Transporting butter across state lines with the intent to combine with intoxicating liquors. Not a crime, but it should be, given how balmy and festive hot buttered rums are, particularly when made with homemade butter. They are just the thing whether the thunder is shaking the house on a wet Oregon Coast night (our experience the last few days) or the heavy, white clouds are laying down their fifth foot of snow today or you are all together at last. Pick up a bottle of serious rum and mash together the base, most of the ingredients for which you likely have on hand. Then wrap yourself in a downy blanket, cue my favorite Christmas song, and sip away. Happy Christmas, gentle readers.
Category Archives: Drinks
My love affair with dairy fat has been going on for at least three decades behind metals beaters pirouetted in pillows of cream and slippery pieces of butter-stained paper.
As it turns out, my earliest memory in the kitchen is of the most famed dairy fat of all—butter. I am standing at my grandmother’s refrigerator, its long, almond-colored right door pushed back entirely, reaching on my tiptoes for a stick of butter. Curling my little fingers over the smooth, vellum-like wrapping, I persevere until I nudge it off the shelf and onto the floor. I rescue the austere little package from the linoleum and pull back paper slowly, expectantly, and hold the slick sheet in one hand and the pale yellow brick in the other.
Ritual. Repetition with meaning. To begin, it is a single act. In the dark, cool bedroom, I wake up to see Elinor sitting, watching me sleep. I hug her, and she settles her head into the nook where my torso and shoulder meet. She sings quiet, delicate songs to herself. We stay here for minutes; soon a half hour has passed. A memorable morning. This was last Wednesday. Each morning since she has done the same. A ritual. A child’s ritual, more fleeting since interests morph in perpetuity.
Some rituals are less overtly meaningful. Each Saturday morning just before eight o’clock and as Elinor and I head to the market, Dave walks five blocks to get his weekly cup of dark, heady coffee and then walks three more to the boulange, where the smell of baking brioche lingers as he waits for them to finish making his sandwich: soft, pungent Cambozola and crisp slices of pear pressed into a still-warm walnut baguette. I like to think that this is his time to spend with his city and his thoughts.