Today, a week from Christmas Eve and the barring to the doors at midnight of the last shopping mall to end the commercial cacophony and ease us each to a day of Holiday rest and repast – today . . . I exhort and encourage us each in loud hortatory cheer to break from our frantic pace and partake in a simple libation to relax the frayed and frazzled nerves.

Let’s have an egg nog.

In Canada and the United States, when the boreal winds commence to blow, the time is propitious for an indulgence in that opalescent beverage known as egg nog or eggnog. Especially during the Christmas season, there is a scurry in those ancient scoriac-rimmed cook books for the favorite family recipe for this delicious beverage of family delight.

Egg nog is a stirred, mixed, whipped and frothed drink of milk, sugar, eggs and spices. Cream can be added to make the drink even richer and thicker. Vanilla is a pleasant flavor enhancer. On top, grated nutmeg is often seen and enjoyed, perhaps with a tad of cinnamon and even, for some, a dollop of sweet whipped cream and a few curls of chocolate. This inviting concoction can be served cold or warm. I like it both ways. Smallish clear cups or mugs present an easy and tempting vista for the Holiday treat.

First mixed and poured in the English isles, it made a quick trip to the Colonies where it became a must for travelers boarding the morning stages to be whisked through the wintry countryside on the way to Grandma’s house.  Wikipedia reports this book entry from 1800: “The American travelers, before they pursued their journey, took a hearty draught each, according to custom, of egg-nog, a mixture composed of new milk, eggs, rum, and sugar, beat up together.” One for the road and off we go. . . .

As you see, that nog in egg nog was often a bit of Colonial grog of alcoholic origin, likely a lacing of rum added to the mix and served in a noggin or wooden mug — to warm those adventurers for the roads ahead.

The beverage of festivity is delightful without the grog and many consider this to be the better course. Certainly that was the case at the United States Military Academy during the Christmas of 1826 when the Eggnog Riot resulted in the court-martial of 20 cadets. So, if the grog is to be added to your egg nog, I encourage you to behave responsibly, designate a driver and protect our children.

At this season, we are reminded by recent events how precious our children are and how diligent we each should be in guarding and protecting those young lives.

This is a wonderful time of year to spend time with our children. Take a break from the fevered pace, slow down and mix up a batch of your favorite-recipe egg nog — without the rum. Share a cup with your kids and grandkids, grab a favorite story, and all gather round on pillows and under blankets for a Christmas read and comforting sip of a very special beverage for a very special season.

I’m on the way . . . save some for me,

Grandpa Jim

Ladies and Gentlemen, Children and Teens, Friends and Neighbors, Passer-bys in Cars, Trucks, Vans and Buses — All Honking and Shouting, Pointing Peoples in Planes Propping and Pooshing, Shouting Sailors on Seas in Ships Sailing, and Stomping Subsurface Submariners Submerged in Submersibles Sinking and Sloshing,

Keep shouting, clapping, stomping, using noise makers, honking, pointing, flapping your arms, blowing bubbles, and waving,

It was so true. 12-12-12 was the Greatest Monosyllabic Number Day of the 21st Century. Twelve (12) is the highest or largest number in the English language that is pronounced as only one, count it again, only one – not two or three in two words – only one (it is true, it is only one), syllable in length. Whew and away what happened there and then? Well, on a day we just passed, three twelves in single syllables were aligned on the calendar of the 2,000’s. December 12th of the 12th year only occurs once a century, and it has occurred for us. December 12, 2012 was the greatest monosyllabic number day for the 21st Century, our current 100-year cycle. The day won’t happen again for a hundred more of those years. To commemorate this every second-in-ten decades event of the Century, people proposed wildly and ran running hand-in-hand in two’s to City Halls around the globe to recite their nuptials, be declared wedded then-and-there, and hurry off around the planet on special honeymoons for newlyweds. It had to happen by midnight, before the day came to its end, or their new lives might be postponed for a 100 years more, at least. Wow, that was a hurried, rushed and noisy day for only one syllable.

Don’t stop the fun.

A new day has burst forth and brought into publication and posting on the web site of Uncle Joe Stories the first ever Christmas story. Hopefully, you won’t have to wait another 100 years for another Christmas story on this site, but one should always take advantage of a good excuse for a party and a read.

