The Rake Magazine

Most restaurant industry slaves refer to New Year's Eve as "Amateur Night". Having worked plenty of NYE's in past, I can't say that I'm eager to go out and cram myself into a bar with a bunch of sweaty, drunk people. Have fun.

I wouldn't mind tucking into a cozy booth at a favorite restaurant, but we always seem to have too many revelers in our pack and no one can make a decision as to the best location.

So it's my house for the fest. But what manner of fest shall we have?

Fancy Schmancy

Part of me thinks it would be fun to do it up glam-style. I have a sassy black dress and shiny shoes (one of the benefits of hosting, never having to trudge through the snow in fabulously inappropriate footwear) that would do the trick. We'd prepare a spread of serious nosh: something in an escargot puff, a caviar treat, some foie possibly, maybe an oyster thing or two. There'd be Manhattans, natch, and likely a sake sangria. Low lights, music from Tao, good gossip and pretty people (we're all pretty people in low light). Bubbly at midnight, no?

Slippery Fun

The other part of me thinks that it might be nice to hang low this year. We'd have a bunch of fun-lovers over for a little family skating/Boot Hockey (yes, the Hub built a rink in the backyard this year) starring a massive pot of chili. Maybe I'd sink a few growlers of Surly in the snow not far from the bonfire. Spiked cider, spiked cocoa, stick-roasted hot dogs for the little'uns and a slumber-pit for those who can't make it to midnight. Toast in the year with Hot Toddies, and we're all still pretty in firelight.

EITHER WAY ... there's one thing that people who come to my house for NYE know and fear, the required shot of the evening to bring in luck for the new year:

The Crazy Nikolashka

Pour a healthy shot of whiskey (your choice). Take a half slice of lemon and remove the peel. On one half of lemon, pour a small mound of sugar, on the other half, pour a small mound of ground coffee. Throw the lemon in your mouth and chew vigorously. Swallow and chase with the whiskey. Glory be.

I read this the morning of every Christmas Eve. It helps remind me of the essential importance of a humble, shared feast. I gift this to all cooks as they start their ovens.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course -- and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah.

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There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last. Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should break in turning out. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

`A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.'

Which all the family re-echoed.

`God bless us every one.' said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

-- A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

Been a bit boozy lately, haven't I?

Well, it is the season of holiday parties, family gatherings, and all manner of cold-weather frolic that can be greatly enhanced by hot cocoa with a "bump"...

It's Nana's fault.

The old girl was a former society debutante who started smoking when she was a Campfire Girl and cocktailed promptly at 4pm until the day she died at the ripe ol' age of 90.

From her I inherited my lack of height, two crystal decanters etched with the words SCOTCH and BOURBON, and the habit of asking for a "skowsch" of water with any single malt over 18 years old. She wasn't the kind of grandmother that cuddled, but she was a pip and I rather liked her most of the time.

And now, during these festive days, there is a certain expectation from my social set that I arrive at a function with my signature treat. I bring bourbon balls.

Not a cookie, not a bar, these little high-octane balls will sit on any holiday table and command attention. It's the wafting nose of sweet Kentucky mash. The little beauties aren't cooked, so every bite reminds you what it's like to be over 21. Some people will shy away, opting for a weak snickerdoodle, but those who induge will find soft notes of vanilla and hints of nutmeg that play well with the rich bourbony flavor.

Throw one home for Nana.

Bourbon Balls

3 cups Nilla Wafers

1 cup walnuts

2 cups powdered sugar

1/4 cup cocoa

2 tsp. nutmeg

1/4 cup corn syrup

1/2 cup + bourbon (Maker's Mark, Jim Beam, etc.)

granulated sugar for rolling

In a food processor, grind up Nilla Wafers. Pour into a large bowl. Grind nuts, add to bowl. Add sugar, cocoa, and nutmeg and stir to evenly combine. In separate bowl mix corn syrup and bourbon, stirring until the syrup is dissolved. Work the liquid into the dry mixture, with your hands for best (but sticky) results. Knead the mix until all ingredients are combined, adding more bourbon if needed. The mix should be firm and sticky, not overly gooey.

Pull off a small chunk and roll between your palms into about a 2-inch ball. Roll the ball in a shallow bowl of sugar until coated. That's it.

