Compote – the “other” toxic waste
This is not a Christmas-bashing post. I love Christmas and (almost) everything about it. The smell of a freshly cut tree – the music – the movies – the excitement on the kids’ faces as they tear open their presents – it’s all great stuff. Yet there are a couple of things about Christmas that I don’t care for. Call them my “bah humbug” moments. We all have them, don’t we?
I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours:
1. The monstrosity pictured above is “compote,” which was the official Christmas-eve dessert in the Trzupr household when I was a little Trzupr. I use the word “dessert” very loosely. If you are not familiar with the dish, it consists of stewed fruit swimming in gelatinous goo. The fruit, in our case, consisted of stewed prunes, stewed apricots and stewed pears. We aggrieved kids generally referred to it as “compost,” and it lived up to the billing.
Thus, though the rest of Christmas-eve fare was tasty and the arguments and insults hurled across the table were always great fun, one never really enjoyed that meal per se. There was tension at the table, as we waded through the courses, knowing the fate that awaited us when the rest of the food was consumed. The rule was that we had to eat at least one piece of each type of fruit, so we husbanded our rations of milk carefully, saving all we could in hopes that there would be enough to wash the slimy, repellent pieces of limp fruit down our throats before they jumped out of the serving dish and forced their way down our gullets.
Compote is truly evil.
It occurs to me that Stosh, who is slowly going senile in his dotage, may weigh in here and claim that compost is a wonderful dessert and that I am being a big baby. He would be, as EP would say, full of crap of bull. If anything, I am vastly understating the horrors of compote – to spare our fine readers the true awfulness of this abomination – but I bear the scars my friends. I bear the scars.
2. Admittedly, I don’t care for ballet in the first place. I know, I know – it’s amazingly graceful and the performers are among the world’s greatest athletes. I get that. Perhaps it is middle-age, but I have really lost my taste for guys prancing around in tights and codpieces, and the ballerina ideal body type – quite frankly – kind of freaks me out. (And not in a good way).
With all of that said, it should come as no surprise that I don’t give a rat’s ass about the Nutcracker. (“Rat’s” ass – get it?) I’ll sit through it, of course, because it gives Mrs. Trzupr and one of our little Trzupr’s a lot of pleasure – and seeing them beam with delight makes me very happy indeed. But as far as my personal taste? Sugar plum whatever. Old man is creepy. The kids are annoying. Blah, blah, blah. I always quietly root for the rat army to win, but they never do.
Dammit.
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The very idea of fruit compote as a Christmas dessert strikes me as kind of repulsive. I assume that, like so many Christmas traditions, it goes back to what your parents or grandparents used to eat, back when desserts were rare and anything sweet was a treasure.
But count your blessing. Our example of grandparents’ food, in the Norwegian tradition, was lutefisk, the infamous dried codfish, reconstituted in a solution of lye and then washed and boiled. The result was a vaguely fish-flavored jello that smelled like the Great Fish Graveyard.
But for dessert we got the best pumpkin pie in the world. I’ll share the recipe, which I use to this day.
Buy a can of pumpkin stuff. Follow all the directions on the can, with this difference–
Instead of 2 eggs, use 7. Then use 2 deep-dish pie crusts to bake 2, not 1, pumpkin pie.
The result is a pumpkin custard pie that even people who don’t like pumpkin pie love.
No need to thank me. I’m all about spreading sweetness and light on the holiday.
Or, if you must thank me, buy my book.
Fruitcake lovers of the world unite…
That sound you hear is crickets chirping, Scott.
I actually like fruitcake – of course, there might be something in my genetic makeup, responsible for that (see Lars’ post).
1. Oplatek
2. Oplatek
3. Watching how the newer Children’s shows tie themselves up in knots to avoid mentioning Christ, or any religious aspect to the Holiday. This morning one of the Little Fireflies was watching “Handy Manny” as I ironed my shirt, preparing to leave for the office. (That’s right, ladies. I iron my own shirts.) Only New Years Eve was mentioned, and one of the characters was hurrying to get home for New Years Eve because “that’s the day families get together to celebrate.” Huh?! New Years Eve is the day adults abandon their children and go out and get hammered and New Years day is the day adults tell their kids to shut up, stop making such a racket and let mommy and daddy sleep. Isn’t there another Holiday this time of year when families get together… It seems like I vaguely remember something from my own childhood… Starts with a “C…”
4. Sickness. Without fail the combination of sleep deprivation and running around like a chicken with its head chopped off means I invariably come down with some ailment, or another. Each day I’m healthy in December makes me dread the next day more, knowing that some, future morning I will awaken with a cold, or flu.
Rufus I will drown out the crickets and agree with Scott on the fruitcake. Since I lack anything truly groudbreaking to say about it I will simply say “bleh”.
I second your dislike of people avoiding saying Christmas and as such watch only the old Christmas staples; Christmas Story, A Christmas Carol with Geroge C. Scott, etc.
For me the kicker can be summed up in one word. Kwanzaa. Really a holiday created by a racist who kidnapped, raped, and tortured two women in the 1970s? Give me a break.
Veruckt, wasn’t Scott saying he likes fruitcake? I can’t stand the stuff. Germans have something called stolen. It’s fruitcake in the shape of a loaf with powdered sugar on it (sometiems). It’s as gosh awful as it sounds. But, my dear German mother-in-law makes one each year and I have to pretend like I am excited. Don’t tell her, but I can’t stand the stuff.
I assumed Scott was being sarcastic. No sane human being can like fruitcake.
My dad liked fruitcake. But he liked lutefisk too.
And he’s dead, come to think of it.
Who are you calling insane? (As I put my hand in my coat, adjust my silly hat and call for Josephine.)
Eggnog is (and this is for you, fellow Strange Brewer Rufus), for sucks, eh? Just pass me the whiskey, please.
Take off! (I’m with you on the straight whiskey though.)
You knob! Creek, natch!
Eric I dig the new avatar picture.
Never realized that Eric smoked a pipe. Nice likeness though.
Shaving, like eggnog, also for sucks.
I love eggnog. With a bit of Kalua and some pumpkin bread…yum. Especially the new Southern Comfort Vanilla Spice (non alcoholic but we can fix that).
The new Frosty cartoon had them actually celebrating the Solstice with a fertility godess. Not even kidding. THat was several years ago though.
it was a mini-west side story in our fridge last night after the missus got home from the store – the milks vs. the nogs.
“Got some lactose, in my pocket.”
“Get cool, Boy!”
(I need a goateed smiley face)
I don’t really hate anything about the season. THe closest I come is the crowds and traffic, but even then, I just don’t go out much so it’s not too bad.
Can’t have Christmas without eggnog and snow and we got both. And, as I look about the window – freezing rain.
No,I actually do like fruitcake…beats the hell out of brussel sprouts and stewed beets…gawd
See, Veruckt, I was right!
I think a lot of this stuff goes back to childhood. If you aren’t exposed to certain tastes and textures by a certain age you will be much less likely to enjoy them later in life.
So what is this problem with comporte? Can’t you be regular at least on Christmas Eve? It moves the oplatek along.
Vic