Just T & J
Happy New Year is today's greeting, isn't it. Well, alrighty then, okey-dokey, happy new year!
With second coffee, first cup was hot black in bed with a morsel of dark chocolate, having a potentially deadly Snack while the real breakfast of an exquisitely delicious pork sausage link bakes in the toaster oven, and over it I'll have a bit of yellow mustard, a bit of Löwensenf, and a bit of an excellent new French mustard; this second coffee is a 12-ounce mug of ice cubes and crushed ice, extra strong black coffee poured over; part of my so-far-it's-working morning routine to stop the postprandial BP plummet.
But the Snack -> years ago - - well it's coming up on forty-four years ago, isn't it, longer than Moses was in the wilderness whining to God about the Israelites - - I'd just retired from the Navy and was in Australia on a trial adventure into a possible new career, which along with being flown down from Pennsylvania to Florida six times a year to teach graduate courses in defense acquisition management, turned out positive for me over the next several years while I bought new Cadillacs to satisfy a lifelong lust and worked through the church process and theological seminary toward ordination - - now you know my history of transition from U S Navy officer to Episcopal priest - - I was enjoying a long, leisurely dinner at an elegant restaurant in Sydney with new associates, RAN officers and Dept of Defence officials. My main course, at their suggestion, was the Carpetbag, an enormous filet mignon, sliced open and stuffed with raw Sydney rock oysters, closed back up like a purse (viz., carpetbag) then fiery sizzled hot, crusty crisp on the outside and red raw on the inside; one of life's most memorably scrumptious meals. When the waiter came to ask about dessert, they decided, rather than sweets, to order the cheese tray, known to be superb at this restaurant; which, as I recall, overlooked Sydney Harbour.
You have not, I trust, lost my antecedent thought about my early morning Snack of iced black coffee and a small cheese tray. Anyway, the cheese tray arrived with an astonishing array of cheeses around a mound of butter, and baskets of breads, crackers, bread-rolls. Mind, in Australia I saw none of the despicable soft, white, foamy, goosh up in your mouth and stick to your teeth product that Americans call regular bread, in Australia only breads of substance.
But back to my personal foundation for this morning's New Year's Eve breakfast Snack, the cheese tray dessert that night in Sydney. I waited and watched while the others got started on it: a chunk of warm bread, smeared with butter, then a thick bite of one of the cheeses laid on top. I was astounded, and remember exclaiming that it was a dish of heart attack. But they proceeded to dig in, and I am happy to report after these forty years in the wilderness of life, that it may have been life's finest moment of dinner finale. Just so, this morning, I took a small sample of each of five soft and elegantly fragrant European cheeses, and had for Snack, a breakfast entrée, where entrée properly means the first course, not the main dish as the word is used in the United States.
My sausage is ready. I baked it twenty-five minutes at 350°F then set it out to cool. The first time I had these sausages I was so eager for it that I blistered my tongue. Since then, I've exercised the self-discipline to wait for it to cool down to just hot, or warm.
The cheeses came from Fresh Market, although they did not have the French Roquefort this year; found that in the cheese section at Publix.
Nevertheless and Notwithstanding all my nonsense, my new year's resolution is to avoid making 2022 all about food. Right now, e.g., after breakfast I'll be smoothing up my handout for our adult Sunday School class this week, an intriguing assortment of Christmas and Epiphany gospel options from Matthew and Luke.
RSF&PTL
T
You may sign yourself as you please. In my "field" it's gotten so an ordinary clergy person puts a + sign AFTER the name, as Tom+; a bishop distinguishes him/herself by putting the little sign before, as +Beulah. Some have done the affectation of double-plus for an archbishop, as ++Rufus. Me, except for my five interim years consulting and teaching, I've worn a uniform all my adult life - - first a Navy uniform, then and now a black shirt with clergy collar, with priestly vestments on Sunday. I'm trying to be a person instead of a title or position, so on my blog it's just T at least for now. T. Or you can call me Tom. Or you can call me Carroll if you met me between ages six and before I turned eighteen. Or you can call me Bubba if we are kin by blood or marriage or you knew me before I entered first grade. Or you can call me Uncle, or you can call me Papa or Granddaddy or Dad or Pop. Or if you are ringing from USAA you can call me Commander Weller. Or if it's Sunday you can call me Father Tom or Father Weller if you are so inclined, but don't feel obliged, ich heiße Tom, just Tom, please. So, no T+ for a while.
Pic: that's Joe with binoculars looking at the passing ships. Once when Joe was down here visiting, went to church with us and was sitting in the pew with his mom, someone, a woman asked me, "Who's that sitting with Linda?" I told her that's my son Joe. She hesitated a split second then said, "Oh my God, that's your son? Is he taken? Is he married? Because I have a friend ... "
Joe was here for Christmas, and as I tippy type this morning, he is safely back home in Louisville, probably at work, he arises and goes in to work early, sometimes while it's still dark.