Store your bourbon balls in an airtight container and let them age for a few days.

I am WAY behind on shopping. I know I've been writing out gift guides for y'all, but that doesn't mean that I'm surrounded with foodies in my real life. I have to buy Bionicles and Restoration Hardware tchotchkes like the rest of you.

But I generally hate shopping. The only way I can suffer the hours of bumping into other people, sweating into my winter coat as I stand in line, and the dearth of endless can-I-help-yous from holiday retail associates is to know that in the end I'll be fed.

I'm the most focused when I shop alone, and find dining alone most rewarding. Sitting at the bar of a restaurant, you're generally not bugged by other people, your bartender is always right in front of you, and it can be a beautiful, solitary moment when it's just you and your food. The right places will read your mood and engage or retreat as dictated.

This is my potential week:

If I have to go to Southdale, and fight the good fight of the mall crowds, I'm planning on ending up at Via. I might have to fight for a space at the bar, but the tomato arugula salad and prosciutto flat bread are worth it.

My Uptown trip will include Paper Source and the Shoe Zoo, which means I'll be very close to Lucia's. The lack of a real bar might force this into a mid-day lunch trip which means snacking on crepes at a little table in the corner of Lucia's Take-Home. BONUS: I can buy a giant loaf of artisan bread and bring it home for dinner, double Santa!

Nordeast means Surdyk's, Bibelot, Pacifier, and Let's Cook. A big trip like that may deserve a treat at The Red Stag, though I haven't tried them out yet. A safer bet, depending on my mood, would be a juicy burger at The Bulldog.

Downtown, post-Macy's, post-parade, post-Juut treatment (a girl's gotta treat herself sometimes), I'd head to Bank. Quiet and majestic, their service is spot-on.

Grand Ave has more than enough shopping to make me dizzy, but Golden Fig will be my main stop. If I stop at Penzey's as well, I'll be called into Tavern on Grand by a cold beer and a basket of fried walleye. I am powerless in this instance.

I refuse to go to Hugedale.

I do have one shopping date scheduled with a BFF for last minute digging on Christmas Eve. We're planning to head to 50th/France sometime in the morning and just see how it all plays out. I'm pretty sure there will be a glass of wine at Beaujo's and potentially another at Salut a few hours later.

At that point, the tree should be stocked and my gullet properly tuned to appreciate the next week's home-cooking-athon.

Last night I finished my week's run of holiday parties/steak-binge with a soiree at Jax. I wore a kicky ruffled tux shirt and drank Dewar's all night, because that's what Jax calls for.

The bartenders always put on a fine display of drinksmanship, not only do they remember your drink, but they have a freshie waiting as you plunk down your empy glass. With my second glass, the barman reminded me to try the pierogi on the appetizer buffet. (Perhaps he was watching out for my drink to food ratio?)

I love pierogi. Pierogi are a cocktailer's best friend. Simply put, pierogi (or perogi or pirogen or piroschke) are stuffed dumplings. With their strong ties to Slavic cultures, it's no surprise to find them on menus scattered throughout Nordeast Minneapolis.

Personally, I think they're best when they've been baked and the dumpling dough has a warm, flour-dusted crustiness to the outside. The initial bite should reveal a soft and steamy inside gently packed with a salty pork product, like Westphalian ham. It's a quick two-bite process: the second half should be popped into your mouth before you reach for your next pierogi. Or at least, that's how it happens at my Mom's house on Christmas Eve.

Sadly, the pierogi at Jax were not my dream pierogi, they were more like flat and soggy ravioli. I did eat a couple, in respectful deference to my barman, and they did function beautifully as a balance to more Scotch, so in the end we'll count it as a win. Truthfully, there are as many versions of pierogi as there are Babas in babushkas, and everyone knows that their favorite is the "right way".

Of course I ended up extolling the virtues of good pierogi long into the night, well past the first party and into the next at Nye's. It was too late for the kitchen by the time we arrived, but I'm quite sure I bored everyone with my detailed account of a great Nye's pierogi experience. I think I was goaded into singing Que Sera Sera just to shut me up. Ok, there was no goading.

And today I am in search of a recipe for my Oma's pierogi because that's all I can think about.