You know the drill. Your Aunt Agatha always has her holiday brunch and your presence is mandatory. Or you must attend the awkward office party that requires you to mingle with people with whom you have absolutely nothing in common. Or go to the family meal, which may include total strangers or totally strange family members. Whatever the case, the holidays usually mean you need to get together with people you might otherwise chose not to socialize with. It is incumbent on you to behave reasonably well. Not always an easy task.
6 Tips On How To Be Merry at Holiday Gatherings
Keep an open mind. You might learn something. A friend thought a woman was totally boring until she revealed she had been born in France. Which opened up all sorts of opportunities for questions and interesting conversation. Everybody, even the biggest dolt, has a story. It’s up to you to find out what it is.
Have a good attitude. You have to make an appearance. It’s mandatory and you’ve already conceded to attend a mind-numbing event. So suck it up and go. Decide that since you have to be there anyway, you might as well make the best of it. Then wipe that gloom from your face and be cheerful. You can do it.
Be prepared. People will ask you open-ended questions that may leave you stuttering and wondering what, in fact, you’ve been doing with you life. Questions like, “How’s it going?” Or, “What’s happening?” It’s tempting to say, “Not much.” But try instead to be prepared with some nugget about your life that might spark a conversation. Think of this before you go so you’ll be ready.
Stay away from politics. You’ve heard this advice over and over, but after a glass of wine or three, resolve weakens. After all, we need to have a conversation. We need to get to the bottom of what’s going on in our country, other countries, the world. BUT. You are at a holiday gathering where harmony is the watchword. If you must discuss politics, choose the right time and place. Your Aunt Agatha’s brunch is not it.
Introduce yourself. Be the adult in the room and make sure you meet folks you don’t know. Especially those who seem to be lost or alone. Go introduce yourself and try to put your new friend at ease. Find some common ground. After all, you both ended up at the same party. You both know the host or someone who knows someone who knows the host. Ask you new friend what connection he has. It’s a good starting point.
Have some topics ready. There are plenty of things in this world besides religion or politics. There are books, movies, music, television shows, art galleries, magazine articles, food, restaurants, travel, sports. And more. And if you’re at a Christmas party, for example, you can ask what your new friend likes best about the holiday. You might share your fondest memories of Christmas Eve. Or your family traditions. Find out what others’ are too.
So go forth and enjoy the holidays. Like anything, when you put a little effort into it, you get more out of it. You might even have fun.
About The Author: Nancy Travers is an Orange County Counseling professional. If you need safe, effective counseling services, please get in touch. You can reach her here: http://www.nancyscounselingcorner.com/contact-us.
THE LIFE STYLIST
If you’re exhausted by the thought of digging out the formalwear and trudging to some nondescript, overly expensive party, take a cue for the Life Stylist and ditch convention.
Text + photography by David J. Witchell
Being the eternal optimist that I am, I’ve always held that how you usher in the new year will go a long way toward dictating how you’ll live with it. Which is why my New Year’s Eve is an Event—but far from the conventional sense. I shed the tuxedo and the artificial glamour a while back in favor of a simpler night, one where I’m decked out in pajamas and surrounded by my closest friends and family, all of us savoring each other’s company and a home-cooked meal.
The hosting duties rotate among us. They’re falling to me this year, and, naturally, I started planning months ago. My father was born on New Year’s Eve, and every New Year’s Day, we staged a birthday feast, so the occasion was already a big deal for me. I keep the décor simple. I’ll pare down the Christmas decorations—so last year—and trim the remaining stuff in white, silver and a touch of gold. The dinner table follows the same aesthetic. If I can find them, a few bunches of white tulips are my go-to for the centerpiece; white roses, if not. And pajamas are the extent of the required attire. (It’s proven to be a good excuse to buy a new pair for myself and few more for the guests who “forget” to don theirs.) For the cynical among us, it’s only odd to be sitting around a candlelit dinner table in pajamas if you’re the only one wearing them.
Where Christmas is meant to exude a deep-seated sense of tradition, New Year’s Eve/Day should be pure and fresh and free of such a heavy burden. I’d like to enter the new year the way I’m sure most of us would: with a blank canvas. Easier said than done, but framing it as such can’t hurt. It’s certainly better than waking up to a mess of glitter, half-filled champagne flutes and cigarette butts. Come midnight, I’ll be toasting Janus, the Roman god after whom our first month is named.
Janus presided over both the beginning and the conclusion of conflict, which is why he’s often described as a two-faced god. To Janus. May you reflect upon our year that was and gather insight to help us find our way in the year ahead.
