Christmas Feasts I have Failed
Death by Potluck
Once again, we are in Christmastide with its lights to chase away the solstice dark, its shiny spirit of hope and giving.
With its tangy scent of evergreen, sparkles and twinkles, and jolly inflatable Santas that live as piles of plastic during the day.
When Dancer and Blixen prance on rooftops to bestow gifts to everyone with statistical improbability. As Redneck Rudolph, the deer head, rides point on his monster-tire pick-up, blazing the way with his winter-red schnoz.
When a sugar high is in the air, with a buttery wafting of cookies and goodies to radiate intoxicating nostalgic sweetness over all.
When cars and dogs wear antlers.
Even those who grump and grouse about the gross excesses, or have lives for whatever reason less conducive to cheer, add their story to the yuletide scene. Midwinter is the long night. This is why eggnog was invented since, if you can’t forget, you can seasonally lease out your brain to fat and alcohol.
Then there are holiday potlucks.
Alas, these torturous events for the non-cook on a slender budget can bring on the hot breath of the Grinch. As the holiday menu maestros whiz on with their fancy implements (“A Cuisinart makes it so easy!”), and feverish array of ingredients, so flawlessly synchronized while they dream up deluxe revisions of best-loved but stodgy standbys.
Just to contemplate the impending Mt. Everest of cook-offs can turn us as blobby as our un-set cranberry molds.
Take the trays of still-warm, golden-baked pastry hors-d’oeuvres shaped as cunning holiday-themed holly sprigs and wreaths. The baker, an Austrian woman, also came with decorated baskets filled with plump homemade stollen braided with candied fruits and drizzled frosting. All whipped up fresh that morning in a short break from her job as a San Francisco attorney.
Or, as you sneak in your sweated-over offering at the far end of the potluckian spread, platters appear of not just a beautifully roasted bird but prime beef au jus at its tenderest pinkness. Soon mounds of Dungeness crab just pulled from the Bay, carefully cracked by hand, grace the festive board with their bowls of molten butter.
Our family mashed potatoes might have had a dash of skin for flavor, mostly because we missed spots, and came with their unavoidable lumps. Today’s version features Yukon Golds smooshed smooth with cream, garlic, and white truffles.
Salads are a welcome diversion to wake the palate but cannot join the feastly ensemble without pomegranate seeds and two species of chevre, shallots, fig balsamic vinegar, and some kind of tickly stuff.
Even your mother’s humble sweet potato glop with Karo syrup and friendly little marshmallows has undergone a holiday makeover. Pink and peach varieties with a base of Japanese purples would feel too naked without their pecan glaze. Just snag the marshmallows in the kitchen since they won’t be going any farther.
As the year slides home to winter and the cooking race begins, the impending culinary company wilts my non-skills to new lows. While the holiday chefs are eagerly consulting their well-stuffed, curated archives (I forgot about the stuffing with rare forest mushrooms gathered in the dew of dawn) — I’m sinking into potluck purgatory.
How can I not cover myself in the usual Christmas un-glory?
One year with the Austrian attorney-baker, always a high-gourmet event, I managed a winter pear crumble. I even brought whipped cream that didn’t squirt out of a can! Though not necessarily part of the original plan, it did sort of hide the burnt bits.
Everyone was aware of my fails at cooking school; the crumble got so much attention I knew it was horrible.
The one dish I could reliably do that got points for flavor and eye appeal was my gussied-up Waldorf salad. Then came the unlucky day when another guest had not only made the same but with ten more colorful, artfully cut crunchies. Naturally, with hand-mixed dressing and not from a mayonnaise jar. Bested!
But for sure, it was a foolproof, me-proof proposition when the hostess at another do gave me a tested recipe. Since she was pre-diabetic, I had asked what I could bring with less sugar. Got it this time, I swanned, with a secret hit of smugness. Because all I had to do was substitute coconut sugar and bake a simple zucchini loaf! Carefully did I measure out all the organic ingredients, no little kitchen investment either.
So how could it turn out like walnut-flavored sawdust? After a clandestine confab, my hostess and Chrismas angel discreetly pulled out a loaf from her freezer and we called it from me, if strangely frosty.
Since then, every year I wrack myself for creative entries and end up with joy to the brownie, no fuss from a mix, just add water and stir. Chocolate is chocolate even if a wee tough around the edges. Meantime I fill up my plate and sincerely compliment the real talent. The ambiance glows warm and festive, and if I’m a potluck flop, they’re busy chomping on fresh-caught crab and gruyere potatoes in béchamel sauce, and that’s something to carol about.
