Christmas 1874
The weather was fine. A breeze from the west kept the day from being hot. Scott and Johnny made a quick turn through the south pasture not moving fast enough to scatter more than a cow or two.
Scott stopped where the creek cut a gouge in the meadow, and stood up in the stirrups and stretched his back. The grass stirred as Johnny’s horse stopped next to his.
“You know, my last Christmas, l was in San Diego. The place was a mass of festivities and parties, and l tried to go to all of them. Afterwards, I felt like I needed to sleep for a week.”
“Too much to drink?”
“No, too much food.” Johnny flashed a smile at his brother. “Tamales you would sell your first born for. Did you know tamales represent the Virgin Mary and each one has an olive placed in it to represent the Christ child?”
“I didn’t know that,” Scott’s voice was dry as he envisioned Mary’s growing stomach with a growing olive in it. He turned his head and smoothed his hand over his mouth in an effort not to burst out laughing.
Getting himself under control, Scott turned to look at Johnny. “My last Christmas, in Boston, was freezing and foggy and all the socials came with far too much fruit cake and not enough punch.”
Johnny smiled. “Well, we don’t have to worry about freezing this year.”
“I’m not sure if I will ever get used to sunny and clear days in December. Warm too.”
“It’s still colder than farther south or in Mexico and cold at night. The home pasture was white with frost this morning when I got up. So, tell me more about this punch.”
Scott smiled back. “I’ll make sure the next social has a punch we can both be proud of.”
“We are not being very Holy.”
“My Chatham Artillery Punch will make you see angels.”
“Well then that’s okay. As long as it doesn’t make the Widow Hargis look like an angel, I’ll give your punch a whirl.”
“Johnny my boy, even if the Widow Hargis and Charlie Wingate both look like angels, you won’t care.” Scott reached over and gave his brother a firm pat on his shoulder saying. “Let’s get back. We’ve done all we can here today.” They both turned their mounts toward home.
“Come on. I don’t want to miss Maria’s tamales and then we have mass tonight,” Johnny added, “You can doctor up the punch with your Chatham Artillery, whatever that is at the bash tomorrow.”
“That’s not…,” Scott shouted to his brother’s back as he was galloping away. Shaking his head, he hurried to catch up.
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Christmas morning came early after getting home so late from midnight mass. Scott stretched his legs unwilling to get up out of his warm bed. He knew today no one was going to be getting out of bed at dawn.
With a groan, he realized it was way past first light as he could see the rays of sun starting through his curtains. Yawning and stretching his arms, he threw back the covers and rolled out of bed thankful for the thick rug on his floor.
Wishing the house had plumbing and hot water, he washed his face with cold water and managed to shave without cutting himself.
He could hear Johnny rummaging around in his room while taking care of his own ablutions and dressing.
The brothers managed to make it into the hallway at about the same time. “Merry Christmas, brother.”
“Yeah you too. Something smells good,” Johnny added. Both hurried down the stairs.
“You two sound like a herd of elephants coming down the stairs.”
“Well, Merry Christmas to you,” Johnny retorted.
“Sit down and have breakfast.” Murdoch said, hiding his smile by wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“I think somebody had a little bit too much to drink last night,” Johnny whispered loudly to his brother. Scott poked him in the ribs to shut him up, and the two brothers sat down.
“For your information, I didn’t have too much to drink last night. I probably didn’t have enough to drink actually, but I intend to make up for it this afternoon. I hear the punch has quite a kick.”
The Lancer annual Christmas bash went without a hitch. All the families and single hands pitched in. The table and chairs were brought out into the courtyard. An old door was laid between two bales of straw and Johnny was handed a tablecloth to spread over it. Food of every variety including pies, churros, flan and tres leche cake covered every flat space. Looking over all the selections, Johnny decided to skip the ham and beef roast, and promptly filled his plate with desserts.
Johnny started as his wrist was gripped and his father’s voice said softly in his ear. “That’s enough son. Leave some for the rest of us.” Giving his father a sheepish grin, he started to return one of the churros to the tray when his father put the churro back on his plate and said, “When you are done with those, be sure to eat some meat and maybe some bread.”
“Sure Murdoch. As my mama always said…” before he could finish, Murdoch chimed in, “eat desert first, to make sure you have room. I remember.” They shared a warm moment before Murdoch turned to everyone gathered.
Murdoch took a spoon and tapped his wine glass. Slowly the crowd became quiet, and he made his toast to his closest friends, family, and loyal workers.
After thanking them all for coming, he praised the loyal vaqueros and their families who worked so hard throughout the year, and then he cleared his throat. “I’m eternally grateful to have my son’s, Scott and Johnny home at last.” Feeling the emotion welling up, he raised his glass and said, “Nollaig Chridheil agus Bliadhna Meath Ur.” (Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.)
“Buena salud y bienestar, Patron,” Cipriano raised his glass to his old friend. Others followed with their own salutations.
Johnny raised his glass and made his own toast, “On earth peace, good-will toward men,” he hesitated a minute and continued with a grin, “and God bless Scott’s Chatham Artillery punch.”
Later, as the crowd drifted away to home or guest rooms, Scott sat back and took another sip of his highly doctored punch and relaxed as he let his sense of new found family and Christmas traditions wash over him. He counted his blessings and hoped his father and brother were as content as he was.
Glancing at his brother draped over the ottoman in front of the fire, and his father in his favorite chair with his feet resting on a footstool, sipping punch, he knew in his heart this was right and good and the way it was supposed to be. Draining his punch, he stood up and said softly, “and to all a good night.”
December 15, 2024
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Chatham Artillery Punch Recipe
Ingredients
Oleo-Saccharum:
- 12 (3 lb. total) lemons, plus more as needed
- 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
Punch
- 2 cups prepared black tea
- 2 cups (16 oz.) light rum
- 2 cups (16 oz.) cognac
- 2 cups (16 oz.) bourbon
- 1 (750-milliliter) bottle chilled Champagne
- Crushed ice
- Directions
- Prepare the Oleo-Saccharum:
Carefully peel lemons using a vegetable peeler, trying to get as little white pith as possible (you should have about 2 cups of lemon peel strips). Place lemon peel strips and sugar in a large airtight container, and shake until mixture is combined. Let stand at room temperature until sugar begins to dissolve and flavors infuse, at least 12 hours or up to 24 hours, shaking occasionally. Juice peeled lemons, plus more as needed, to yield 2 cups fresh juice. Chill in a separate airtight container until ready to use.
- Step 2:
- Prepare the lemon peels:
Add lemon juice to lemon peel strip mixture, and whisk until sugar dissolves, about 1 minute. Pour mixture through a fine mesh strainer into a large glass measuring cup, reserving 12 lemon peel strips for garnish. Discard remaining lemon peel strips.
- Step 3:
- Prepare the Oleo-Saccharum:
- Make the punch:
Pour 2 cups lemon juice mixture (Oleo-Saccharum), tea, rum, cognac, and bourbon into a large punch bowl, stirring to combine; add Champagne, and fill with crushed ice (about 12 cups). Garnish each serving with a reserved lemon peel strip.
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