The Eggnog War of Hazelwood Drive

Image by Drew Coffman @drewcoffman

By Eda Obey

Since the early 50s, my grandparents Eda and Brownloe, Brownie to his friends, lived at the end of Hazelwood Dr in Texas. My grandmother’s sister Mary Jane and her husband John lived next door. For as long as my mother can remember Granddad and Uncle John had a Christmas rivalry. Their trees were always huge and flocked, adorned with bubble lights, ostrich feather angels, and multi-colored ornaments. Their houses were decked out in tasteful yet expansive displays of twinkling lights that enthralled me as a child.

But nowhere was the holiday rivalry fiercer, the best dad battle grimmer than the holiday eggnog. Both recipes were guarded by the old men like treasure maps. The youngest grandchildren were each given a task, a piece of the puzzle to assemble, whether it was whipping the cream to the perfect consistency or making clouds of stiff egg whites cooked by dipping them gently into the viscous alcoholic brew. I once had the honor of peeking in granddad’s cookbook at the recipe. My grandfather had crossed out and penciled in all kinds of notes on the page. He looked like a wizard tracing the recipe with a gnarled finger. I knew he had to have it memorized, having made it dozens of times before. The pages were water stained and yellowed with age. The faded green cloth cover had worn down to the cardboard along the edges.

If you proved a steady-handed and dependable grandchild, you could be drafted into pouring the tiny steady stream of equal parts scotch, rum, and brandy into the blended egg yolks and sugar. Too much booze poured too quickly and the whole thing would curdle into a big bowlful of sweet milky scrambled eggs. The eggs weren’t the only thing that curdled, the holiday mood did too when a whole houseful of grumpy adults awaiting their first cup of Christmas cheer were told it was going to be another 30 minutes.

That’s what we called it: “Christmas Cheer”. My mother’s family are a loud contentious bunch of Texans. Everything was always turned up to one hundred percent, volume and drama. Arguments that had begun decades before were still very much in play during the holidays. One year, my mother and her eldest sister had a screaming fight about who did what with whose Barbie dolls. My cousin and I stood in the corner, quietly sipping our 100 proof cups of Christmas cheer and watched the fireworks fly. We didn’t speak much, but our eyebrows communicated volumes.

One year I was the coat kid, which meant I answered the door and hung up the adults’ coats in the front hall closet. When my uncles and their girlfriends arrived, the first thing they’d say as they tossed their coats over my outstretched arms. “God, I need a drink.”

That drink was usually in a ceramic Santa mug. My grandmother went through a ceramic painting period in the late 70s that left us with a massive punch bowl and twelve tiny Santa punch cups. The cups had a classic cherub Santa head with his hat and bobble forming the handle. We each had one with our name painted on the bottom. When I got older, I liked the thick eggnog liquid with the booze kick, but when I was a kid, my cup runneth over with the merengue that floated on top. It was like an airy vanilla nutmeg pudding. I ate my eggnog with a spoon in those days.

Around mid-afternoon, Uncle John, Aunt Mary Jane, and their brood would come over for the first tasting. When everyone had a full glass in hand, the time for toasts would begin. Granddad would raise his glass and start the process. A toast could be anything: a memory, a limerick, a silly little song, a shouted foreign word that translated as health, cheers, or bottom’s up in some way or another, a victory, or a hope for the new year. Each toast was cheered then drank to. It was mythic. It was where I learned to speak my hopes and dreams in front of others to be cheered on in the undertaking and held accountable, because sure as sugar, someone was going to bring it up next year. When our glasses were empty, they would be left on the dining table and we would march next door and repeat the process with Uncle John’s eggnog. The adults would debate the merits of each batch. The granddads would show each other the empty bottles of liquor they used in their liquid gold. Cost and reputations were discussed very seriously. The end result was always a tie. Nobody really won and nobody really lost.

When I was in my mid-20s Uncle John finally died. Granddad had died when I was in my teens. When our first Christmas rolled around without either of the old guys around, the eldest children compared the eggnog recipes their fathers gave them. A sixty-year rivalry was ended with a peaceful exchange of information. And what did they discover when they laid the recipes side by side?

A two yolk difference.

We had spent decades comparing the taste of two recipes that weren’t just similar, they were practically identical. That is where I learned another great life lesson: Nine times out of ten, the bluff is always better than the reveal.

Brownie’s Eggnog: A highly edited Better Homes and Gardens recipe from the 40s

Serves: 8-12 people 6oz servings, 12-16 lightweights

Prep/total time: 30-45 minutes

Ingredients

½ tsp. salt

1 dozen eggs

1 lb of confectioners’ sugar

1-quart 1/2 and 1/2

1-quart whipping cream

1-quart milk

1 1/3 cup Barcardi Rum

1 1/3 cup Jim Beam Whiskey

1 1/3 cup Napolean Brandy

 

Use an electric hand mixer. If you try to do this with a whisk your arm will fall off. We use a large popcorn bowl to mix this. Beat 12 egg yolks until light sunny yellow then beat in 1 lb. of confectioners’ sugar gradually, seriously we used a soup spoon to tip in small amounts. Once the sugar is mixed smoothly in with the yolks, it’s time for the booze. Turn the beater down to med/low speed. My grandad had a big glass four cup measuring cup. You can mix each alcohol in individually. Alcohol first, milk second. Trust me. This makes a huge batch. Wear an apron, you are going to get splashed. Add these very slowly in a steady stream along the side of the bowl with your assistant beating mixture constantly:

   1 1/3 cup Rum

   1 1/3 cup Brandy

   1 1/3 cup Whiskey

   1-quart half and half

   1/2 quart of the quart of whipping cream *whip the other half separately

   1-quart milk

Whip the other half of whipping cream in separate bowl until stiff peaks then fold it into the mix. In another bowl whip 6 egg whites and 1/2 teaspoon salt until stiff and merengue-like then fold the stiff egg whites lightly into the other mixture. It should be lumpy like little white clouds floating on top (don't worry the booze cooks the eggs). Serve sprinkled with freshly grated nutmeg in small cups. Drink responsibly. This has got a kick like a mule.

Eda Obey dabbles in all genres, but her favorites are fairy tale retellings, animal fantasy, and feminist think pieces disguised as horror. She's internationally published in writer's journals and online magazines. After years of struggle, she finally achieved her BA in journalism then realized how unsuited she was for the industry. She firmly believes children are morbid little monsters and are absolutely delightful because of it. She writes a urban animal fantasy series called The Vermin Chronicles that is an homage to The Secret of NIMH, Animal Farm, and Maus.