The Eggnog and I

Or: You Never Forget Your First Time

It was the first Christmas after my brother’s death in October and holiday spirits were far from an all-time family high. I’d hoped the season would pass quietly and without comment, but my father and stepmother Holly had other ideas. They thought perhaps spending time among good friends in a festive atmosphere would ease the pain of the previous several months or at least wrap its jagged edges in a blanket of good old fashioned Yuletide cheer.

So we put aside our mourning for a night and went to a party.

The venue was the home of Holly’s high school friend Sharon and her husband Felix*. It was a large, comfortable house located a little too near the birthplace of Richard Nixon for my taste, but I was willing to overlook that fact in exchange for all the shrimp cocktail, bourbon weenies, and alcohol I could consume. The atmosphere was about as festive as it could be, but the good friends were those of my parents. My sister and I didn’t know a soul and yet everyone seemed to have been made aware of our family’s tragedy. There are only so many times I can hear “I’m so sorry for your loss”, however well meaning, before foam starts collecting at the corners of my mouth. After about an hour of this, I’d reached my limit and was about to make an escape to a quieter room when the first of what I consider the two greatest events of the evening happened: The Wheeling in of Grandpa.

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An elderly man was pushed through the crowd in a wheelchair and gently parked against a wall to a chorus of quiet oohs and ahhs, as though no one had ever seen anyone so impossibly ancient before. A few people approached him and shouted their hellos very slowly like the young always do to the old and then, after a few minutes, he was just left there on the sidelines, scanning the room with his one good eye and fumbling with a paper Christmas-themed cocktail napkin in his tremorous, veiny hands. I say “his one good eye” because the place where his other eye may or may not have been was covered by a black patch held in place by a coordinating band of black elastic. I was so busy wondering whether or not the poor fellow was monocular that I had hardly noticed his left leg was missing from the knee down when the second of the two great events happened: The Presentation of the Eggnog.

There was nothing remotely theatrical about drinking eggnog at our house. My mother would buy a carton and shove it in the fridge and that was pretty much it. In this house, the eggnog demanded everyone’s full attention as the lights were dimmed and Sharon carefully made her way to the table against the wall, the one next to the eyeless, legless old man. We all watched slack-jawed as the silky egg white foam gently crested up but never over the sides of the enormous crystal punch bowl. It was obvious she’d done this many times before and the second round of oohs and ahhs was much louder.

This was clearly a tradition.

I made two very important realizations soon after the bowl was deposited safely on the table: 1) I had never considered the existence of homemade eggnog until that moment and 2) That poor old man had been parked beneath— and this is my favorite bit— a parrot cage.

Robert Newton: The man responsible for thinking all pirates come from Dorset.

Did they mean to turn him into a pirate? I mean they must have, but not one single person commented on the fact that there was an eye patch-wearing, leg-missing antique geezer sitting next to the punch bowl with a parrot hovering over his shoulder.

My sister found her way next to me, eggnog in hand.

“Did you notice him over there?” I asked quietly, nodding in Long John Silver’s general direction.

“Yeah,” she said. “What about him?” Clearly, she was not seeing what I saw.

“What do you make of him? The eye patch, the leg, the parrot…”

“Oh my god.” was her very appropriate response. Now she was seeing what I did.

We stood there for a moment, drinking our eggnog and trying not to stare at the accidental pirate. For me, it was the greatest moment of the night and exactly what I needed— an absurd observation, someone to share it with, and a delicious cup of booze-laced drinking custard. A short but necessary respite from grief and a new-to-me make-at-home cocktail. Just what the doctor (or in my dad’s case, dentist) ordered.

I have never been able to mentally separate eggnog from geriatric pirates since that evening. Not that I would ever want to. So I’ll just raise a cup of nog to you, my dear readers, do my very best Robert Newton impression, and hope you all survive the season.

Cheers.

*I’m giving them fake names for the sake of privacy

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Eggnog

It's a heart-stopping, cholesterol-laden, alcohol-spiked, phlegm-producing cup of holiday cheer. And so easy to make.

Serves: Four thirsty people or six less thirsty people.

Ingredients:

• 6 egg yolks
• 1/2 cup of sugar (3/4 if you like it sweet)
• 2 cups of whole milk
• 3 to 4 whole cloves
• A healthy-sized pinch of ground cinnamon
• As much freshly ground nutmeg as you dare
• 1 cup of heavy cream (you can actually omit this because I accidentally forgot to add it the first time and it was still good, but it’s the Holidays and people expect excess.)
• 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
• 1/4 cup of rum (for a more pirate-y experience), bourbon, brandy, or whatever. Pick your poison.
• 4 egg whites

Preparation:

1. Whisk egg yolks and sugar in a large bowl until light in color and fluffy. Set aside.

2. Heat milk, cloves, and cinnamon in a medium saucepan. DO NOT BOIL. Also, do not lose focus and accidentally substitute cayenne pepper for ground cinnamon like some people I know.

3. Gently whisk the hot milk into the egg yolks to temper.

4. Pour contents of the bowl into the saucepan and heat while stirring. Again, DO NOT BOIL. You are looking for the mixture to thicken a bit (think: custard). Boiling can cause curdling, which is unpleasant. However. if you do continue to cook while unfocused, don’t worry about it too much. You’re putting everything through a fine meshed sieve later.

5. Pour through a (see, I told you) fine meshed sieve into a clean bowl This will remove the cloves and curdled bits. Cover and refrigerate for about an hour.

6. Add cream (if using), vanilla extract, nutmeg, and booze of choice.

7. Whisk egg whites to a soft peak, add about a teaspoon of sugar and continue beating until they for a stiff peak. Fold into the custard mixture.

8. Pour into an appropriate-sized container (I use a large mason jar with lid) and leave alone in the refrigerator for a couple of days. This allows the flavors to mingle and mellow. The alcohol helps prevent any spoilage. However, if you are worried about consuming raw eggs (the whites are uncooked) then either drink right away or avoid eggnog entirely and forget any of this ever happened.

9. To serve, pour a moderate amount into the most festive vessels. I like to use the silver cups I bought at a flea market in Buenos Aires from the stall next to the angry-looking woman who was selling old cocaine apothecary bottles and an ancient Spanish language version of Mein Kampf. Add a pinch of fresh nutmeg for garnish, and enjoy with your favorite geriatric buccaneer.

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And hey, while I’m here, I just want to say that everyone does their Holiday Season their own way. Sometimes not at all. My habit over the past several years is to just completely shut down emotionally until the New Year dawns.

This is what I am referring to as the first sane Christmas since my father and stepmother died last year and my brain is not filled with Comfort and Joy at the moment and faking it would be both a disservice to me and an insult to your intelligence. And for the most part, my readership is very smart.

So I am wishing you as much happiness as you can either muster or allow, celebrate or don’t celebrate whatever you want, and be as well as you can be during this cold, dark, and complicated month.

I will see you on the other side and look forward to sharing more with you in the new year.

Your Spatchcock Friend,

Michael