My mission to concoct a worthy eggnog from scratch never got much further along than an ingredient list. Once it took a gander, my pantry doubled over in laughter. That was before the beautiful billows of white accumulating on the ground outside got my attention.
Portions of the deck and the walkway out back obviously needed some attention prior to the arrival of the next snow dump, not to mention those lining up off the left coast set to roll through as the week progressed. The newsfolk keep referring to it as a “pattern,” one that would be around for a spell.
So it was off with the comfort wear and into the Carharts, Sorrels, fleece, slicker, gloves, muffler, shades, and ball cap. If one must shovel snow, no sense in not looking silly.
As I had put off removing the few inches that had paid their respects the day previous, a total of somewhat less than a foot awaited displacement. I don’t want to make this sound like work because, first of all, although it wasn’t Park City Chamber Bureau “light,” it certainly wasn’t the heavy stuff.
Plus, if there’s no wind and it’s sort of balmy and the only deadline is getting back to the aforementioned chemistry experiments with separated raw eggs, cream, nutmeg, and various flavorings, then the entire enterprise quickly morphs into daydreams and, dare I say, delving into the spiritual side of “nog.”
Now, there are a few options as far as “spirits” go in the land of nog. There are the various Puerto Rican and Jamaican white, dark, and golden rums, a long list of Kentucky bourbon whiskies, and it’s not against the rules to even pull out from the very back of the cabinet partially emptied jugs of Canadian, Irish, rye, brandy, cognac, drambui, or whatnot.
The spirits are seldom the problem. It’s the rest of the stuff: the coconut milk, vanilla beans, cinnamon sticks, ground cinnamon and nutmeg, and the heavy cream. Yeah, right! I should have some of those items left over from the last time I performed the “witches scene” from Macbeth for the neighbors.
Hey, wait! What happened to the meditative, calming quality brought on by the rhythmical, not to mention mystical, repetitions of the snow shovel? Eggnog angst has no place in such rituals. Know that these seasonal rites have a way of playing out internally while spreading a thin layer of absolution upon the land.
Keep your eye on the ball! Be the nog. Imagine the process as eggs are separated and yolks and whites are whisked and folded and mixtures are augmented and simmered. See the wooden spoon slowly stirring the evolving elixir and the cool heavy cream being whipped into a modest frenzy.
Stay in the moment. Be here now. The shovel knows well the mission at hand. It needs no spurring. As it played out when good King Wenceslaus looked out on that particular Feast of Stephen, the snow here now lays round about, deep and crisp and even. Disturb it only as you must.
It was then that the cell phone, stowed a few clothing layers beneath the surface, thought to jar me from my Zen-nog reverie. The game was afoot. All hands were being summoned on deck to celebrate a recently postponed annual gathering to recall a fallen comrade-in-arms. No problem, a seasonal service at the tavern it would be!
So, with deep gratitude to the shovel for a job well done, another process ensued. It would be a powwow, a huddling of acolytes, a convocation of apostles. Actually, it would more than likely resemble an inebriation of tipplers. When honoring the memory of Park City mining and ski-area legend Loren Larsen, glasses are often raised.
Necessary props for the occasion were quickly assembled. The “Loren Larsen State Park” sign that once reigned over the slopes above Park City was reverently removed from the living-room wall and, along with the “Longbelly Logbook,” readied for the pilgrimage to that somewhat-churchly honky-tonk outside Heber on Highway 40.
Loren continues to bring out the best and the worst in us. Following a sufficient number of toasts to his memory, cheap shots acknowledging his seldom-subtle orneriness are entered for posterity into the logbook as it gets passed around the table. There are also, of course, mentions of the often-masked dignity, nobility and grace he demonstrated under pressure as he went about cutting his historical swath.
There is an energy that feeds upon itself during these annual episodes. They are used for reconnection, the talking of trash, and the swapping of lies. Disquiet leads to silence and back again. Whispers slowly rise upward in volume before becoming full-blown pep-rally roars. Zingers of all stripes, from politics to athletics to slackers-not-present, fly about at the speed of the random wisecrack. No one is safe.
There is space for personal moments of peace and tranquility at these often cacophonous revival meetings, however. Looking around the table, one can sense the tribal vibe that is “Longbelly.” Meditations upon Loren, although he would scoff at the notion, frequently come packaged with a Zen quality of their own.
Although it’s hard to imagine him spending an afternoon puttering over a recipe for eggnog or waltzing with a snow shovel rather than a plow, you could easily find him in some sort of mischief, playing a joke on someone farther up the food chain. And this bunch truly keeps that faith. He’d be proud.
And now, where in the devil did I put that vanilla bean? And, for that matter, the rum?
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio, among other pursuits. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.