From the East Wing making Snow Cream, Bûche de Noël, and Cussing with Sophia the Republican Cat

Greeting to all and Welcome new friends to the East Wing.

Wow! Did I ever get comments about Marsha Yockey! Seems some people take exception to my claim of having seen the ugliest woman ever. Some of those even provided photographic evidence to support their case. Strong cases indeed, ugliest damn pictures I ever saw.

Based on the photographic evidence, I’ll yield the title of having seen the ugliest woman in the world. Of the pictures I’ve seen, Marsha Yockey is not in the top 10. Still ugly, mind you, but not in the top 10. Not even in the top 10 of ugly, and that’s saying a lot.

The emails had several inquires as to what I was talking ‘bout, “Snow Cream” Ya could just tell they weren’t coal miners’ babies, ‘cause if they were, they’d know ‘bout Snow Cream.

Now in southeastern Kentucky, at TipTop, ya don’t get a lot of snow in the winter time. Rain a lot, considerable ice, fog a lot, but not a lot of snow like here in northern Indiana. So when it did snow in the mountains, it was special.

The most beautiful site I’ve experienced in the mountains was a night drive from Prestonsburg to Paintsville on a 4 lane high speed super highway carved through rock mountains. With a December Full Moon overhead, and an inch of fresh snow on mountains. The whole world appeared as if you had stepped inside a white neon light. Ya could drive at midnight without the lights. Few things in nature can compare to beauty of snow on the mountains in the full moon light. It’s beyond sparkle. A spectacular site to behold. A special treasurer to those who are blessed to see how God decorates his mountains for Christmas. We decorate a tree, he decorates the mountains. I am forever grateful to have seen it one time.

With snow being somewhat scarce, having enough snow for Snow Cream is even more scarce, or scarceser, as any good hillbilly boy would say. In order to make Snow Cream ya had to have at least 5 -6 inches of fresh snow. I don’t know why ya had to have 5-6 inches, that’s just what my mama said. One time I wanted her to make Snow Cream, “No, there’s not enough snow”. Must have been 3-4 inches, but not enough.

But when we did get enough, mama sends me outside into the new snow with the big dish pan and instructions to scoop up the snow but don’t get closer than 2 inches to the ground, and don’t you dare bring in a single speck of dirt in the snow or out it goes, and ya gotta do it again. The excitement is high but ya just know that ya gotta get it right, else I got not only my mama yelling at me, but keep in mind, I live in a family of sisters, so I got them yelling at me too. So I got it right, and the place I got it right is always on Flat Rock.

Flat Rock was a special spot kinda close to the school house, an unusual place, a place that is almost perfectly flat. It’s about maybe a third the size of a football field. There’s no trees, no grass, no dirt, just rock, flat, smooth, granite rock. Smooth from millions and millions of years of mountain rains washing over the surface of Flat Rock. It’s so flat there a marble won’t roll off if ya lay it down, so hard ya can’t break it with a hammer, I tried. We played at Flat Rock a lot. One of the very few places at TipTop that did not go either up or down.

The big dish pan I brought had a one inch brim around the top. It’s the ideal thing for scooping the snow at Flat Rock. Never a worry of scooping too close to the dirt. Just touch the brim to Flat Rock and one giant scoop then off to home. One time running downhill carrying the pan of snow I fell and all the snow flew out, so it’s back to Flat Rock for a second dip of the day. Got that done so fast they didn’t even know I had trouble along the way.

When I got home my mama took the big pan of snow, added some real cold milk, sugar, love, and vanilla then mixed it all up and put it into the freezer to “set”. Now I’m wanting to eat it right then and there but it had “set” I don’t know why, but it had to “set” in the freezer for two hours. That maybe was the longest two hours in the history of the State of Kentucky, waiting for Snow Cream to “set”.

Sometimes I’d go back outside and play in the snow. Go to Flat Rock and make Snow Angels. Play with my dog in the snow. Go play with my cousins, the Cole Gang, Pinto, Paul, and Jr. Just ‘bout every time my mama made Snow Cream all the cousins found out the Snow Cream was setting up in the freezer, and by the time the Snow Cream had “set” there was most always a house full of kids & cousins.

When the two hours finally passed, my mama would count heads, then scoop out the Snow Cream. The most amazing thing was that no matter how many heads were counted, we all got Snow Cream and there was always just enough.

The taste of Snow Cream is so special, remembered to this day. The taste is a combination gift from God, blended with my mama’s love. It’s Snow Cream. When ya were coal miner’s babies ya just didn’t have a lot of material things in life, but ya had Snow Cream and it was enough. We did not want, we had love in our family. We still do.