What was your best New Year’s Eve like? Only remember bits and pieces of it?
Sounds about right. That’s the thing: Even if your New Year’s Eve plans meet your every outlandish expectation, you’re still waking up the next morning with a debilitating hangover and a spotty memory of what just transpired. All you do know for sure is that you’re a few hundred bucks lighter in the pocket for it.
This pressure, internal and/or external, to do something on New Year’s Eve is totally unfounded. It’s a holiday celebrated by twentysomethings and eccentrics who need to be penned into Times Square for hours on end. The rest of us are just trying to reenact, what, some overly glorified memory from our youth, a rom-com that led us to believe there’s magic in the air, and we just need to open ourselves up to it?
Instead of fixating on these few precious hours, let’s envision another scenario: You go to bed at a decent hour, the clock ticks past midnight like it always does. You sleep in late and wake up bright-eyed and increasingly energized as you realize you haven’t dry-heaved the day away. In the afternoon, a small group of handpicked friends and family collects in your living room and kitchen and talk and laugh, talk and laugh, over a few simple snacks and a round or two of drinks. No formalwear required. No insatiable urge to over-drink in an effort to justify your outlandish reservation. No expecting the earth to shift on its axis at midnight.
When the sun goes down, they go home and you drift off on the couch, warmed by a bit of bourbon and the satisfaction of a once-lost day well spent.
Everything’s produced locally, in small batches and sourced by our resident scavenger, Susan Forker, an artisan herself.
The holiday season is one of my favorite times of the year. The temperatures cool, the fires are stoked, and we reflect on giving. Buying handmade and local has always been an integral part of my gifting for many reasons, not in the least, the foothold it provides to the small businesses in our community. Mostly, though, it’s an opportunity to support the artisans who create unique, thoughtfully made products that have a story behind them. Here’s what caught my eye this season.
Woven Tote/Caryall | arden + james | from $320
A technically skilled artisan with the keenest intuition, Bri Brant’s work draws its beauty from natural media and her deep respect for the environment. The leather in her handmade bags is produced locally at a historic tannery, one of only two in the country that employ an eco-friendly, vegetable tanning process. The other materials in this tote, a true keepsake, are treated with the same level of care, right down to the hand-hammered copper rivets.
Artisan Candles | Zoet Bathlatier | from $20 each
Beautifully packaged and made in small batches from 100-percent vegetable wax and pure essential oils, these candles will intoxicate your senses. With fragrances like Fir Needle & Clove, The Woods, Caramel & Woodfire, simply light one and you’re transported to another place. The stated desire is to provide a sense of renewal and wellbeing with each. Mission accomplished. And then some.
Daisy Necklace | earth and wears | from $30 (each)
Lyn Carey recently celebrated the eighth anniversary of her Dallas, Pennsylvania, shop, earth and wears, and the ninth of her pottery and ceramic jewelry line, which goes by the same name. Finding inspiration in natural tones and textures, Lyn hand-forms and -glazes these stunning pendants, leaving the back untreated for diffusing essential oils. One drop lasts about eight hours.
Assorted pillows | Tamme Handmade | $20 (each)
Funky. Flirty. Retro-glam. Tamme McClelland’s eclectic line, Tamme Handmade, has a definite swagger. The images are printed directly onto the fabric with water-based, eco-friendly dye. These pillows are especially appropriate for the literature lover, the nautical enthusiast and the anglophile on your list. Frida Kahlo and Eleanor Roosevelt are her best-sellers. I’m partial to Charles Bukowski.
DIY Stitch Kit | Popped Stitches | $12
Popped Stitches is the brainchild of Melissa McCullough, who displays a wicked sense of humor in her original cross-stitch and embroidered creations. Much of her work references an affinity for pop culture, geekery and salty quips, like, “Don’t summon my inner bitch, she doesn’t play nice,” that are bound to make you laugh out loud then race to hang it. This stitch kit (available exclusively at Philadelphia Independents is the gift that keeps on giving—because the recipient is bound to brag about his/her ability (and neglect to mention the kit) to anyone who comes into contact with it.
Susan Forker is the owner and designer of the Doylestown-based joeyfivecents, a line of one-of-a-kind jewelry and accessories.
With the counsel of a few seasoned pros, we amp up the flavor (and the moistness) while also simplifying a notoriously overwrought recipe.
By Kendra Lee Thatcher
Thanksgiving 2002. My best friend, Lisa, introduces me to what will become my new holiday obsession. The evening is a perfectly orchestrated scene from Martha Stewart’s playbook. Summoned to the dinner table, we gather around the glistening turkey, a fire roaring behind us, Bruce Springsteen roaring over the fire.