A story for the season is just such a reason.

Please stop by the Home page and witness for yourselves the debut of “The Christmas Song.”

As a story, “Song” is, in part, monosyllabic of title. As such, it shares in something of the life joys of the 12-12-12 event. In its ending, I think you will see that “The Christmas Song” shares in a tomorrow day that has its own joys of welcome and goodbye.

May your Holidays be filled with sweet thoughts, your tummies with sweet treats, and your homes with dear friends and family,

Grandpa Jim

At this season of the year, it is traditional to invite others to share in our Holiday feast.

You may want to consider a few rutabagas.

There is a legend (which I am, just now, making up, but it does have a ring of authenticity), there is a Scandinavian legend that a cabbage and turnip married. For their honeymoon, the two vegetables escaped to a lake of great beauty and remoteness in the far north of Sweden, near the Finnish border. Unbeknownst to them, a mighty blizzard was swooping down from the Arctic. No sooner had they arrived than the storm struck. Assaulted by the fierce winds and biting blowing ice, the newlyweds were forced to dig themselves into the ground, There, covered by the warm dirt and blanketed under layers of snow, the two newly married vegetables waited until the next spring, when the warming rays of the returning sun brought them back to the surface. To the surprise of the other emerging plants, the cabbage and the turnip had with them their new arrival, a child who looked and acted a little like Mom and a little like Dad. The proud parents called the new one their little Cabbage Root, or Kålrot, in the Swedish language – a baby’s name which, in Canada and the U.S., translates as my little Rutabaga.

From legend and fact, the kålrot or rutabaga is a cross between the cabbage and the turnip. Much younger than its parents, the rutabaga was found growing wild in Sweden in the early 1600’s, only some 400 years ago. Showing his age, the cabbage has been domesticated for over 3,000 years. The turnip, on the other hand, is younger, say 2,700 years (she may shave a few years if you ask, so be polite and nod in agreement).

Perhaps from that first hard winter, the rutabaga has a bit of a bitter taste. Perhaps because of that very distinctive flavor, the young one has quite a following, many who find it to be good mix with other vegetables, a pleasing accompaniment to main dishes and a main ingredient in others. In the lands of Sweden, Finland and Norway, the Holiday meal must have a side of mashed rutabagas, potatoes and carrots. Swedish Christmas Casserole, or Swede Box, is composed of rutabagas, water, salt, breadcrumbs, egg, cream, syrup, butter and spices. In Scotland, rutabagas (called neeps by the Scots) and potatoes (to the Scottish, tatties) are mashed and served separately as neeps and tatties beside their favorite main dish, haggis, which is too scary to describe and will be left to your Internet perusals. And, in England, the rutabaga is a traditional part of the Sunday roast.

In the U.S. and Canada, however, the little kålrot or neep is not often invited to dinner. On the shelves of groceries, it waits sadly to be noticed by passing shoppers with their Holiday lists. It is there and you walk right by, but it’s not someone you’d think to include. There are others like that, and they are not all vegetables.

Perhaps, there is something to be learned from that little root of mixed origins. Perhaps, it’s time to broaden our horizons and try something new. Perhaps it’s time to include a few rutabagas in the Holiday feast. And, while we’re at it, perhaps it is time invite a few friends we don’t often see and who may not have much of a feast of their own to attend. I have a feeling they’ll both very much enjoy being part of the festivities.

Who knows, you may find yourselves growing attached to your new dinner guests. And, when they ask, “What is that interesting side dish?” you may find yourself replying, “Something we’ve never tried before, but you know we’re starting to like it. It’s different, but it seems to fit in very well, very well indeed.”

Maybe it is time to start planning that Holiday meal, before someone else invites those rutabagas to dinner.

Don’t miss the fun,

Grandpa Jim

Stepping down from the stagecoach, the passengers wiped their foreheads and swallowed hard from the dust and dry of the Chisholm Trail. A young girl ladled clear spring water into tin cups and handed them to the weary travelers to slacken their thirst.

