I always advised students to choose a simple word rather than an impressive one they found in a thesaurus. (This was before Googling.) Nevertheless, I laughed at this one in the NY Times this morning: “the defenestrated secretary of homeland security.” I took a couple of years of Spanish in high school and I remembered that fenestra means window. So, she got thrown out the window. Perfect.

Must cook black-eyed peas for good luck on New Year’s Day. I have this much left over from last year, so I’ll use another cup this year. I’ll make my version of “Hoppin’ John,” because I think plain, black-eyed peas are pretty awful.

I should use andouille sausage, but I use Polish sausage instead. (Kielbasa. Remember my mother-in-law’s maiden name was Osinski!) Onions. Garlic. The sausage. And some kind of greens. Collards would be authentic. You’re supposed to rinse the peas and soak them overnight. Some places you can buy them in a can or frozen. The winter I lived in Buffalo, I couldn’t get them in any form at all. Florence Osinski Urbanski thought I was a weird girl from “The South.” True.

I’m delivering some to Susan who is from Georgia.  Being Susan, she researched the story and symbolism in Hoppin’ John.  She readily admits, much of it may be a folk tale. I’ll also deliver some to Barb who planned to come over and have supper with me but has a bad cold. I can’t help but think about how neither of them will be in my life if I live into my 90’s. Auld lang Syne.

Make some cornbread to go with. Good luck and Happy New Year.

And  into Wyoming a bit too. Fauna domestic and wild, food porn, coziness.

One day, we went to Livingston to the dog park where Juno and Fern met up with some friends and had a great time next to the beautiful Yellowstone River.  Then into town to browse our favorite thrift store and to have amazing pizza at Gil’s.

Next day from the dog’s hike, Elizabeth brought home lots of greenery.  We had juniper covered with lots of blue berries  and red rose hips.

That interesting 2×4 from the bannister to the window sill deserves an explanation.  It’s an actual catwalk.  The kitties use it to get to their window ledge lookout.

And a Christmas corner

That star in the window was a find in the thrift shop.

Next day we drove into Yellowstone and had lunch in the lodge in Mammoth .

Christmas tree in the lodge.

Delicious lunch before heading south into the park to see all kinds of amazing wildlife.

Emigrant Peak from Elizabeth’s place in Pray, Montana

Wonderful fauna back home too. Fern, the newest family member, loves to look out at the goats and chickens next door.

Spent lots of time in front of the fire.

Cheered on the Chiefs to no avail.

Lots of home-cooked food.   Some of it eaten on vintage Currier and Ives dishes.

Yummy salad with home-sourced pumpkin, arugula, feta, bacon, pomegranate.

My corn pudding was a complete failure at that altitude.

Nevertheless, hunger did not play a part.

Making the Bučhe de Noël

And then, before I knew it, It was time to head home.  Amazingly, all the details of a complicated trip went like clockwork.  When I got back home, it all seemed surreal.

Jiggity Jig.

I grew up in a sweet little house on a dirt road in Oklahoma.  The only live music I ever heard was the high school marching band.

One weekend when I was about twelve, we were taken to Oklahoma City on a big yellow school bus for a “cultural” field trip.  I heard an orchestra for the first time.  Tears rolled down my face.  I didn’t move.  I didn’t want my classmates to think I was a complete idiot.  I was already viewed as a very odd child.

Last night, my dear friend Marion decided to stay home and gave me her symphony ticket.  I was delighted!  It was a program I really wanted to hear, but symphony tickets aren’t really in my budget.

Politics aside, I am blown away when, with no announcement, the orchestra begins to play “The Star Spangled Banner” and everyone stands up and sings.  It is mostly an old audience here in Salem when the Oregon Symphony performs here so we all know the words.  The big auditorium at Willamette is always sold out.

And when the orchestra began to play their opening number there were those same awed, girlish tears.

I’m glad that’s still who I am.