In recent years, I have come to relish traditions.  (I’m pretty sure that makes me old, but I’m also pretty sure I don’t care.)  I’m not referring to widely-held traditions, like having turkey on Thanksgiving.   And I’m not talking about rituals, either – although like any good Catholic girl, those have a special place in my heart, too.

At the moment, I’m talking about little personal traditions, like my family’s Christmas morning treasure hunts and special place settings for our birthday dinners.  In my early twenties, my roommate and I hosted an annual Steak Night, which was a mini-college reunion.  In addition to being BYOB, guests brought and cooked their own steaks (we were poor).  We provided the sides, the dessert, and the music, and we all sat around and talked about what had transpired since the previous Steak Night.  (Editor’s Note: Uh, Meredith, you sure get mentioned here a lot for a girl who claims to never cook…)

I think it has to do with my Clark Griswold-like desire to make special occasions special.  And if there isn’t a special occasion, I’ll make one up (see Steak Night, above).

Take New Year’s Eve, for example.  As a kid, I used to invite some poor soul over to spend the night, and then I’d pressure them into eating popcorn and mixed nuts and drinking the Shirley Temples that my mom taught me how to make.  And then at eleven, we’d watch the ball drop in Times Square.  Looking back, I’m sure my mom and the victim of that particular year were relieved that we lived in the Central time zone, so they got off the hook an hour early.  (I use the words “poor soul” and “victim” in hindsight, because it only now occurs to me that I was never able to convince anyone to spend the night on New Year’s Eve more than once.  And to all of you, I would like to now offer my sincerest of apologies.)

I remember watching all those partiers in Times Square and thinking, “man, they are having fun.” Not our small town Texas version of fun, but real fun.  (What a strange word: fun.  Fun, fun, fun.  F-u-n.)  I swore that when I got older, I would swing from the chandeliers if had to, but I was gonna figure out how to have some real fun – on New Year’s Eve, but in general, too.  (And upgrade those Shirley Temples while I was at it.)

Well, friends, I did that.  All of you who’ve seen me on spontaneously appear onstage with various live musical acts, armed with a tambourine (good idea) and a microphone (very very bad idea), know exactly what I’m talking about.

Eventually, thankfully!, I got all that fun out of my system – as far as New Year’s Eve goes anyway.  These days, going out on New Year’s has no attraction for me at all.  Call me old (again), but there’s a 99% chance that I’m going to pay way too much for a very crowded version of not-that-much-fun.  The night is over-hyped.  The drinks are slow and diluted.  The food is cold.  The riff-raff factor is full force, and your personal space isn’t just invaded, people set up camp in it.  Normally you’d leave, but you know that everywhere is else is just as crowded and awful, and you can’t go home, because by golly, it’s New Years.  Blech.

Enter Marc and Jamie, our New Year’s guardian angels.  I’m trying to decide how many years ago we started our New Year’s tradition, and which of us suggested it.  It was too brilliant to be my idea, I know that much.  Roughly five (six? seven?) years ago, they invited us over for a nice dinner in on New Year’s Eve, with the idea that we’d juice up the menu, cook at home, and spend about half the cash.  And our treasured personal space would remain personal. Genius.

That’s when I figured out that these people can cook.  We started with a cocktail while we prepped the first course, then we ate, then we cooked another course, then we ate, then we cooked another, and well, you get the idea.  I loved the four of us all being in the kitchen, chatting the whole time about whatever came up and peeking under lids to see what each other was cooking up.  The best part was knowing that we had all night to hang out without a waiter giving us the evil eye.

I also figured out that Marc and Jamie really know their wine, too.  I appreciate a nice wine, but I’m not great about actually choosing wine, pairing it with food, or telling you what it is I like about a particular selection beyond “it’s yummy.”  It’s like having sommeliers for friends, who also happen to be very cool, super-intelligent, and great conversationalists.

Here’s the other thing about Marc:  over the years, he has changed my whole approach in the kitchen.  I’ve decided to save this subject for another time (I see your eyelids drooping, dear reader), but after literally cooking all my life, this guy opened my eyes to what I’ve been missing along the way.  How cool is that?

A lot has happened since our inaugural New Year’s Glutton Eve.  Babies have been born.  New homes purchased.  Kitchens renovated.  Career paths swerved.  Hurricane Ike.  And this year, Marc and I both lost our beloved mamas to cancer.  But come what may, the four of us know that we’ll have a chance to hash it out over dinner at the end of the year.

Here’s how it works:

1) Menu development.  Around November, we start ending regular conversations with “We’re doing NYE, aren’t we?  Of course we are.  Right?  Right!”  We spend most of December casually brainstorming on the theme and then the menu, which is great fun on its own.  (This year we’re doing Lowcountry cuisine as a nod to the mothers we lost: Marc’s mother has roots in Charleston, and my mom and I were planning a trip to Savannah that we never got to take.  We’ll finish with desserts that our mothers were known for: Marc is making his mother’s famous orange mousse, and I’ll be making a tea ring.)

2) Marching orders.  Then we decide who’s spearheading which course, based on interest, skills, and venue (which dictates both access to hardware and which foods must be toted).

3) R&D.  We review recipes, ponder our strategy, and possibly refine the menu.  Logistical considerations, such as access to ingredients, are considered.

4) Set up.  We start as early as we can that evening, in an effort to serve the entrée before 9PM, but more importantly, to try and visit with the kiddos before bedtime.

5) Enjoy.  We’ll get all caught up, eat too much, learn something new in the kitchen, toast the new year, and then swear we’ll do it again before a whole year goes by.

Now isn’t that a tradition to get excited about?

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Since all four of us are seafood freaks, Marc has made steamed mussels as the first course for several of our gatherings. In my experience, they’re better than what most restaurants serve up.  He’s known for cooking by feel, and not by recipes, with great results.  When I asked for his mussel recipe for WFI via an email to Jamie, this was the response:

I told Marc you wanted his mussel recipe and while he could have come up with several unsavory “muscle” jokes, he instead looked at me and said “Does she not know me?”  Ha!  [Editor's Note.  Read: Silly girl!  There is no recipe.]

During dinner, he all at once looked at me and cupped his hands and said “about this much–oh, 1/4 cup of chopped shallots, about 2 cloves of garlic, 1/2 stick butter, cup of dry white wine and uh…throw some parsley in there.” I asked about salt and pepper. His response was “sure”. He claims it is for about 2-3 dozen mussels.

Sauté the butter and shallots with the garlic, pour in the wine, throw in the mussels and cover and simmer “til they’re done”–he says about 5-8 minutes (add parsley toward the end of the simmer session). You want the shells to open and the mussel inside to be plump yet remain juicy. Don’t forget a squeeze of lemon at the end and plenty of bread to sop the juice!

Good luck trying to replicate his mojo, dear reader.  In the process, I’ll bet you wind up tinkering with this and that and coming up with something all your own.  As for me, I think I’ll have a cocktail and leave Marc in charge of the bivalves.

Tags: first course recipes, memoirs, tips on entertaining