Merry Christmas.

Survived church. Cooked dinner in my Christmas gift (will post soon) and am watching "White Christmas" with Queen's Mom. Hope my readers are safe, warm and with the ones they love this night. MUSFM. Merry Christmas, all. -Queen.

Christmas Cheer all around

I had to step out of the family home to get my posts up, and check my email, and I ended up at the Cyber Cafe in Tatamy PA. It seems today is their Christmas party. The door opened, and I walked into a room of people sitting around, having snacks and coffee and laughing. They welcomed me in like I was one of their own, and I feel like I've been part of the crowd for a long time. I even got a present!! Many thanks to my new friends at the Cyber Cafe!!

How the Queen worships.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and in good faith and spirit toward my fellow man, I am going to church. And because Queen Mom said I had to. She didn’t really, but when I don’t go, I get the guilts, so I’m just going to suck it up and go celebrate the birth of Jesus with the rest of the parishioners. I’m not religious. Although I am sure so many of you are in awe of my firm grasp of the true meaning of Hanukah, and are floored that I am not a religious scholar, I have to come clean and tell you, I’m just not a church-goer. Of course, I’ve gone to church, and temple and stuff. When I was a kid, I went with my friend Terry who’s family belonged to a Greek Orthodox church, and thought the windows were cool, and the carvings, and of course, the big organ. Sometimes the sermon caught my attention, but mostly I would watch what people were doing in the pews, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. I went to a lot of weddings, and funerals, and some of those were in churches. I never felt like I was where I belonged when I was in them. Because I think, I was expecting to feel like I did. When I got older, I grew more and more uncomfortable in churches, and it stressed me out a little bit, and after a while, I just stopped going to things that were held in them. I wasn’t married in a church (which looking back, may have been a huge error, because if that had been the only option, I would have skipped that travesty completely.) But tomorrow, I will go with my mom and my auntie to church, and I will lament the small cracker and tiny bit of wine that Jesus wants me to have. But I think I will also chill out a little this time, and just sit there instead of expecting to feel something. Unless there is a cute guy next to me. Then I might try to catch some thigh.

We're having what?

Christmas. Family, togetherness, peace and joy. Uh-huh. More like good luck doing what you want when you want how you want. In my family, one thing holds reign over all else. Tradition. The Christmas feast consists of the same thing every year, and hey, that’s great. But, when one of the family members becomes a chef, which by definition, means “one who plans, prepares and serves food for consumption by people who are willing to PAY for it,” and said chef offers to make something for the Christmas table, and is told, “Uh, but we have so much food already” well, that’s where I take offense. You mean there’s not a spot for some cuisine by the Queen between the pickles, deviled eggs, potato chips and sandwiches on Sunbeam bread? Really? Really? Well, just fine. If you can’t beat them, join them, I s’pose. After much begging, I was finally allowed (allowed!!!) to make the coveted “Bar-B-Q’d” Hot Dogs. Yes. Hot dogs are on the Christmas menu. I know. You’re all wildly jealous and wish you knew exactly where this Holiday Mecca was…. Sorry. Can’t give that info out. You’d never find it anyway. No internet, no Starbucks, no internet, did I say there was no internet? (I do know where to get your deer meat ground up, though.) As I got all ready for my big cooking extravaganza, I was handed a little plastic covered recipe card and told not to deviate. Holy Christmas cookies. What? I nervously eyed the recipe, and all the measuring involved. Teaspoons and tablespoons and cups, oh my. Really not my style at all. Not to mention the hot dog situation. My aunt placed a blender on the counter that easily rivaled me in age, and advised me of the best way to approach the recipe. I found myself becoming oddly childlike, asking questions like, “how big do I chop this onion before I put it in the relic of a blender?” and “Is this heaping teaspoon heapy enough?” Slowly, like reverting back to an embryo, I forgot everything I knew about cooking, and worked just to make the Bar-B-Q’d hot dogs taste just like they do every year. I sure didn’t want to hear “Hey, the hot dogs I remember since birth taste different this year” and someone whispering back, “Yes, The QUEEN of CUISINE came just to ruin our Christmas.” No, I sure don’t need to hear that. This is the same family, mind you, that I once made hummus for, and I swear, the word spread so fast through the Fourth of July party that some crazy person made something with GARLIC in it I’m surprised I didn’t find them all cowering in a corner. No one touched it. Makes me think I may be living in a family of vampires. Once I brought Sam Adams (the beer, not the guy) to a family gathering and was immediately marked as a “fancy” beer drinker. Maybe the mailman was a foodie.

