THE TWELVE DAYS

A Heron in a Hickory Tree
     Yes, it’s the season of giving, the season of miracles, and the season of very repetitive songs.  One of the most repetitive, of course, is the 12 Days of Christmas.     This song was originally a kind of memory game, and there are lots of versions of it. In its most familiar form, it refers to gifts given during the twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany, but I say why wait?  Now is when you need recipes, as family and friends gather round to celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, the Solstice, Kwanza, or perhaps the end of the world that’s supposed to occur on Dec. 21st.       Might as well go out reading and cooking, right?
     So, in honor of all that, I’m writing a blog a day for the next twelve days.  Each one will have one of the 12 Days theme in it, based on either the familiar tropes, an older French version, or my own version the Twelve Kitty Days of Christmas , which you can watch on youtube .     Each blog will include an excerpt one of my novels, and a recipe, both of them as appropriate as I ever get to the day's theme.        Consider it my gift to you, my readers.  Enjoy.  Cook something.  Eat something.  Write something.  Read something.  Kiss someone you love.     And whatever you celebrate, may the warmth of love and the strangeness of dreaming fill your midwinter days.   

EXCERPT FROM   FEATHERS OF HOPE , Suny Press 
   I was pulling out of my driveway one Saturday in August, on my way to the grocery store, and as I looked down the sparsely traveled road I saw a large bird standing on the grassy verge a few yards away. I stopped, peered, pulled my car back into the driveway and turned it off, then went to investigate.   Standing there, looking forlorn, was a Great Blue Heron, about three feet tall. A juvenile, I figured, since adults are about a foot taller, and have more marked plumage. When I approached, she ducked her head shyly and backed up, but didn’t fly away. A neighbor’s truck went by, and she still didn’t take off. I went and got my husband, Steve.  “Huh,” he said when he came back with me. “Look at that.”  “She’s not flying,” I said.
 “How do you know it’s a she?” he asked.
 “I don’t. But I know she’s not flying, so something must be wrong.”
  He sensed my tendency to intervene. “Call Pete,” he suggested. “Get his advice.”
   Pete Dubacher is my go-to guy for the frequent bird events I’ve had in the last fifteen years or so. Since my first trip to Berkshire Bird Paradise, I was enchanted by who he is, and what he does at his bird sanctuary.     When I got hold of him and told him about the heron, he said, “Oh, yeah. Juvenile herons. I had one of those.  Tangled up in fishing line. Maybe this one got kicked out of the nest because something’s wrong with it, or maybe it left too soon. Either way, it probably doesn’t know how to feed itself. You’ll have to get food into it quick or it’ll starve. Might be too late already. But just get a blanket over it, then bring it inside. Do you have any fish? Mush it up, and stuff it right down the throat. Don’t just put it in the mouth. Get it in the throat. They swallow whole trout, y’know? Oh—wear safety goggles. If they’re scared they go right for the eyes.”     I reported that unreassuring advice to Steve, and we went back to stare at the heron. She was pitiful, all hunched up, a lost little girl.    “We don’t have to try,” Steve said. “You know how you’ll feel if it—she—dies.”    I did know, because I’d felt that way every time I had a failed bird rescue, and all my bird rescues failed. Often I felt like a kind of Charon, my job only to ferry birds across the River Styx to the underworld. One after another, they hopped into my life, stayed briefly, and died. I’d never witnessed that flight away which should be the culmination of a rescue effort. And every death felt worse than the one before, an accumulation of failures that weighed heavily on my heart.     I also felt that way every time I got a rejection on a book, in spite of all the ones l’ve had published. No failure was ever anything to me except personal and deeply felt. My emotional barometer recognizes no other setting.Lately I’d been thinking it was time to stop trying quite so hard, for birds and books. I was at a crossroads in my career. A teaching job I’d loved was closed down by administrative fiat, a series of books I’d been working on were proving difficult. I sought something new for my life.    All current wisdom says you should follow your bliss, not your pain. That you’ll know when something’s right because it will come easily. Though I was raised Catholic and spoon-fed a philosophy of suffering, I’d been trying to embrace a more New Age attitude of following points of least resistance rather than banging my head into walls.    I could make a start by letting this bird go. The local coyotes would put an end to her story, and I could get on with my day. But staring at the young heron, her sadly hunched shoulders, her eyes half closed, I felt something important stirring within me. Some essential message about my own authentic nature.   This is a sad bird, and she needs comfort, regardless of your neuroses, the message said. And you are someone who tries. That’s who you are. That’s what you do. You might as well get on with it.  I sighed.  Deeply. “I can’t leave her,” I said to Steve.  Steve sighed just as deeply. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
     Feel free to visit Jaguar Addams on Facebook , and wish her a good solstice.
FROM A PEAR TREE
   These are suitable as appetizers, or buffet board party fare.  The flavor will make your eyes open as wide as my cats when they’re hunting birds in pear trees.  Really something complex and wonderful, like dreaming, in these.
Tiny Bite of Wonder and Joy!
2 cups fresh pears, peeled and diced 3/4 inchish1 tablespoon mustard seeds1 ounce chevre1/2 cup sugar2 bay leaves1- 2 teaspoons of your favorite hot sauce  (Tabasco, Piri Piri, roasted jalapenos, etc.)1 sprig fresh rosemary 2/3 cups   water1 package puff pastry, rolled out thin, but not transparent thin
OPTIONAL - about a cup of leftover fresh cranberry sauce OPTIONAL - about half a cup of ground up roasted hazelnuts
Get a saute pan hot on the stove, over high heat, and toss in the mustard seeds, the rosemary and bay leaves.   The mustard seeds will pop (brightly, like a song).  Let them sing about it for maybe a minute, then add the water, and the sugar and your favorite form of heat.  (But I don’t recommend just Cayenne pepper.  You want the acid in the sauce as well as the heat for this dish.)
Turn the heat to medium and add the pears.  Let it all simmer quietly and calmly (no spitting or hissing allowed!) for about 15-20 minutes, until the pears are cooked, but not mushy.  NEVER MUSHY!  Remove the rosemary and bay leaf sprig.  
Let it cool.   Get your puff pastry rolled out thin but not transparent, and prick it all over with a fork.   Cut it out into circles, to fit either the tiny muffin pans, or regular size pans, depending on what size you want your tartlets to be.  (I made the mini, because fairies like them that way.  If you’re pleasing pixies, use the larger size.)   
NOTE:  If you don’t like puff pastry crusts, you can use pie dough, phyllo dough, or bread rounds that you cut out and fit to the muffin tins, then toast before adding the filling.   Because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!

Add about a teaspoon of chevre to the bottom of each puff pastry crust, now in its tin.  Put a spoonful of pear mixture on top.   If you’re going with the options, add a dollop of cranberry sauce to top off the pear mixture, and sprinkle it with the ground hazelnuts.   Honestly, I tried all variations, and liked them equally well.   
Pop them in the oven at 350 for about 20 minutes, checking to make sure nothing gets burned.   Let them cool, remove them from the tin and share them with friends.  
Watch people’s faces as they take their first bite.  It’s quite amazing, a miracle of the season.