"I was just thinking of a flaming rum punch...Wait a minute...wait a minute... Mulled wine, heavy on the cinnamon and light on the cloves. Off with you, me lad, and be lively!"
Our first attempt at celebrating Christmas Jewishly went pretty well for the most part, except for the failed attempt at Glogg.
This is what it's supposed to look like, but thanks to an awful online recipe, hubby, the official Glogg-maker, put whiskey in with the red wine, leaving the party-goers cringing, bewildered and altogether aghast. "Who puts whiskey in wine?" someone I gave birth to asked. I blamed the recipe. Why take responsibility when others are technically at fault? But then, a French salvation tip, courtesy of our delightful daughter-in-law.
"Burn the whiskey off," she said. And soon the concoction was ablaze. The room erupted with "oooohhhh" and "awwww" and "uh-oh, where's the fire extinguisher?" Alas, the incendiary spectacle produced unspectacular results. "We'll do better next year," we promised, but just between us, we're never making Glogg again. We quickly went back to champagne, a smart move considering the next failed attempt to merge a little Hanukkah into the Xmas mix.
"Who needs to fry latkes?" I asked nobody in particular. "You can make them in the oven." It sounded so simple, and yet, it was another epic fail. No matter how many times I opened the oven, no miracle occurred. And soon the mushy mess was deep-frying on the stove, resulting in what the eldest son kept referring to as "hash browns, Ma." Once again, I blamed the online recipe. We quickly transitioned to dessert --
buche de noel and Christmas cookies -- a smashing success which the youngest cruelly gave me credit for "not making, Ma." "Fine, I didn't make dessert, but I made you, so there." "Ho, ho, ho, Ma." "Ho, ho ho, yourself."
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