Until tonight, I’d only known flavorless, white breast meat drowned in gluey gravy. With ninja-like swiftness and precision, Lisa grips a leg, rips it from the carcass, places it on my plate, then repeats the process and places the other on hers. Sisters in legs. Not really. I stare at mine for a good while, trying to figure out the best way (read: the least embarrassing way) to go about this. Finally, I look over at Lisa, who’s already polished off hers. No help there. Screw it. I pick it up and start gnawing away like I’m at Medieval Times. The skin, caramelized and crisp, seduces me at first bite. The dark meat’s so, so moist and laced with herbs, nutmeg and orange. This is what turkey’s supposed to taste like?! How did I make it into adulthood without realizing this?
Every year since, I’ve had dibs on the leg. It won’t be so clear-cut this year, though, because I’ll be playing the role of Lisa for the first time. Those legs aren’t naturally that moist, and nutmeg-y and citrus-y. Which means I’m in trouble. So I called around and asked a few friends who should know, flat-out, “How do I not f— up my turkey?” The following is the step-by-step plan I assembled from their advice and tested during a recent trial run.
Step 1: Buying
Convenient as those massive grocery store-birds are, shell out for a fresh, local, heritage turkey. They tend to be smaller and more manageable.
“The smaller the bird, the less time in the oven. The less time in the oven, the juicier the meat,” says Ian Knauer, who established The Farm Cooking School in Stockton, New Jersey.
I bought an 11-pound, Lancaster-raised turkey at None Such Farm Market in Buckingham. I had it quartered, based on the recommendations of Emily Peterson, the host of “Sharp + Hot” on Heritage Radio, and Matthew Martin, the owner/chef of More Than Q BBQ Company. The butcher broke down my bird into two breast-wing and leg-thigh segments, bones-in, skin-on and odds and ends packaged to make stock with.
Step 2: Prepping
Pour yourself a glass of wine. Proceed.
I’m a fan of adding fat under the skin. So when Ian reiterated this, I felt completely validated. I mashed up zesty-herb butter and massaged it into the meat. But I didn’t stop there. I then slathered the reserve fat from smoked bacon all over the skin and seasoned it with salt and pepper.
Also: “Lightly trussing the quarters will ensure the skin stays on and the juices stay in,” Matthew says.
I mixed brandy, fresh orange juice and star anise to roast and baste the turkey in. I picked that little cocktail up from Diana Paterra, the owner/chef of DeAnna’s Restaurant and Bar in Lambertville, NJ, and now I’ll never use another.
Step 3: Roasting
Preheat your oven to 425 degrees. In two large roasting pans, place a “veggie rack” comprised of carrots, parsnips, onions and citrus and cover it with a bed of herbs. Add your breasts to one pan and the legs to the other. Pour the brandy-OJ-star anise mixture evenly over both pans and then stick them, uncovered, in the oven.
Step 4: Timing
Never—seriously, nev-er—lose track of your bird. Roasting it hot and fast is the way to go, but it requires constant attention. It’ll take about 30 to 40 minutes for the turkey to turn golden brown, which seals in those juices that make so much of the difference between a remarkable turkey and a blah bird. (Note: The breasts will cook about 10 minutes faster than the legs.) At that point, pull the pans from the oven and brush the turkey with the drippings. I then reduced the heat to 375—my oven runs a little hot—and basted every 20 to 30 minutes for the next hour or so.
In an hour and 45 minutes, my turkey had hit the sweet spot—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside—so I slid it out and let it sit for another 45 minutes, as per Diana’s counsel. From there, I sliced it up with an extremely sharp knife, as per Emily’s counsel, arranged the pieces on a platter and drizzled them with the remnants of drippings.
I still reached for the leg out of instinct, but, really, there was no boring bite with this turkey. And that’s not to say that I’ve mastered Thanksgiving. The turkey, it turns out, is actually a very small piece of that headache. But, dismantling the intimidation was as critical as any step in this, ultimately, fairly simple recipe.
Bethlehem-based fashion designer Lauren Midlam is nurturing a devout following through her subtle-but-empowering collections.
By Sean Downey
Butter Knit Ruched Dress in sapphire, $218, and Butter Knit Wrap in blue topaz, $198
Caught between Philadelphia and New York, as we are, it’s easy to fall into the trap that stipulates that all forms of modern culture—music, cooking, fashion, for starters—worth serious consideration must be tethered to one or the other. Sure, that once held. But this is a different day. And Lauren Midlam is walking proof.