Behind the refreshing water, another pretty waitress began reciting, from memory, without a piece of paper to assist the oration:

“Tonight, the Shady Villa Inn is serving fried chicken, catfish or steak, your choice. With each meal, you will start with cornbread, rolls and butter. For drinks, we have cold mineral water, milk and coffee. With your main course, you will be served generous portions of mashed potatoes and gravy, corn-on-the-cob and green beans. For dessert, you have the choice of apple or peach pie. Ladies and gentlemen, the entire meal is yours for only 2 cents a plate. I can take your orders now and the food will be ready in the dining room.”

That was 1867. Things haven’t changed that much at the inn, except the name. Today, the Stagecoach Inn in Salado, Texas is the longest, continuously operating hotel and restaurant in the state. General George A. Custer, Captain Robert E. Lee (son of the general), Shanghai Pierce, Charles Goodnight, Sam Houston, Sam Bass and Jesse James have stepped into the lobby and signed the guest book, along with a lengthy assortment of other notables, cowboys and desperadoes, not to mention the mess of just plain folks with a mighty hunger. Most everyone has enjoyed a meal in that restaurant without a written menu and the smiling waitress with the good memory.

Last Friday evening, we stopped by and sure enough that waitress just started talking that menu right through with nary a note and waiting for us, wide-eyed and amazed, to make our selections.

The list of entrees has expanded, with modern dishes like stuffed shrimp, chicken-fried steak and grilled tilapia to choose from. Every meal comes with cornbread fingers and rolls, a choice of shrimp cocktail, tomato aspic or fruit cup, and a lettuce salad with your favorite dressing. With your entree, the twice-baked potato, squash casserole, and Italian green beans are complimentary. For dessert, you can pick from the famous strawberry kiss, fudge pecan pie or sherbet.

Now, that is a worthy feast at the inn, and it’s all one price fixed, depending on your choice of entree. Plus, the service is quick, attentive and smiling as only a stagecoach inn can be to a weary traveler.

If you adjust for inflation, that 2 cents in 1867 is about what you pay for the meal today in 2012. So, the price is the same and the food has been excellent for as long as anyone can remember. Depending on your perspective, however, the dinner guests may be somewhat less notorious and, hopefully, more law abiding. There were no gunfights during our meal.

After dinner, we left to join the shoppers strolling the businesses and open-air stands for the annual Salado Christmas Stroll. Most of us had come by car, bus and van. The only stagecoach in site was a carefully preserved antique in front of the restaurant. That old stage is planted nicely in a flower bed not far from the old log cabin that now sells hand-designed aprons and custom-made lady’s hats and jewelry above an old black cat sleeping under the counter.

In its way, I think that old cowboy town and its new ways would make even Jerry Jeff Walker proud. In fact, I think I even heard that old outlaw crooning away on his guitar as we walked down the street from shop to brightly lit holiday shop.

Texas is a funny state. In ways, things change a whole lot. In other ways, they don’t change much at all.

Take a stroll and see what you think yourselves,

Grandpa Jim

Tea is a drink with jam and bread. I know that from the song “Do-Re-Me” from the wonderful play and film “The Sound of Music.” Maria uses the song to teach those unruly Von Trapp kids the musical scales. Talk about a successful lesson. Those kid’s great grandkids are still singing. That Maria was something special.

Pass the jam. Marmalade is a jam. It is a fruit preserve that uses pectin or quince as the gelling agent to set it up and make it all gooey and sticky so it spreads to and stays nicely on your bread and toast. From the Spanish to the English, marmalade was a special type of jam. That marmalade is a bittery orangey mixture with lemony-limey flavors, a concoction of British likability, perhaps because of its marginal attractiveness to wider audiences and an island preference for reservedness, even in their preservedness. The English bitter marmalade comes in special little jars that look somewhat weird with funny calligraphy and references to unknown ingredients that could cause you to wonder, “Should I really?”, which is why marmalade to the rest of the world is just plain sweet old jam. Still, that bitter marmalade of the Spanish coast and the British Isles is worth a visit. I especially like the more tangy stuff on the toasted almost-burnt half of an English muffin, spread with a generous portion of butter melting into little pools in the crisped bubbly-looking bread, with large dollops of marmalade liberally ladled and dripping onto the top of the warm muffin to complete the sight of the mouth-watering morning wake-up delight. Hmmmmm, good. Now, that goes very well indeed with tea and a glance through the Sunday comics.

