Certain people, I’m told, are particularly susceptible to taking their parents seriously, just as they might be to sunburn, or T.B. I believe it, especially around New Year’s Eve, when a trio of my Mom’s personal aphorisms begins to clang around my head.
“Don’t drive after dark: the drunks are out.” Kinda true, and especially relevant. Not only do New Year’s Eve activities happen in the dark, but most revolve around drinking. Plus, this being Los Angeles, I drive wherever I’m going. Looks like I’m not going anywhere.
“Don’t breathe other people’s exhalations.” Admittedly one of her more bizarre pieces of advice, but no less applicable. Parties, by their very nature, are full of people, and people (the unhygienic monsters) consistently breathe. Best I stay at home. (And ask my boyfriend to direct his exhalations out an open window.)
“Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” Forget seeing the ball drop. I’ll be desperately trying to will myself to sleep at that point, avoiding whatever general “not good” waits around to pounce on people in the wee hours.
The American media warns us at every turn that Christmas is a time of over-indulgence. Women’s magazines sprout articles about how to avoid the buffet table, not to mention an extra ten pounds. Readers flip quickly past that article to the one depicting how to decorate a sugar cookie.
My first taste of goat’s cheese was at a tapas restaurant in Chicago many years ago. The soft, creamy cheese with a fairly mild, salty taste was topped with pine nuts. At the time, the flavors were so different from what I was accustomed to eating. During the years since that first introduction, I’ve become quite fond of the full, rich flavor of goat cheese.