Classic Window Pane Dress in navy and carbon, $328
Her focus, when she launched in 2012, was online sales, namely because it didn’t require much infrastructure. But the Internet has never served subtlety particularly well. “I found out it was hard to gain traction that way because consumers couldn’t touch and feel the fabric and fit, which are two of the biggest differentiating factors in my clothes,” Midlam says.
LM StyleBar’s collections are built around tailored, minimalist, foundational pieces—dresses, pencil skirts, jackets—that can be seamlessly incorporated into a wardrobe and just as easily become its staples. “I use a lot of standard colors and clean lines that stand the test of time,” Midlam says, “so when you buy something in one season, you can match it with something from the next.”
Like life in general, the fashion houses with the brashest patterns and most aggressive silhouettes tend to receive most of our attention. But to truly appreciate Midlam’s designs, we need to run our fingers down a blazer’s silk charmeuse lining and eye up the princess seams, or notice the total lack of a side seam in a pencil skirt. All of it is a study in subtly. The results, though, are anything but: fabric that caresses you skin and forms that look downright bespoke.
Ponte Knit Classic Dress with three-quarter sleeves in carbon, $325.
Which is to say Midlam’s fortunes changed dramatically once her label started getting picked up by local boutiques.
“Fabric plays a huge role in an item’s look and a wearer’s attitude,” says Midlam, who likes to mix silk with synthetic fibers, like viscose and spandex. Together, they mold to a figure and then move, fluidly, with it. Which seems to be emboldening said figures in ways once reserved for those sporting oversized, gold Gucci clasps and screaming Dolce & Gabbana prints. “My customers,” she says, “have been requesting larger and larger sizes, which tells me that they appreciate clothes that show off their curves.”
Imagine that: Fashion that enhances self-image, instead of masking it.
Nowhere else do the increasingly sophisticated flavors of the region come together as well as they do at the Easton Public Market. The trick is not filling up too fast. Follow us for the way.
By Kendra Lee Thatcher·Photography by Jennie Finken
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that everyone should have at least one person in her life who embodies these three qualities:
1. He/she is nonjudgmental, especially in the presence of slurping.
2. He/she is always down to eat, no matter the time and place.
3. He/she is always thinking ahead.
That last one proved especially valuable, because I approached the Easton Public Market with the singular (and narrow-minded) ambition to eat as much as I could, where my Ride or Die thought to bring a large cooler.
Culinary halls may be all the rage (even though the concept is old-old-school), but Easton Public Market is not a loosely wrought trend. It’s smart (the cooking demos arm you with ideas so you don’t get home and stare blankly at all that delicious food), conscientious (it’s grassroots, but it’s designed to be self-sustaining, and the vendors are all local) and on point (the diversity rivals that of any urban hall). It’s also overwhelming. With all those aromas competing for your attention, it’s very easy to walk in and fill up on the first thing that catches your eye. But a little poise will carry you far. So here’s a field guide that’ll ensure you hit the most appetizing spots with a little room to spare.
Begin at Mister Lee’s Noodles (1) for kick-ass, authentic ramen. The dishes don’t lend themselves to sharing, but you won’t want anyone else hanging their heads over your bowl anyway. The ingredients are local and the noodles are made by Sun Noodle Co., which supplies revered ramen houses in Manhattan and Brooklyn. If you’re the kind who appreciates the astonishing amount of labor and the time-honored technique that go into constructing that bowl, grab a seat at the bar.
The Kitchen proved to be a good palate cleanser. We walked in on a juicing demonstration and sipped the extracts of beet, ginger and kale while we plotted our next meal.
Welcome as that little detox was, it had to be five somewhere, so we headed to Tolino Vineyards (2) next to sample some chambourcin (which happens to be the official grape of the Lehigh Valley). It’s a not-too-bold red that paired well later on with our Chocodiem (3) truffles and the live acoustic music.
(More on those truffles: Chocodiem collaborated with other Easton Public Market vendors on several varieties. I fell in love with the More-Than-Q BBQ (4) and the Fieldstone (5) Espresso truffles, both of which were unlike any truffle I’ve had before.)
We indulged next in the arnabit at The Taza Stop (6). It’s breaded, fried, mildly spicy cauliflower served with a scratch-made garlic sauce. Think cauliflower calamari. From The Taza Stop, it’s an easy walk to Youseff’s and Olive with a Twist, between which you’ll find deep inventories of hard-to-find spices, unusual balsamics and handcrafted soaps and body butters.
