the egg into it, and added
salt and pepper. Usually directions for baking eggs suggest covering it with a
thin topping of milk or cream to prevent the egg from drying out. I didn’t have
that, so I plopped a dollop of sour cream on it. So good.
I got
an early nap—note that I always work that into my plans—and then was up and
ready for the party that wasn’t. Jean came by for her required dose of peas
about four, and just as she left two couples arrived, both of whom had said
they’d come if they could sit on the patio. Since by then the temperature had
dropped to the mid-forties and the wind was strong, the patio was out. Much
discussion—mask or not? We finally didn’t. They are all vaccinated and boosted
and pretty careful about where they go. We had happy hour with black-eyed peas
and cornbread.
Cooking
peas doesn’t come naturally to me. I’d never had them until I moved to Texas,
and for years after that I resisted, quite convinced I wouldn’t like them. I
may have said this already, but as an introduction, I made Hoppin’ John. Now I
like them just plain, with seasonings. Some people claim they taste like dirt
but I don’t see that--have they not washed them thoroughly? Tonight my peas received
praise, including from one man whose partner had served him canned but individually
seasoned peas, and he had rejected them as inferior. He pronounced mine they
way they should be—and I did cook fresh peas. The cornbread didn’t fare so well—I
made that Jiffy recipe where you add butter, sour cream, and sugar. Subie dismissed
it as northern, though I always thought the sugar made it southern. I do
remember “up north” making cornbread that had yeast and honey in it—from a
Rodale cookbook. (The Rodale Institute in Pennsylvania pioneered research into
organic agriculture, and my mom, a fan of Adelle Davis, was all about Rodale
stuff.)
It
struck me today that all the voices I heard in the two online writing groups I
belong to—one small, one huge with 800 members—were about how awful 2021 was
and how they couldn’t wait to boot it out the door. I didn’t find it nearly as
difficult or scary as 2020, but maybe that’s just me. Despite Delta and
Omicron, we got a better handle on the virus and many more of us are vaccinated—is
it wrong to say, “a pox on those who won’t vaccinate for the good of the
community”? The economy is up, unemployment down, our international prestige
recovering. Personally I published two books, had two wonderful get-togethers
with my sprawling family, and enjoyed many happy moments. So, yes, I’m glad to
welcome 2022, but I won’t besmirch 2021, although I know several who had
personal tragedies and lost loved ones and I grieve with them.
Still,
for reasons I can’t explain, I feel optimistic about 2022. I have my own
ambitions and goals, I think Joe Biden has as steady a hand as possible on the
lever of government, I think the crazies are diminishing in number and voice
(though the extremism is scary).
The
best explanation I’ve seen for optimism comes from a cartoon. One
unidentifiable creature says to the next, “Aren’t you terrified of 2022, with
all the confusion and evil in the world? What do you think the new year will
bring?” (This is a rough re-creation.) The second creature, busily doing
something, says, “I think it will bring flowers.” The first demands, “How can
you think that?” and the second replies, “I am planting flowers.”
Some
things are beyond us—like the pandemic—but we too can plant flowers. We are not
just hapless, helpless beings caught on a ship out of control. We can steer much
of our future—and one way is to make our voice heard in the upcoming political
campaigns and elections. Even beyond that, we can personally work to make sure
2022 is good for ourselves, our families, our neighbors.
Remember
Molly Ivins’ words: “Keep fighting for freedom
and justice,
beloveds, but don't forget to have fun doin' it. Lord, let your laughter ring
forth.”
Have a great 2022!
