Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Christmas Wrapping

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I spent Christmas Eve (Dec. 24th version) crying. I can't remember the last time in my life I cried on Christmas fucking Eve. (1999? When mom abandoned us* and left my younger sister and I to dish out a traditional Ukrainian Christmas without any prior experience? I think I was probably too damn busy to cry; this seriously might've been the first year.)

(* Towards the last few years of cohabitation with my parents holidays were always a tense affair. One year mom threw the Thanksgiving turkey onto the stovetop ("HERE'S YOUR DAMN TURKEY!") without any provocation and simply left. She grabbed the car keys and just went, it was totally new and foreign to us. We were teenagers, old enough to take care of ourselves in most respects, but it still shocked us, it still //frightened// us because that sort've behavior was so radically new and unprecedented we had no idea what to fucking think.)

Christmas Eve was bad even before it was Christmas Eve. To keep the 24th special (the 24th is when my Ukrainian family celebrated/observed Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper"), so the majority of my very fond Christmas memories all took place on the Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day) Italics takes me out for a four course Turkish dinner. (It's my once a year chance to dust off my white rabbit fur coat and wear it OUT of the house.)

It was an annual tradition that's been going strong for nearly ten years and we've NEVER missed or canceled our reservation until this fucking year. Long story short? We decided to celebrate Yule in town and caught a cold. By Christmas Eve we were both sick, miserable and snowed in. Dinner at the Turkish restaurant was axed, for the first time ever, due to bad health and bad weather.

I didn't cry when he canceled our reservation, but I was HELLA disappointed and HELLA pissed. (I had my outfit picked out FOR OVER A FUCKING MONTH! My one chance to wear my effing rabbit coat in public was GONE, and I never got to show off the gold ram head necklace Italics gave me on Yule to wear on Christmas Eve. "SDFHODFGOHGDFGSDBFGDF" pretty much sums it up.)

In a feeble attempt to balance the negative with a little positive the Universe ensured that my new (well, my new USED) computer arrived on the 24th. YAY! Although, we were promised a 24 hour courier service and it took OVER A FUCKING WEEK for the fucking computer to arrive. BOO!

Then we discovered that the new used computer wouldn't take ANY old keyboard, it had to be a very specific type which we didn't have in the house. BOO! But Italics remembered that the local grocery store carried the kind we needed, and I had a small shopping list of things so there was justification in a quick outing. YAY!

Although it was Christmas Eve (any store on the 24th - especially the grocery kind - is a nightmare and a half to be in) and the weather looked iffy (I, uh, accidentally broke the windshield wipers so we had a working car for Christmas, but not one that could be used when experiencing any sort of precipitation). BOO!

The first time I cried on Christmas Eve I was punching the steering wheel of the car and shouting "THIS ALWAYS FUCKING HAPPENS, THIS ALWAYS FUCKING HAPPENS EVERY FUCKING YEAR" as a line of cars began riding my ass because I was going slow due to NOT BEING ABLE TO SEE A GODDAMN THING BECAUSE IT HAD BEGUN SLEETING THE SECOND WE GOT IN THE FUCKING CAR AND I HAD NO FUCKING WIPERS TO TURN ON TO CLEAR THE WINDSHIELD. (It was SO BAD that I had to ROLL DOWN MY FUCKING WINDOW and literally STICK MY HEAD OUT JUST TO BE ABLE TO SEE THE ROAD AS CARS HONKED THEIR FUCKING EXHAUSTS OFF AT ME.)

I cried as cold, Scottish snow pelted my face, the disintegrating sleet mingling with the warmth of my tears as a row of headlights lined up behind me like a candlelit vigil. It was beautifully poetic, but I wasn't in the mood. I totally wasn't in the mood when standing in the housewares section, either, but I saw Italics was making THE FACE ("OH, GOD, I HAVE TO TELL HER SOMETHING SHE DOESN'T WANT TO HEAR. HOW DO I TACTFULLY HANDLE THIS SO SHE DOESN'T GO ALL GOZER?") and I had to know why.