At this point, I strongly advise checking your parking meter. Time has a way of getting away from you here. That’s not, however, a legitimate defense in a Northampton County court. Also: You’re going to need to grab that cooler.
Now, let’s get down to some shopping. Don’t be afraid to ask the butchers at Dundore + Heister what’s good. They’re likely to turn you on to cuts you’ve never heard of before, but’ll become your go-tos from here on out. Then, stock up on produce, Alderfer eggs and Apple Valley Creamery raw-milk cheese at Highmark Blue Shield Farmstand (7). There should still be room in the cooler, but not much, so head back to Chocodiem for macarons.
Your appetite’s probably returning by now. A beer and Neapolitan-style pizza at Scratch (8) will satisfy those pangs. Scratch is the epitome of the Easton Public Market experience: comfortable and familiar, yet elevated. And don’t think that a pizza joint is going to be held to any less of a standard. Nearly every ingredient comes from Apple Ridge Farm and the beer is from nearby Shawnee Craft Brewery. (The taps rotate often, so be adventurous. Even if you luck into a new favorite, which we did with the lambic, it likely won’t be there your next time through anyway.)
The women manning the wood-burning oven flick pies in with a fluid motion and lunge after them without so much as a flinch. We split the Garlic 3 Ways pie, which arrived with a large, artistic swirl reminiscent of aged balsamic. Really, it’s pureed black garlic and worchester sauce. The crust was beautifully charred. And the ricotta was so impossibly creamy, I’d a been happy eating it alone with a spoon.
As we wheeled our cooler toward the exit, our stomachs full to bursting, we hesitated and wondered aloud whether we maybe should try something else before we called it a day. You will, too. The market starts to feel like an amusement park for adults. Dizzy from being knocked about ride after ride, you still want to hit the rollercoaster one more time because the moment you step outside the gates, the next decision you make isn’t going to be determined by your id.
With an opening date finally set, we surveyed the scene at La Cabra Brewing, in Berwyn. If it sounds familiar, it’s because its brewer’s been testing the waters for a while now.
By Mike Madaio Photography by Matthew J. Rhein
In recent weeks, Dan Popernack’s found himself reflecting often on the circuitous route that’s led him, a home brewer once upon a time, to the cusp of opening his own craft brewery and gastropub.
“I’ve been developing this concept for 10 years,” he told me last month, as we surveyed the construction-in-progress at the future home of La Cabra Brewing in Berwyn. Though, later, I’ll find an interview he did back in 2013 in which he quoted the same duration. “Ten years of thinking, planning, researching, talking to every bartender, brewpub owner, distributor that I could before I felt confident enough.”
What he’s created is a compelling lineup of beers that deftly walks the line between and adventurous, paired with a Latin-inspired menu that runs much the same, served in a dramatic setting in which every intriguing, historic feature’s been restored and accentuated.
“We probably could’ve been open by now, but we don’t believe in rushing,” Popernack says. “We’ll open exactly on time.”
That time came Tuesday.
Popernack taught himself home-brewing in college. “My parents wouldn’t let me drink in the house, but they gave in when I said I’d make it myself,” he says. Later, he worked at The Beeryard, in Wayne, while he pursued his master’s at Villanova. La Cabra started to come into focus in 2013, while he was teaching at The Phelps School and home-brewing in his spare time. It was then when he launched a mailing list that quickly found a cult-like following. In it, Popernack described his latest experimentations and made available “samples” to the recipients. The arrangement is officially described as a “brewery-in-planning.” Aspiring craft brewers can make and share their beer with the public, but they can’t sell it. Think of it as a means of fostering a grassroots following with the expectation that it’ll lend some momentum to an eventual brick-and-mortar opening.
Popernack’s since built his reputation, and, in turn, La Cabra’s, on sour, funky beers crafted from wild yeast and barrel-aging, the kind that the nerds seem to make the most noise about. But they tend to not play as well with the casual-drinking crowd. “Of course I’m going to keep doing that,” Popernack says, as he shows me around an aging room in the basement. “But if that’s all I wanted to do, I would have stayed home.”
One of his aims is to riff off the food menu. “Playing with food pairings is actually one of my favorite things,” he says. And he’s quite talented at it. La Cabra’s Juno Pale Ale, infused with lime zest and rosemary, may be the best taco beer I’ve ever had.
Popernack’s, of course, devoted as much intention in partnering up and assembling his staff, from the chef to the servers, as he has to every tangible component. But while their missions may be aligned, they’re not singular.
