Nieschlag Lisa - New York Christmas Baking

C hristmas in New York is a dream! Take a stroll in snow-covered Central Park, go shopping in Manhattan with the streets dressed in their festive finest, and, of course, indulge in the citys world-famous delicacies. This book is filled with enticing recipes for cakes, cookies and treats for the most beautiful time of the year, in the most beautiful city in the world. Experience the taste of Christmas in New York!

Have a wonderful Christmas time!

i knew it before I got out of bed, she says, turning away from the window with a purposeful excitement in her eyes. The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear. And there were no birds singing; theyve gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh, Buddy, stop stuffing biscuits and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. Weve thirty cakes to bake.

Its always the same: a morning arrives in November, and my friend, as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart, announces: Its fruit-cake weather! Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.

The hat is found, a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has faded: it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together, we guide our buggy, a dilapidated baby carriage, out to the garden and into a grove of pecan trees. The buggy is mine; that is, it was bought for me when I was born. It is made of wicker, rather unravelled, and the wheels wobble like a drunkards legs. But it is a faithful object; springtimes, we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers, herbs, wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer, we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of a creek; it has its winter uses, too: as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen, as a warm bed for Queenie, our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.

Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them: how hard they were to find (the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchards owners, who are not us) among the concealing leaves, the frosted, deceiving grass. Caarackle! A cheery crunch, scraps of miniature thunder sound as the shells collapse and the golden mound of sweet oily ivory meat mounts in the milk-glass bowl. Queenie begs to taste, and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite, though insisting we deprive ourselves. We mustnt, Buddy. If we start, we wont stop. And theres scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes. The kitchen is growing dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror: our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fire-side in the firelight. At last, when the moon is quite high, we toss the final hull into the fire and, with joined sighs, watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty, the bowl is brimful.

We eat our supper (cold biscuits, bacon, blackberry jam) and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins: buying. Cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple, rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh, so much flour, butter, so many eggs, spices, flavourings: why, well need a pony to pull the buggy home.