The grocery store didn't have the keyboard. (It was December fucking 24th in a fucking grocery store in a middle class neighborhood, but you still could've heard a pin drop the second THE FACE was explained. I have vague recollections of people instantly clearing the aisle, leaving the chick who was clearly about to lose it and the guy who was clearly desperate for the chick to NOT lose it.)

I began sniffling, feeling utterly hopeless and retarded for having gone through the PUNCHING THE STEERING WHEEL AND CRYING OUT THE OPENED WINDOW WHILE DRIVING JUST TO BE ABLE TO SEE episode for nothing. Then I realized I left my fucking grocery list ON THE FUCKING KITCHEN TABLE and I had nothing with me to remind my ass what the fuck I needed (beside the keyboard the store didn't fucking have). (<- WHEN IN DOUBT, IT CAN ALWAYS GET WORSE.)

My eyes began filling up with tears, threatening to burst over the threshold of lashes. I maybe could've possibly been okay if that Waitress's song, Christmas Wrapping (you know, the "MERRY CHRISTMAS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, BUT I THINK I'LL MISS THIS ONE THIS YEAR" song), hadn't come on, but it did because the Universe likes to remind me that my life's a fucking reality TV show that never gets old.

(ADMITTEDLY, THERE'S SOMETHING WONDERFULLY LOLTASTIC ABOUT A WOMAN HAVING A MELT DOWN IN A CROWDED GROCERY STORE ON CHRISTMAS EVE AS THAT PARTICULAR CHRISTMAS SONG PLAYS IN THE BACKGROUND. <- PSST! HOLLYWOOD! CALL ME! I HAVE NEARLY THIRTY EFFING YEARS OF ANECDOTES I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING WITH! WE'LL BE BATHING IN A SWIMMING POOL FILLED WITH GOLD (AND GHOSTS OF PAST TEARS AND DESOLATE DESPAIR, BUT STILL...GOLD!).)

The second time I cried on Christmas Eve was in the housewares aisle of Tesco as people tried not to notice. No keyboard, no computer. No shopping list, no Christmas. No dinner reservation, no sexy gown, no gold ram necklace or white rabbit fur coat. No windshield wipers. Miraculously, I remembered every fucking thing on the list except one thing we needed most - deicer. (Since we didn't have working wipers we had to spray the windshield with deicer before squeegeeing the excess moisture off.)

Italics was absolutely certain that this other store, just an intersection or two away, had the sort've keyboard we needed. And since the chance of SOMETHING was better than the absolute of NOTHING I decided - tears and all - to make the tiny track across to the other shopping center. He left me in the tiny housewares section and found me (with the keyboard we needed tucked under an arm) in the housewares section, stroking enamel coated casserole pots covetously.

"OH, WOW," I cooed, caressing the silky smooth exterior of the lid, "LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL THEY ARE! THEY'RE JUST BIG ENOUGH TO FIT A SMALL ROAST OR A SMALL CHICKEN IN! I COULD BROWN SHIT IN THE POT, AND THEN JUST PUT THE FUCKING LID ON AND THROW IT STRAIGHT IN THE OVEN!"

(My only stovetop and oven safe cookware's this gigantic coffin shaped vessel that easily fits a huge fucking chicken split in two. To slow cook anything meant browning something in a frying pan and transferring the food to a oven friendly pot. That meant messing up more pots and pans than necessary, transferring partially cooked, warm food into a cold dish and losing whatever caramelized brown bits I couldn't completely scrape from the frying pan. But the enamel set? It meant I could brown food in it and then simply chuck it in the oven. No excess dishes, no warm food being transferred to something cold and no loss of caramelized flavor. It was instant love (and, admittedly, pathetic desire).)

