Vol. 2 - The Eggnog is Precious!
A trip home to Maryland and a song that feels like therapy
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A Song- Don’t Forget You’re Precious, Alabaster dePlume
It was late (10 p.m.) on Monday night when a low British accent cooed out of my desktop speakers: “Don’t forget you’re precious”. I was listening to a year-end playlist on shuffle, and I wasn’t expecting this kind of blunt positivity. It was a reminder I didn’t know I needed. Over the next three and a half minutes, I was cradled into a cloud of soft tears and self-compassion by a weird and wonderful hymn.
Alabaster dePlume (aka Gus Fairbairn) riffs poetic in a cool rhythm as a female choir and a breathy saxophone float around a royal pentatonic scale. I’m reminded of Sam Gendel, Tezeta, and Blake Mills and Pino Palladino’s Notes with Attachments. It’s the same kind of spaced-out jazz I often play in the background while I’m working; muted, smooth, and entrancing. It’s pacifist jazz, daydream jazz. A brushed drum kit gives a hint of structure to the poet’s lackadaisical verses - “I remember to drink, I remember to laugh, I remember to check my Instagram but I forget that I’m precious. Don’t do it!”. It’s a welcome hypnosis.
“Don’t Forget You’re Precious” is the second track on GOLD, an album recorded over the course of two weeks at London’s Total Refreshment Centre. DePlume invited several musicians to show up to the studio with no prior rehearsal and play his songs to a click. They were asked to rely entirely on their musical intuition and their ability to listen deeply, and they weren’t allowed to listen back to any of the takes once they were done.
The album is made of 17 hours of solo recordings, glued together like a collage. Knowing this, it’s surprising how cohesive the whole thing feels. I credit a lot of this to dePlume’s songwriting, which is poignant and unwaveringly kind. This kind of songwriting doesn’t happen with a clenched fist; it’s a stream of consciousness from a genuine and precious soul, something I truly believe we all possess if only we knew how to find it (stop looking). I know I’ll be keeping this song on heavy repeat, at least until the days get longer.
“They can’t use us against one another if we don’t forget we’re precious,” he declares. ”I forget sometimes”.
A Cup - Mannion Family Eggnog
What barista among us could forget the sound of steaming eggnog? Every December at Rise Up Coffee (my old haunt), I filled cold pitchers with half nog, half whole milk then issued an apology to any close ears before letting the steam wand rip, sending a high-pitched screech wall-to-wall in the cafe. The latte art, if any, was blob-ish and buried by a sprinkling of nutmeg and cinnamon. Behold, the eggnog latte!
According to lore, the drink was first served at the Columbia Tower Starbucks in Seattle in 1987, but eggnog itself dates back hundreds of years prior. A traditional recipe might look more or less like this: beat together raw egg yolks and white sugar, then heat up some milk. Slowly add the egg mixture to the warm milk, constantly whisking, then cook it down until the liquid thickens. Add heavy cream, more spices, and chill to room temp. Drink it cold, hot, plain, with espresso, or generously spiked with whiskey, sherry, brandy, or rum.
Not surprisingly, the raw egg + hot milk thing freaks a lot of people out. So in the 1980s, while first-wave baristas served up gallons of hot nog lattes in the PNW, my mother’s family imbibed a version all their own in good ol’ Bal-ti-more.
The Mannion family recipe starts with a half gallon of eggnog ice cream in a blender. Turkey Hill is best, or High’s, if you’re in a pinch. Add a cup of whiskey (preferably Jameson, according to Aunt Terri), 1/2 cup of rum (not the spicy kind, says my mom), and 1/4 cup of brandy. Blend, pour into a fancy glass, and garnish with McCormick nutmeg. Behold, a boozy milkshake that’ll knock you on your ass if you’re not careful.
This is the eggnog I grew up on. It’s creamy and sweet until you taste the alcohol. The lingering bitterness of dark liquor will seduce another sip and another until you’re stumbling toward the fridge for a top-off. It’s store-bought and decidedly un-fancy, a stark contrast to the locally grown, scratch-made dairy-free-gluten-free appetite I’ve somehow cultivated in Austin after moving here in 2019. (For context, the eggnog latte we serve at Greater Goods is made with specialty espresso and a local nut milk blend - cashews, almonds, and dates - spiced like nog for the holiday season. It’s $8.00 and I’m obsessed with it.)
This past weekend I went back home to Maryland for Cookie Weekend, a family tradition where we all get together to bake Christmas cookies, play drinking games, and celebrate. It’s been a while since we’ve done one of these - everyone’s pretty spread out these days - but this year, we made it a point. We rented an old Victorian house on Kent Island, close-ish to the airport but far enough from Baltimore that it still felt like a vacation.
On the second night, after sending several cousins out with no success, my Uncle Bill finally found some eggnog ice cream and my mom made a big batch of her signature beverage. As Wham! blared from a Bluetooth speaker, we sipped a little too much from tiny silver-rimmed glasses.
Though it won’t be for another ten or fifteen years, eventually my cousins and I will be in charge of organizing Cookie Weekend. Will we keep the eggnog milkshake on the menu, or will we start exchanging High’s and Crisco for free-range eggs and pistachio milk? How do you balance family traditions with a desire to eat healthy? Is there a “right” way to eat, anyway? Sometimes I honestly feel like I’m single-handedly saving the planet just because I buy expensive organic food - am I just being tricked by the billion-dollar health food industry (likely), or are cauliflower pretzels the secret to a longer, better, more fulfilling life?
I’m still working a lot of this out, but I do know my mom’s eggnog tastes like home. And one or two sips won’t kill me. I am precious, and so are you, no matter what you eat.