Eggnog

Eggnog is one of my favourite Christmassy drinks and it would bookend my winter days in Seattle.  I’d stop by and treat myself to an eggnog latte from my local coffee shop after dropping the girls at school and at the end of the day I’d wrap myself up in a blanket and cradle a warm cup of eggnog with a hint of whisky.  I didn’t grow up drinking eggnog.  It is virtually extinct here in the U.K., even though eggnog evolved from posset, a British medieval remedy of warm milk, spices and alcohol. My first encounter with eggnog was in my early 20s during one of my early visits to Seattle. I was visiting my boyfriend and staying with his Mormon family over Christmas. I had resigned myself to the fact that this would be an alcohol-free holiday but hadn’t realized that tea and chocolate were also taboo. I was working in London and consuming at least 10 cups of tea a day in the endless office tea round and completing the day with my colleagues at a local bar with endless drinks rounds! If only detox had been a mainstream concept then, I could have embraced a positive spin on what seemed to me a very unfestive holiday. There was a family gathering hosted by my boyfriend’s Aunt and Uncle, who, he told me on the drive over, had brought his parents into the Mormon community, but subsequently had left the church while his family had remained. Needless to say, there was some family tension. Family dynamics aside, I was very thankful when his Uncle firmly pushed a heavily spiked glass of eggnog into my hands. It was bliss! I cannot say I felt the same way about the marshmallow jello fruity nutty “salad” that was served alongside the turkey. I was deep in the American experience! Besides encountering bizarre-to-me food and drink, I was seeing how his family got by. They had a variety of cars and trucks rusting in the patch of grass behind their house. They would use whichever would start and borrow parts from the more decrepit ones. I discovered that in Washington State trash collection isn’t a public service (silently paid with taxes), but an opt-in convenience if you can afford the monthly fees. His family would pile their trash onto their pick-up truck and take it to the dump every once in a while.  While I was there it had grown into a small mountain of smelly trash bags lashed together under an old tarp and the truck was done for, so the mountain just kept growing. I discovered that the family had a small arsenal of weapons available in the house. There is a photo of me holding some sort of frightening rifle, 2 bullet belts crossing my chest and a cowboy hat perched on my head. Maybe there is a hand gun tucked in my belt? The photo was taken as a parody of the American gun toting culture. It is now buried at the bottom of a box of photos in the back of our storage unit. I will not be turning it into a Christmas card. But back to the eggnog … this year I will be spiking my home-made eggnog with Kentucky’s Woodford Reserve bourbon, in homage to a wonderful friend. I know it’s too good for eggnog, but when I saw it on the supermarket shelf, an image sprung to mind of Peter cackling as he gleefully pulled a bottle from behind his back.  Were we huddled under the stars on a mountain flank during a backpacking expedition or at a party or perhaps all camping on a wild and remote Pacific Northwest beach? But that is another story. There are many colourful memories swirling around my glass of eggnog this dark solstice evening.