Two Queens. One kitchen. A great result.

I don't often share kitchen space, but over the past year or so, I've learned two things. A.) it's fun and 2.) I have so much to learn. And I almost NEVER share my monikker of Queen. But, now, it's only fair. Because my BFF is easily the Queen of Baking. She measures. She sifts. She sets a timer. What the hell? So, while I whipped up a simple breakfast pastry dough, and let it rise over night for my lame-ass cinnamon bread, the wheels must have been spinning in her baker's brain. As we looked at it together this morning, smelling it's yeasty goodness and imagining the possiblities, I explained my plan. "Let's make Monkey Bread!" she said. Hmmmmm. Most of my experience with monkey bread has been well, not so great. I've never created such a thing, and one time I saw one and I guess it was premade biscuit dough cut up and dipped in butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar and piled into a heap. And I think it was called something less charming than monkey bread. Donkey balls?  I don't remember what it was called, I just recall some crazy chick bringing it into work about 12 years ago and I steered clear. Even before my culinary snobbery was born, my snobbery in general was quite strong. ST2 mentioned monkey bread a few weeks ago and I scoffed. Briefly, I thought of firing him. So, when BFF said monkey bread, it occured to me that maybe, just maybe, it was time to rethink this whole situation. Who says monkey bread has to be from an exploding can of fake dough? Why can't it be a sublime home-made dough rolled out flat, rubbed with softened butter, generously coated with cinnamon sugar, rolled up tight and sliced into little rounds? Then, we took each round, rolled them into balls, dipped them in melted butter and coated them with more cinnamon sugar. They were then layered in a bundt pan, and piled high. After baking them off in a 400 degree oven for about 35 minutes, we had a pretty miraculous looking monkey bread. But we decided to name it Two Queen's Breakfast Bread. I mean, really. Monkey? Hardly. Although, everyone did go bananas for it.

Oy to the world.

It's my second year celebrating Hanukah. It's a fabulous time, lighting the candles, mumbling the prayer I only know the beginning of because of Woody Allen movies, and getting a present just because. Yay, God! Even more to my liking is the tasty food. Tonight's treat was brisket and latkes, a quite traditional meal, indeed. For those of you who don't know, the historical reason for this meal is as follows... Back in the day, the Jewish people had a special lamp called the Eternal Light. There was also a powerful and mean guy who didn't like the Jewish people very much, and he really didn't care for their fabulous candle. Since the Jewish people did not have a king to protect them, and no army to speak of, the mean guy made all these big statues of Greek gods in the Jewish temple, and made the Jewish people bow down to them. Five pretty brave dudes, the Maccabee bros, did not do so. So, the mean guy took his army and tried to strong arm the Jewish folks, and the Maccabees got everyone to do the Three Amigos thing where everyone fought like the wind, and they defeated the mean guy's army and got their temple back. However, the Eternal Light, which was so important, had gone out. Using what little oil they had left, the Jewish people relit the lamp while they sent out for some more and cleaned up the mess the mean guy made of their beloved temple. It would take eight days to get new oil, but they only had enough for the lamp to burn a short while. Miraculously, the oil kept the lamp burning for eight days, until the new oil showed up. Hanukah celebrates the oil burning for those eight nights. The crispy, tasty potato latkes are cooked in oil, which is in homage to the miracle oil which burned so long. While we used canola oil, because it is better tasting and better for you than lamp oil, I am sure we did a fabulous job honoring the potato, and the tradition of Hanukah. The brisket, well, that's something to go with the latkes....  Happy Hanukka, everyone. Time to make the Sufganiyot.

Happy Hanukkah!