“The bottom line is that we want people to feel welcome here, like they’re walking into our home, whether they’re really into beer or not,” Popernack says. “I’m obviously passionate about it. I’ve devoted my life to it. But beer isn’t everything. If we can be good neighbors, great members of the community, then we’ll really have achieved something.”
La Cabra Brewing, 642 Lancaster Avenue, Berwyn.
5 Fall-inspired Beers You Need to Try—And Not a Hint of Pumpkin to be Found
It’s not seasonal and it’s not especially trendy—the extra special bitter was big at the inception of the craft movement, back in the nineties—but this ale’s a near-perfect match for this schizophrenic weather. Toasty, mild sweetness up front, crisp and dry on the back end.
Crafted by cold-steeping an already-rich, brown ale with freshly roasted coffee beans, the resulting flavor is fueled by waves of sweet raisin and molasses with a pleasantly bitter undercurrent.
HEALTH + FITNESS
This time around, what you can eat. Plus, a fresh, fast-but-effective workout you can take on the road with you.
By Todd Soura
Piggybacking off of last year’s column, where I highlighted the most notorious of the holiday dinner table mainstays, this time around, I’m going to carve a clearer path. Health-conscious as we’ve become, we cling to our traditions come the holiday feasts, and that means a whole lot of butter, a whole lot of sugar and a whole lot of booze. But there is a way to navigate those minefields without sabotaging your diet and fitness. And, really, let’s be clear: One indulgent meal is not going to break you. But the holidays are more of a month-long series of indulgent nights. So, while I’m tailoring this guide to one big meal, it can easily be applied to every other situation you’ll encounter over the next couple of weeks—parties, snacking, parties.
Proteins
Let’s start where we all naturally begin: with the protein. Turkey isn’t just the smart choice for holiday gorging, it’s the smart choice period. A three-ounce serving of breast meat contains a yuge amount of protein (26 grams) and very little carbs and fat, all in a mere 120 calories.
Beef is almost as high in protein and low in carbs as turkey, but it carries a much higher dose of fat and calories per serving. Ham, you’ll want to avoid as much as you can, but not for the reason you’re likely thinking. Pork is not inherently bad for us. A pork loin, in fact, is high in protein, low in carbs and relatively low in fat. But ham is not pork loin. Nor is it really pork. It’s a highly processed slab of factory-made fillers and chemicals. As a general rule, avoid any kind of boneless meat in an unnatural form.
Sides
Salad is a no-brainer. If there’s one on the table, consider yourself fortunate. You’ll want to heap it on your plate, not in that tiny little bowl. Those greens and all those veggies are loaded with fiber, which is going to help you feel fuller faster and longer than three helpings of sausage-spiked stuffing. Just be mindful of any potential landmines buried within that lush foliage—candied nuts, fist-size croutons, marshmallows.
Veggies, likewise, are all too frequently the casualties of some sinister doctoring in the name of bolstering their appeal or remaining true to Aunt Joanne’s tried-and-true (and 40-year-old) recipe. Don’t be scared off by a little seasoning. But if they’re drenched in butter, you’re better off passing. And if they’re embedded in a casserole, definitely pass. The casserole is a staple, but its time has come. Regardless of whatever vegetable is featured in its name, understand that there is no nutritional value whatsoever.
If you’re given the option, reach for the sweet potato or the yam over the Russet potato. Sure, they’re all technically veggies, but they’re not created equally. The sweet potato and yam are packed with nutrients. The Russet, not so much. Mind you, that rule does not hold in the case of candied yams and pretty much every other traditional variation. In fact, unless it’s naked, just let it be. Otherwise, the brown sugar and butter it was slathered in has long since drowned the nutritional value.
Dessert
It’s impossible to turn around this time of year and not walk into a plate of cookies, or brownies or a rack of cooling pies. You can navigate your day like an Olympic slalom skier only to be handed a plate of homemade truffles on your way out the door. You’re only human; go ahead and enjoy one. I would. I do. But cut yourself off at one. Dump the rest of those truffles off on your family after dinner, or just dump them. The longer they linger, the more the temptation will grow.
The same holds for dessert spreads. Pick one and move on. Whether you load up your plate or hang out within grazing distance of the table, you’re going to continue to munch without thought or reservation—until later on that night. Savor those few bites. You earned them. They bring you no ill will. But the others will haunt you.
When we’re hosting, it’s my chance to flip the script. There’s an entire corner of the Internet filled with healthy dessert recipes. My go-to is apple crisps, one, because they’re delicious, and two, because they’re simple as hell to make.
No one gets through the holiday season unscathed. Not even me. But if that’s your objective through the rest of the year, you’re probably living a very sheltered life. For these next couple of weeks, and the new year beyond that, aim simply to eat clean 80 percent of the time. You’ll feel healthier for it, and those occasional indulgences will taste even better.
