Dear Diary: It’s Me, Jessica: Chapter 27 (Book 2)

By the author of Dear Diary: It’s Me, Jessica

Here’s where the story left off last time.

Dear Diary,

It’s me, Jessica.

Christmas came and went.  We decorate with the pre-power-outage items as much as we can to make the living room as festive as possible.  Mom and I make small wreaths to hang inside, one on each side of the mantel above the fireplace, and a big one to mount on the front door.  

With the weather being so unpredictable over the past few weeks, first cold and heavy snow, then cold rain with the occasional sunny day, everyone decided it would be best to stay in.  Joan did not put on a Christmas program either.  

We still thought about inviting some of the neighbors over for Christmas Eve dinner, but Mom requested it just be,

“Us.  It is not that I don’t like our friends and neighbors, but we see them often and it is not uncommon to have two to four meals a week together.  I would like this Christmas to be just us.”

After a moment, I replied, “I get it.  Okay, Mom.”

Dad just did one of his “Dad” looks and then nodded.  

So, it was a quiet family only Christmas.  We listened to Christmas music on Mom’s laptop, talked, and enjoyed the fire and each others’ company.

New Year’s Eve was anything but quiet and family-only.

It was fairly warm for New Year’s Eve night, upper thirties.  There were several parties going on throughout the community, and one of those was at our house, gathered around the outdoor oven.  Dad had all the fires going to both cook with and keep warm.  People cooking near the fire did not even need jackets.  Jack had two legs of lamb roasting over one of the open fires and had to baste them and turn them regularly.  No jacket, and he was sweating.  Normally, Jack would have some of his homemade brew, but he was drinking a lot of water!  

“I will have a bit later, after the lamb is served.  That close to the fire, I think I am about a rare to medium rare,” he muttered.  

There were loaves of bread, and Mom put out freshly churned butter, roasted chickens, Jack’s lamb legs.  Dad hot-smoked a pork belly and cut up part of it into chunks for others to use in braised chuck roasts, and thick slices for three large, thick potato, leek, and bacon quiches.  Two green bean casseroles.  There were two cast-iron casserole-like dishes of roasted carrots, parsnips, and rutabaga with a honey glaze.  I never like carrots, parsnips, or rutabagas, but with the honey glaze, it was like candy!  

There was only so much space in the outdoor oven, so as soon as something was done, we dug in.  I wanted a bite of everything, but was holding out for some of Jack’s lamb legs.  In the meantime, I did have some of the braised roast with the carrots, parsnips, and rutabaga on the side and a small slice of a quiche.  The wait for the lamb was worth it.  

I had just put a slice in my mouth when Jack said, “Jessica, this goes with it,” and he handed me a small bowl of sauce.

“What is it,” I asked as I spooned some on the lamb and then passed it down the table.

“A horseradish cream sauce.  I have had this weird plant growing in my back yard for years.  Turns out it is a horseradish plant.  Big too.  But you have to dig deep to get the roots out.  Careful, it has a bit of kick.  A little bit goes a long way.”

“Yeah,” I coughed after I took a bite with the sauce on a bit of lamb.  “Kick is right!”  I cleared my throat a few times and took a drink of water Jack handed me.  “It is good!  So is the lamb!”

“The key to the lamb is to brine it for a full twenty-four hours with onions, garlic, the dark green parts of leeks, and all the herbs I could get my hands on.  Roast it over the fire just enough to get a good crust, basting and rotating it often so it doesn’t burn.  The basting and rotating part is the most work.  The rest is mostly hands off, which I like.”

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“I have a book . . . or eighty . . .”  

He then gave me one of his grins.

“Chicken and biscuits,”  Rae coughed from further down the table.

Jack leaned close to me and grinned, “A bit too much horseradish cream, I wager.”

“That is a bet I am not taking,” I grinned back.

“I should check in on her,” he said as he got up from the table.  “And Jessica, do not give Samson or the puppies any horseradish cream.  I do not want to be cleaning up messes tomorrow.”

“No worries, Jack!  I wouldn’t do that to them or you!”

All three of the dogs looked up at me, as they waited for a treat.

Some from the other ongoing community parties stopped by with treats in exchange for a plate of roast beef with buttered bread, green bean casserole, or a slice of quiche.  Unfortunately for them, the carrots, parsnips and rutabaga was all gone and so was the lamb leg.

Diary, I am going to have some funky dreams tonight!

As dinner wound down and some began to drink in earnest, Jack called me over.

“Need your help setting these up.”  He took out a large duffel bag and unzipped it.  There were about two dozen metal tubes, three feet in length, six inches wide.

“What are those?”

“Fireworks.”

“You made fireworks?”

“Yes ,I did.”

“How do you know how to make fireworks?”

“I have a book.  And, do you know what a mortar is?”

“No idea.”

“In the Marines, we have these things called mortars.  It launches an explosive round at short to medium ranges for a mortar.  It requires a tube, base plate, sighting mechanism, and of course the round itself.  The round has an explosive charge in it that does not destroy the tube but acts as the propellant to launch it from the tube toward the target.  Modern, commercial, big fireworks companies work on the same principle.  A paramilitary group called the FARC in South America, Colombia, did the same thing using two welded together fifty-five-gallon drums, a propane tank like one used for an outdoor grill, a road flare, a blanket, and a black powder charge.  Not very accurate, but when it was, very effective and cheap to make.”

“So . . . we are blowing up someone?”  

“No,”  Jack actually laughed.  “We are going to bring a bit of traditional fireworks to this New Year’s Eve.  Or so I hope.  I have not tested these out.”

“You haven’t tested them?”

“Ah, no.  Wanted it to be a surprise.”

“And if you are wrong and you blow us up?”

“Well, maybe the first one or two we should stand back.”

“You think?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps, he says!”

Jack took out an unusual-looking lighter and lit the first fuse of the first firework, waited a few seconds, and then lit the second fuse of the second firework.  

He stood up watching the fuses flare, and then looked at me and said, “Run.”

Behind him, we ran around the corner of the abandoned house.  

The mortar went off with what only I could call a “thud” that I felt in my stomach.  Then the second one went off.  About two to three seconds later, the fireworks exploded far above us in the air with bright white and red sparks.  

“Okay, I think we are good,” Jack said as he rushed back to the rest of the fireworks set up.

“You think,” I asked in astonishment as I followed.  

“Sure!  It will be fine!  Here, take this lighter and light the others!”

The rest of the fireworks took to the sky in blues, reds, greens, and whites.  It only last a few minutes but we could hear cheers from the community all around.  

Afterwards, we could hear people singing Auld Lang Syne, around us and in the distance.

Diary, I felt a sense of profound optimism for the new year.

About 1stMarineJarHead

1^stMarineJarHead is not only a former Marine, but also a former EMT-B, Wilderness EMT (courtesy of NOLS), and volunteer firefighter.

He currently resides in the great white (i.e. snowy) Northeast with his wife and dogs. He raises chickens, rabbits, goats, occasionally hogs, cows and sometimes ducks. He grows various veggies and has a weird fondness for rutabagas. He enjoys reading, writing, cooking from scratch, making charcuterie, target shooting, and is currently expanding his woodworking skills.