Call me cruel and unkind, but I often fantasize about suing the entire fricking backlot of Disney characters. Growing up, I bought into their Technicolor rhetoric that all I had to do was wish upon a star or confide in a ridiculous talking cricket sporting a cheap morning suit to live a perfect, happily-ever-after life. And my 4-year-old brain believed it.
Then one day I awoke to discover that I had careened from underpaid to overqualified by the age of 40, and that I would outlive my IRA by two decades. It’s times like these I dream of slapping charges of whopping misrepresentation on Snow White and her chittering band of merry midgets, er, little people.
Then along comes winter in Connecticut, and suddenly I don’t feel so litigious. From December to March, I can skid out our front door and find the snow-covered clapboard houses, the hills hatchmarked with kids on sleds, and, occasionally, horse-drawn sleighs that most people only see on holiday cards. And even the sight of the plow guy writing his name in yellow in the snow can’t burst my reverie.
WARNING: We interrupt this country idyll for a pissed-off homeowner’s update:
In between writing and publishing this post, the bucolic winter blizzard this past week has wreaked untold dollars’ worth of havoc. Thanks to a two-foot-deep ski slope of snow on our roof, water has started to seep into the back of the house. We now have eight—count them, eight—leaks. Water has been sploshing in around window casings, under baseboards, around the foundation, and even through a live electrical box, which I, in all my handyman brilliance, grabbed to see how wet it was. How I escaped my own private Death Row is beyond me. The flood is only now abating because a contractor friend and his crew spent the morning two and a half stories up clearing the snow off the roof—just in time for today’s insult: seven inches of snow capped off by an ice storm. How I yearn for the problems of that yellow snow.
We now return you to our regularly scheduled, and somewhat less enthused, wintry romp.
CT winters are an institution—and, according to Hollywood, a destination. Lucy and Ricky—with Ethel and Fred in tow—have been living here in perpetuity since 1956. Stepford wives wouldn’t frost their Martha Stewart-look-alike cakes anywhere else. And in the classic film Christmas in Connecticut, Barbara Stanwyck portrays Elizabeth Lane, a domestic columnist—and feigned domestic goddess—for Smart Housekeeping who pretends she lives in a sprawling Connecticut farmhouse, dishing out boffo recipes and entertaining tips for her readers. (In reality, Lane can’t find her way around the kitchen—a room her tiny Greenwich Village apartment is, in fact, missing.)
Part of the appeal of the film, which The One and I watched again during that blasted blizzard, has much to do with the appeal of a Connecticut winter. And no day is more of a poster boy for CT winter love than Sunday. It’s when The One and I pad around in slippers and sweats until noon and leave the bed unmade without kicking up too many OCD issues. It’s also a day that lures him into the kitchen to pore over cookbooks and me to my computer to scroll through recipes for the day.
But we have some rules about Sunday eating chez nous. First, breakfast is 86’ed. Sunday is strictly a two-meal day that kicks off with brunch. I’m not suggesting the twee quiche-and-fruit-salad duo of the 1970s (although I’ve suffered through my share of them, usually on blind dates; I’ll save the details for another post). The food should be substantial enough to make it worth getting out of bed but simple enough that you can cook it half-awake. Cranberry-Cream Cheese-Stuffed French Toast along with Chunky Ranch-Style Home Fries have strutted down the runway of our kitchen more than once in our house.
I’ve heard that some terribly misguided folk are fond of inviting guests for brunch, which, I understand, they find enjoyable. But that’s something else I nixed. It’s just us in the eat-in kitchen. Afterward, it’s a short post-brunchial trip from the table to the Morris chair for The One, where he slumps down and reads the newspaper in front of the fire. Me, I slouch on the leather couch and bury my nose in a book. Chances are I’ll nod off, which is always announced by my increasingly trumpetous snoring, something I’m sure any lingering brunch guest would find appalling.
Sunday dinner is another matter entirely. Our seating charts are filled weeks in advance, and a reservation is hard to come by, thank you very much. Because my ideal winter meals are slow-cooked affairs—soups, braises, and stews—I sit them on the stove or slide them in the oven hours, or even the evening, before. One thunderously good dish I can make ahead of time is Mario Batali’s Braised Short Ribs with Horseradish Gremolata and Pumpkin Orzo, or Ina Garten’s Pot Roast. That way the kitchen’s spotless when guests arrive, and I can sit on the sofa, Donna Reed-like, phsawing comments about my preternatural ability to whip up such extravagances with seemingly no effort—and on a Sunday in the country, no less.
Dessert is a must, a food group unto itself, a coup de foudre, and is unfailingly selected with care. The worst thing that can happen is to mar a flawless CTSY (Connecticut Sunday) with something as shudderingly dull as fruit or as banal as sorbet. Nothing short of a rich indulgence will do, which comes in the heavenly form of a Chocolate Cloud Cake. The One tries to insist I cut meager portions and not offer doggie bags—all the more for him to eat on Monday. He should know better. I always cut hefty-hefty wedges and when guests turn down seconds, I slice more anyway. I find guests always lie. Just like most fairy tales.