Toys in the Attic
By By Robert St. John / food columnist
Dec. 29, 2002
Robert St. John is the executive chef/owner of New South Restaurant Group, www.nsrg.com. His weekly food column appears in newspapers in Mississippi and Louisiana. He can be reached at robert@nsrg.com or (601) 264-0672.
It's Christmas and Jack Frost isn't nipping at my nose. I'm in the Piney Woods of South Mississippi and it's 78 degrees. The closest we've come to Jack Frost is his second cousin, Harvey Humidity.
Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy and worship. However, the earlier part of the season can be somewhat scary. I'm not talking about spending-too-much-money-at-the-mall scary or trying-to-make-a-left-turn-into-Wal-Mart scary.
I'm talking about horror-movie scary, things-that-go-bump-in-the-night scary, scarier than the time Aunt Erma ate all of the figgy pudding. Yes Virginia, Christmas can be frightful.
It begins in the attic. The attic is a scary place. There is a box in my attic that is sealed, locked and covered with more chains than Jacob Marley's ghost. The box sits in the corner all year, waiting to be found, waiting to be opened, waiting to torture and terrorize the poor soul who dares look inside. Each time the box has been opened, terror has reigned in our home for days.
They wait until
you're all alone
Three weeks ago I was alone in the attic. I had been left there by my wife, who had given me a long list of holiday honey-do's.
I ignored the list but used the occasion to rummage through my old record collection. While looking through a case of long-forgotten LPs, it appeared in the corner the box that cardboard container of torment, misery and horror! It was silhouetted by a haunting beam of light. It sat beside an old-fashioned, wooden wheelchair. Spider webs covered the box.
I walked towards the box. For a moment, it looked as if a hand was sticking out of the box. Terror churned in the pit of my stomach. I walked closer. I heard a voice coming from the box. The attic floor creaked. I heard the voice again. It was definitely a voice. A ghostly voice? Maybe. It was coming from inside the box. I walked even closer. My head raced. Almost there. My heart pounded. Just one more step. The voice was louder now.
In a frantic moment of flawed logic, I opened the box!
After all of these months, they were still inside. Their beady eyes stared holes through my brain; their fur was matted from 11 months of neglect not goblins or ghosts or gremlins or haints, but a collection of the most frightening creatures mankind has ever known: SINGING CHRISTMAS TOYS!
Roots in antiquity
In Greek mythology, Pandora was given a box but forbidden to open it. However, curiosity won out and up from the box flew "innumerable plagues for the body and sorrows for the mind." Pandora and I are kindred spirits.
The St. John version of Pandora's Box holds such sorrows for the mind as: a stuffed nutcracker that sings "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," a stuffed reindeer that sings "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer," a dancing Santa that does the twist while singing "Jingle Bell Rock," a Christmas tree that belts out the most obnoxious version of "O Christmas Tree" you have ever heard, a Santa Claus that sings "Here Comes Santa Claus" and a partridge in a pear tree.
Also in the box is the scariest, most blood-curdling Christmas toy of all, the "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" stuffed reindeer or as it has come to be known in my house, Fingernails on a Chalkboard with a Shiny Red Nose. Unfortunately, it is my son's favorite. He plays with it twice an hour. So much for comfort and joy.
What happens at my house
Why can't they make a stuffed Leontyne Price doll that sings "Ave Maria"? Or a stuffed Aaron Neville toy that croons "Silent Night"? Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney recorded several soothing Christmas carols; why are there no stuffed toys featuring their voices?
My son likes to play no-less-than three of these singing Christmas toys at once. He also likes to crank up the volume on the nutcracker toy that plays the ENTIRE Nutcracker Suite.
Don't get me wrong, I like Tchaikovsky, but it has been proven through years of medical research that no human being can sanely endure two solid hours of ballet music while 739 other stuffed animals are singing different versions of digitally-recorded Christmas carols.
OK, so there's no spooky wooden wheelchair in my attic. And I'm not a Scrooge, I love Christmas.
However, I would like to make it through just one holiday season without a battery-operated Christmas creature waking me up at 6 a.m. If I hear that singing Nutcracker one more time, I'll be roasting his chestnuts over an open fire.
Jill's Holiday Cranberry Sauce
1 12-ounce bag fresh cranberries
1 cup port wine
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown Sugar
1/2 cup orange juice
2 teaspoon cornstarch
2 tablespoon cold water
Combine cranberries, port, sugars and orange juice in a saut pan and simmer over medium heat for 20-30 minutes or until the cranberries become soft. Separately, mix the cornstarch with the cold water then add it to the cranberry mixture. Turn up heat to a heavy simmer and continue to cook, stirring well, for another 5-10 minutes. Serve warm.
