As promised, the snow starting falling at just about 10 last night. The tradition here is to open gifts on Christmas Eve, so everyone slept in a little, and we woke to a classic white Christmas with flocked trees and a soft, perfect blanket on the ground. The morning was spent puttering with our presents: plugging them in and trying them on, mostly, but not playing with them. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I confess to being a bit out of sorts, for there was not a single toy or game unwrapped this year. Which is perhaps just as well, because there is no sister, brother, nephews, or niece here to play them with, either. This holiday is lovely, but it doesn't feel completely like mine. I thought I would be fine, and I am, but I'm also not.
Things went a little off the rails this morning when breakfast was delayed, and my usual even disposition was a little ragged with hunger by the time the quiche made it to the table at noon. I perked up a bit with a facetime call to my brother and sister and aunt, and the prospect of cooking my rib roast the Alton Brown way also invigorated my day.
Brown call for putting the well-seasoned roast into a cold oven and setting it to 250 for three hours until the internal temperature reaches 118. Then it's rest the roast and blast the oven to 450 for the Yorkshire pudding, and then sear the rested roast in that hot oven for about 10 minutes before carving. And it all would have been great, except I was following video directions which didn't mention that his roast was 8-10 pounds while mine was barely 5.
When I checked the roast just a couple of hours in, the faulty meat thermometer read 160 and I swore a blue streak to think I ruined a 70 dollar roast. But snatching it from the oven just then to rest while I spun around the kitchen like a dervish for the next 45 minutes making gravy, Yorkshire pudding, roasted brussels sprouts, mashed sweet and white potatoes, and salmon for the non-meat eaters turned out to be perfect timing and the roast was a lovely rare, the slabs of juicy prime rib rivaling any steak house you like.
Even so, it was sheer luck, I know, because it's not even my job to cook the roast on Christmas Day. I do the gravy.
"I am fine, but almost not" - such a perfect way to describe what our lives have been like over the past nine months. I'm glad the holiday brought some joy, and hooray for your mad skills in the kitchen!
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