The Holiday Express Workout
The holidays mean unyielding schedules and lots of travel. This workout can be done almost anywhere and in 15 minutes. Get your sweat on and then get on with indulging the in-laws.
Perform three rounds of the following circuit. Rest as little as possible.
(*Position yourself as you would for a pushup, only move your hands and feet together. Simultaneously—and quickly—move your hands and feet to your sides, about a shoulder-width apart. And then snap them back to the starting position. That’s one rep. If you have difficulty with the movement, just move either your hands or your feet.)
There comes a time in our adult lives when we realize that it’s time to let go of the secondhand stuff, the piecemeal collections and the flat-out old and begin forming our own identities. Mine arrived this summer as my seven-year-old nephew gulped milk from an Oktoberfest pint glass. We promptly nicknamed him Sluggo, but the site unsettled me, nonetheless.
We held on to souvenirs from college, like that glass (and many others of its kind), because they’re still totally functional, and we don’t like waste. Clearly, though, more appropriate drinkware was in order. So I made a pact with myself: My purchases would be purposeful, sustainable and as local (sourced and made) as possible.
I found Owen Moon, a budding artisan, and his 10-ounce Ceramic Dart Cup Set ($60) at the Wrightstown Farmers Market. Yep, those Dart cups, the kind we used to drink from, maybe gnaw around the lip a little and then toss into the garbage. Owen casts the Styrofoam cups in his studio at Alfred University (he’s still in school) and glazes them in faint, glossy shades of indigo, cranberry and cream. The Dart logo on the bottom of the cup’s still very much intact. It was the nostalgia that pulled me, but the ingenuity sealed the deal.
The pint glasses are stowed away, safely out of reach of lil’ Sluggo, awaiting my husband’s future cave. We’re serious adults now; we drink from Dart cups. —Kendra Lee Thatcher
The way that those handsome Billykirk bags only seem to get better with age, that’s not by accident. That’s the sweet spot that Chris Bray, one of the two brothers behind the brand, has been chasing after his entire life. Here, he invites us into his New Hope home for a glimpse of his countless points of inspiration.
By Scott Edwards Photography by Josh DeHonney
Bray, pictured with his family at their New Hope home. Above and below, some of his collections.
The large rooms and modest décor give the 18th-century New Hope home a lived-in, English manor feel. Chris and Tracy Bray moved their young family here from Jersey City, New Jersey, a few years back for the schools and, as Chris describes it, a “little bit of land.”
In the tiny plot behind their brownstone, he managed to nurture a rather robust garden. “I had plants that had, like, 250 different habaneros,” he says. And, “I was probably one of the only people that had chickens in my backyard.” Also safe to say: His rooster was not popular around his block.
Chris has spent almost all of his adult life in major northern and western cities, but he exudes an easy charm that stems from his Tennessee roots. He’s animated at turns, but he’s never rushing. A formal interview with him almost immediately becomes an organic conversation.
He and his brother, Kirk, founded the leather and canvas goods company Billykirk 17 years ago in Los Angeles. A little over a decade ago, they moved it east. And today, they maintain a studio in Jersey City, a flagship store in Lower Manhattan and a presence in fashionable boutiques around the world. This month, they’re launching a new line with J.Crew, a longtime partner. Billykirk is a brand that’s become synonymous with boundless utility, old-school craftsmanship and aging handsomely. And in those same ways, it’s also become a pure extension of Chris.
Losing ground
“This, right here, was found in our backyard in Jersey City,” Chris says, as he deposits the object in question in my cupped hands.
Is this a cannonball?
“Yeah. That’s Revolutionary War right there,” he says.
It weighs 12 pounds, but it feels heavier. Chris consulted a historian who told him that Communipaw Cove, which no longer exists, teemed with British gunboats during the war, and their yard was well within the range of their canons.
“He said there’s a good chance that it hit our backyard and it stayed there until now, because it was deep,” Chris says. “He also said, when they were leveling out the land, there’s a chance that it was dug up and planted there. I like the first story.”
He restores the cannonball to the mantel over a large fireplace in the more formal of two living rooms. Chris is a guy consumed with stuff, but not in the manner of a collector, nor in the way of a hoarder. He’s more of a historian, because it’s the stories that he connects with. The objects, whose value he cares little about, not that there’s much of it in most cases, are merely remnants and physical cues.