We went in for a keyboard, we came out with a keyboard and a piece of enamel cookware. "ARE YOU SURE IT'S OKAY?" I badgered him as he carried the box through the store to the checkout, and then as he was paying for things, and then in the car and then once again at home. He assured me it was, as if that wasn't, you know, already evident thanks to the picture above. I vowed that I'd properly christen it with something special, something I wouldn't have otherwise been able to pull off with just one pot.

I was originally going to make Chicken Margeno in my gift (I mean, it WAS a gift - part unwrapped Christmas gift, part unwrapped pity gift), but there was no way in hell I was going to fit an entire chicken (cut up in eight pieces) in one layer in the pot. The idea was scraped, and I've spent almost every day since racking my brain (and excavating the freezer) to find something suitable until IT finally appeared in the form of a frozen piece of lamb shank with a side of shoulder two days ago.

"I'M GOING TO BROWN THE LAMB IN SMOKED BACON GREASE, AND THEN GENTLY POACH THE JOINT IN A HOMEMADE WHITE WINE-BASED TOMATO SAUCE IN A VERY LOW OVEN FOR A VERY LONG TIME IN THAT ENAMEL POT YOU GOT ME FOR CHRISTMAS," I matter-of-factly informed Italics, because all cooking ventures are V. SRS BUSINESS and are addressed at least several times when we're taking a bong break together (whether he's interested or not).

And that's exactly what I did. After lovingly washing the pot and lid with warm soapy water I dried it and slowly warmed the vessel on the stovetop. (WHICH TOTALLY GOES AGAINST MY "HURRY, HURRY, NOW, NOW!" ATTITUDE WITH EVERYTHING. UNFORTUNATELY, FOR ME, IF YOU RUSH HEATING UP THIS SORT'VE COOKING POT YOU RISK CHIPPING THE ENAMEL COATING. OWNING, USING AND TAKING CARE OF THIS KIND'VE COOKWARE WILL BE A LESSON IN MUCH NEEDED PATIENCE.)

Once it warmed my beloved bacon grease went in (THERE IS NO LOVE LIKE A UKRAINIAN WOMAN'S LOVE FOR ANYTHING BACON RELATED, SERIOUSLY) I browned the small piece of lamb on all sides until colored and then, without having to transfer ANYTHING, I simply poured in the still hot tomato sauce. And that was it. (Well, sort've. I covered the food with a piece of greaseproof paper and then lidded the mofo before chucking it in the oven and cooked it for several hours, but with an exception of all of THAT it was totally IT.)

It was GORGEOUS. So gorgeous, in fact, that without even thinking I picked at the leg and ruined the picture perfect quality that I meant to photograph. (Papa's always chastising me for digging into food too soon. HOLY SHIT, DUDE, IT'S //HARD// WHEN YOU'RE THE FUCKING COOK, OKAY?)

To give the flavors a chance to marry I deliberately left the meal in the fridge for the past couple of days. I'll be warming it up later tonight for dinner although I haven't entirely decided how to serve it. (Pasta? Rice? Polenta? Potatoes?) Christeningwise, I think I might've delivered two thumbs up, but I won't know for sure until we sit down for our evening meal tonight.

(The third and final time I cried on Christmas Eve? As I was falling asleep. I thought about all of the Sviata Vecheras from my youth and my heart broke. I thought about everything that makes or ever made Dec. 24th special, and how by bad luck not ONE thing that was recognizably "Christmas Eve" even happened or took place.)

(Everything I had planned never happened, everything I desperately wanted never materialized. I fell asleep crying, knowing that it was inordinately ungracious of me for allowing myself to wallow in abysmal despair because "I DIDN'T GET CHRISTMAS! WHY DIDN'T I GET CHRISTMAS?" when there were people, that night, also crying because they just lost someone, or because they hadn't eaten that day, or because they didn't have a roof over their head.)

(But even thinking about how lucky I am didn't help; that's the awesome thing about being so good at personal tragedy, you can't even reason with yourself because it'll just get in the way of theatrics.)