A pot of black-eyed peas is soaking on the back of the stove as I write this, and the kitchen smells faintly of the ham bone I saved from Christmas dinner. The tree is still up, a little droopy now, and the living room is strewn with the last of the wrapping-paper scraps Lila has been turning into crowns. We are two days from New Year's Eve, and our plans are exactly what they have been for the last few years: almost nothing, done slowly, at home.
Why we stay in
Ben and I went out for New Year's a handful of times when we lived in Columbia, before Lila. It was always a little too loud and a little too expensive, and the best part was coming home. These days we skip straight to the best part.
There's also Pepper. Our beagle is old now, and fireworks rattle him badly. Folks in our neighborhood like to set off a few at midnight, and the year we left him with a sitter, she said he spent the whole evening under the bathroom sink. So staying home is partly for him, and he has never once complained about the arrangement.
How the evening goes
An early supper
We eat around five-thirty, something simple and warm: a pot of chili or soup, cornbread from the cast-iron skillet, and a plate of the Christmas cookies that somehow still haven't run out. It's usually cool enough here in late December to want soup, though some years we've had our windows open in short sleeves. This year looks like the former, with a low in the thirties forecast, and I'm glad. The house has been holding heat much better since the attic insulation went in last month, and it's lovely to be cozy on purpose rather than by accident.
Midnight in London
Lila is six and has very firm views about staying up until midnight. We have found a compromise that satisfies everyone. At seven o'clock our time, it's midnight in London, so we count down then. We pull up a clock on the computer, Lila stands on the ottoman in her paper crown, and we bang pot lids and blow the noisemakers left over from her birthday. Then she goes to bed thrilled, having technically seen the new year arrive somewhere.
Ben and I usually make it to our own midnight, though not every year. Some years we fall asleep on the couch before the ball drops and call it a success anyway.
The good-things jar
This is the part of the night I look forward to most. All year a mason jar sits on the bookshelf with a stack of scrap paper beside it. Whenever something good happens, big or small, one of us writes it down and drops it in. On New Year's Eve we pour them out on the coffee table and read them aloud.
A few from this year, so far: "Lila lost her first tooth at the farmers market." "Ben found the sock Pepper ate. (Don't ask.)" "Pepper made it through another summer." "Saw a fox at the edge of the yard at dusk." "The new insurance was cheaper." That last one made Ben laugh, but after the October renewal letter, it truly did feel like good news.
Small rituals that cost almost nothing
- Candles on the mantel, just the half-burned ones from the drawer.
- A board game Lila can actually play, so nobody has to throw it.
- A walk at dusk around the block, looking at the lights people have left up.
- One word for the year. Ben and I each pick one and write it inside the front cover of the home journal. Last year mine was "settle." I think it worked.
Christmas came in right around our usual budget this year, about $350 for gifts and decorations together, and part of what I love about New Year's at home is that it adds essentially nothing to that. The peas were a dollar and change. The candles were already here.
And then New Year's Day
On the first, the peas become Hoppin' John with rice, and there are collards because there are always collards. My grandmother said the peas are for luck and the greens are for money, and while I'm not sure she believed it, she never skipped them either. Neither do we.
The soaking water has gone a little cloudy now, which means it's time to drain the pot and get on with the evening. Lila is asking whether London has already had its midnight yet. Not yet, baby. Two more days.