Good thing Christmas is in December or else it would be a very drab month indeed. Days getting shorter and shorter almost right up to Christmas. Cold and windy, the world has turned gray waiting for the snow to put its white magic blanket over us all. This year the magic blanket is yet to come. While at the same time it snowed last Friday in Mississippi. Got an email from a guy in Mississippi bragging that he got snow before the East Wing. Told him he was two up on me, I didn’t get Katrina either, so I’m glad he’s two up.

Forever people have been determined to brighten this darkest month of the year, December, by creating festivals of light and ceremonies of renewal and stuff like that. This is the month that the sun starts back north, and not a day too soon in the minds of many. For a lot of people it’s not as easy to get excited about cold weather as warm, but oh well, it’s winter that makes spring so special.

December has long since lost its original meaning of “ten” (decem), for the old Roman calendar’s tenth month, and now is more synonymous with “decorate.” The Yule log, evergreens, colored glass ornaments, wassail bowl, and now electricity has crept into Christmas, big time.

Wassail is a hot, spiced punch often associated with Christmas. Particularly popular in Germanic countries, the term itself is a contraction of the Middle English phrase wæs hæil, meaning "be healthy". The practice of wassailing is just going ‘round to everybody’s house and drink this stuff. In Kentucky they did pretty much the same thing, just pronounced it a little different, not Wassail, Moonshine.

A Yule log is a big wooden log which is burned in the fireplace as a part of traditional Yule or Christmas celebrations in several European cultures. It can be a part of the Winter Solstice festival or the Twelve Days of Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or Twelfth Night.

The closest I come to having a Yule Log is my remote controlled, gas fed fireplace in the East Wing. It seems to work out ok so far. This way I don’t have to go out in the cold and chop trees and all that, just push the button and fire happens. I set the fireplace on automatic so the 2girldogs don’t get cold when I’m gone. I think the Gray Lady could work the remote with a little instructions.

The expression "Yule log" has also come to refer to log-shaped Christmas cakes, also known as "chocolate logs" or "Bûche de Noël". I just threw that little tiddy in there just in case anybody wondered if BobbyRay knew a foreign language. So now ya know. For many years my daughter and I made the Bûche de Noël (there I go again) each Christmas Eve day, maybe we’ll make it again this year. It was a fun thing to do with my daughter, Angela.

Another really interesting old English tradition similar to the Yule Log is the Ashen Faggot. Ya may never have heard of this as it’s not nearly as well know at the Yule Log but somewhat similar. The Ashen Faggot thing is where people make a big bundle of sticks and twigs, they go to each other’s house, make a big bond fire, throw in the bundles and drink Wassail. Lots of traditions are associated with this one, has to do with the way the bundle is tied, which tie burns thru first, who in the community will be the next to marry. Now all these traditions have antecedents lost in time and all share a common goal, to make the season bright.

Sure seems like people a long time ago got more information from watching a fire then than we do today, now it seems, we just wonder if a Meth Lab burned the place down.

The more I think about the old Romans jerking ‘round with the calendar, the more I think they must have been democrats, to do something like that. I think the original Monday Holiday idea may have come from Nero, I understand he was a party animal extraordinary, and also big on fireworks. A guy like that would look forward to a three day weekend every chance he got.

This time of the year the 2girldog democrats are about as active as stamps on an envelopes. I think Sophia the Republican Cat has to wake ‘em up to go eat ‘n pee. Good thing Sophia isn’t in Washington, else she’d just let ‘em pee in their sleep.

I thought Sophia and the Angel were becoming the best of buds. That relationship has not yet blossomed. Turns out the Angel wouldn’t convert to the Red Cat Republican Party, so Sophia continues to slap her around from time to time, just to stay in practice, and the cat wars continue. The Angel has figured out that her proximity to me is in direct proportion the her health and safety and overall wellbeing.

When I sit at my computer the Angel lays between my wireless keyboard and the monitor, while at the same time Sophia continues to occupy her favorite spot, that being the back of my chair and when I push back from the keyboard the Angel relocated to my lap. It is from this position that they continue the verbal combat. The war is not as much physical as it used to be, it’s now more verbal and mental.

What I’m noticing, much like the Rosetta Stone System of learning a Foreign Language, I’m becoming most proficient in cat hissing. I think I’ve learned to cuss in cat. That’s language number three right in there with Bûche de Noël.

I think these two cats are using me as a demilitarized zone, but I can’t speak Korean. Just cat cussing and Bûche de Noël.

Such a beautiful winter type day this first Sunday in December 2009, waiting for the snow to come to the East Wing and all the while enjoying your fine company by the fireplace.

Stay Safe in Bagdad, South Iraq and Afghanistan

From the East Wing making Snow Cream, Bûche de Noël, and Cussing with Sophia the Republican Cat

I wish you well,

BobbyRay