Marmaduke is a Great Dane in one of those newspaper comic strips. He is a playful giant of a dog who towers over Mom Dottie and regales audiences with his slap-stick antics. Not fond of marmalade himself, he prefers large bones so he can dig up the backyard, producing a moon-like landscape and causing Dad Phil, who is looking out the window over his paper, to drop his muffin and marmalade and splash tea on his tie. Marmaduke is quite the character.

My Marmaluke is a young rancher in New Mexico, who joins the army and is sent to Japan, where he learns how to make sushi. Sushi is sort of like jam and bread, but more organized. Sushi is eaten with chop sticks, often with a drink of hot tea. Marmaluke the Rancher is tall and lanky like Marmaduke the Great Dane. They both have a fondness for fun and want to help, even if they may stub a few toes and break a few dishes. Marmaluke the Rancher is good at rolling that rice and building those little sushi tubes and miniature sushi and sashimi apartment buildings, so good that he opens “Marmaluke’s Country Sushi Bar and Coffee House” in Santa Fe, New Mexico with daily readings by local writers. Tonight’s reading is entitled “Marmalade.” Marmaluke’s friend Ezra wrote the story, and there are Laramie and Sally crossing the street, and look who’s with them, where’d they find that Great Dane, I wonder what his name is?

It is amazing where a drink with jam and bread can lead you,

Grandpa Jim

US Route 20 is the longest highway in the United States. It is an east-west, trans-continental road running from Boston, Massachusetts, near the Atlantic Ocean, to Newport, Oregon, ending at an intersection within one mile of the Pacific Ocean.

Interstate 90 is the longest interstate highway in the United States. For most of its route, I-90 swiftly and aloofly parallels the slower and less modern US 20, while the older 20 with its fewer lanes wanders alongside, meandering through the centers of small towns, rather than by and around in fancy over-and-under passes and merging-and-surging lanes reserved for the fast cars and their forward-focused interstate travelers. I-90 also starts in Boston but ends in the big city of Seattle, Washington, rather than an intersection somewhere in Oregon.

From start to finish, US 20 is 3,365 miles (5,415 kilometers). From beginning to end, I-90 is 3,101.13 miles (4,990.78 kilometers). Though close in length, the two highways are worlds apart. One is a way to view the countryside, wave to the people and enjoy the trip to Grandma’s house. The other is a hurry-and-get their machine that largely ignores where you’re at, while getting you from here to a pre-determined and closely calculated there. Although both have their advantages and disadvantages, the concepts they present are markedly different.

The first Italian autostrada opened in 1924 and the first German autobahn in 1932. These two roadways started the zip-and-go craze of modern travel, and our US interstates continue that hurried and rushed tradition.

On the Italian autostrada of my student days, the lighting-bolt cars of Lamborghini, Maserati and Ferrari occupied the middle lane, which was reserved for these ultra-fast projectiles of travel. In our puttering student Volkswagen, we broke our bread and munched our calamari as we watched in awe the passing of these mechanical marvels. The hurtling engines of the fast lane were required to keep their left blinkers on, which helped because you had a chance to see the flashing light before the technological wonders hurtled past, the shock wave launching our smaller wagon to the side in mid-crunch of our lunch. Calamari is still a favorite. The shape is round and the surface breaded like an onion ring, except of course the surprise is squid, pulling a bit like a deep-fried rubber band when you bite in and chew, likely tasteless if not for the breading and salt, but still a mainstay on our wander down the autostrada. I now order the calamari in fancy restaurants and save the interstate for our more determined conquests of the miles. Back then, we probably should have been on the slower country roads, but we were kids on an adventure with food in our mouths and wonder in our eyes. Back then, there seemed to be fewer cars and fewer distinctions between those who traveled and the foods they ate.

Take a trip down your favorite byway, interstate or highway, stop for a break and grab a sampling of your favorite treats. Then, hit the road again and munch the miles away. In some ways, things really haven’t changed that much, have they? Life in the fast lane doesn’t really have to be that fast, does it? Just move on over and watch the fancy cars go by. You know, I’m getting hungry for some calamari. Must be time for a road trip.

Grandpa Jim