He used to be much worse. Tracy’s reined him in. A personal trainer with an online supplement program called Leany Greeny in development, she shares little of his fascination with artifacts. Moving cross-country has a way of doing that. And as a Briton, she’s done that and then some.
“When she first met me, she thought I lived with my grandfather because I had pipes and smoking stands,” Chris says.
There’s still some evidence of his collections scattered around the house—the cannonball, a candid portrait of Marilyn Monroe that was taken and given to him by the revered photographer William Woodfield, whom Chris befriended toward the end of his life in LA—but most of what remains has been relegated to his third-floor office and his workshop in the basement, where he crafts small sculptures with various found objects. So we head upstairs first.
On a wall outside of his small office that faces the third-floor landing, Chris has arranged a stylish vignette that could hold down the display window at the Billykirk flagship. It’s comprised of some of his oldest Billykirk possessions—a well-worn, black watchstrap that dates back to the company’s inception, a hand-stitched leather satchel inspired by a World War II-era Belgian map bag—and some of his most prized personal ones—swatches of olive drab canvas from his uncle’s Vietnam boot bag, a Swiss medic case.
Inside the office, beside a spare desk and an old lamp and chair, there’s an enclosed, built-in closest and a slim dresser that sits between them. The closet and the dresser are crammed with loose ends.
“These are my dad’s boots … Just an old switchblade, came out of my neighbor’s place. He passed away. Again, they were throwing everything out in that house,” Chris says, taking partial inventory of the dresser’s contents.
I spot a pair of Dorothy-looking, red-sequined girls shoes in a corner. “My daughter went through a couple pairs of these,” he says. “I just kept them because she beat the hell out of them, and I just liked that.”
Earlier, in the course of a conversation that intertwined references of this stuff with his and Kirk’s ambition to turn Billykirk’s bags, belts and cardholders into the kinds of possessions that get passed down, I asked, finally, where this obsession with heirlooms comes from.
“My family’s an old, old American family,” he says. The Daniel Bray Highway, that stretch of Route 29 that runs between Stockton, NJ, and Frenchtown, NJ, it was named after a relative. “When that happens, you’ve got just this huge family that, by and large, most of them kept stuff. We keep stuff. We pass stuff down. The connection we have with stuff, it’s just important. For me, it’s just important.”
And yet, even standing among these crowded shelves and drawers, the stuff’s not as important as it once was. Since Tracy’s intervention, Chris describes himself as “sort of a minimalist.”
“I’m not gonna kill myself trying to save any of it. I just won’t. At the end of the day, I’ve sort of realized it’s just stuff,” he says. “I mean, my wife really kind of helps me remember that.”
Do your daughters (Matilda, 11, and Willa, 6) have any interest in it?
“Yeah. You know, there’s something,” Chris says. “They want to go through my junk drawers. They’re not ready, because they’ll lose stuff.”
So there’s still some value to him, more than he’s likely admitting here, considering the ease with which the stories come and the degrees to which he lights up telling them. Matilda and Willa are curious kids, even though they hardly act their ages. Matilda’s working with a former Bucks County Poet Laureate to publish her first book of poetry. And Willa, “She’s a piece of work,” Chris says. “Fiercely independent.” It’s inevitable that some of his sentimentality is likely to rub off on them, but Matilda and Willa appear to be firmly entrenched on Team Tracy.
A beautiful mind
The sculpture, Chris has been doing for a while now, “getting my mind off stuff.” From the third floor, we’ve descended many steps to reach a cave-like room in a corner of the short but sprawling basement. Chris’s collections have migrated, literally, to the extreme reaches of the home.
Relatively organized clusters of found objects are scattered across a workbench just inside the doorway. Within arm’s reach, there’s a small table, atop which sit several assembled pieces, all about the size of a fist.
“I’m just making shapes here,” he says. “Here’s a piece I just did. That’s a frog gig. This is part of a wooden loom.”
Chris retreats to the other side of the room—in order to do so, he shimmies around a massive, old nautilus machine that occupies at least two-thirds of the floor space in this room—to retrieve a weathered lobster buoy so that he can assemble a loose mock-up of a lamp he plans to create. I’m cynical until it comes together. There’s an unlikely cohesiveness in his creations, even the lobster buoy lamp.
He also powdercoats everything and anything that looks like it would be improved by being powdercoated. He picks up a little iron weight plate. “I like olive. So I powdercoated this little weight olive,” he says. “It takes sort of a weird brain to go for it. That’s sort of what makes me tick.”
You can find Billykirk (@billykirkinc) locally at The Selvedge Yard in New Hope, Modern Love in Frenchtown and Art in the Age in Old City.
