Happy hour
Kalamata olives. And figs. You have to have figs. Fresh, if they’re in season, but dried will work. You need a ratio of about three to one or two to one (olives to figs). I don’t really know for sure. I do it by taste. You put those in a food processor. I suppose you could hand mince them, but I don’t. Then a little balsamic vinegar—the good stuff, not the cheap supermarket brand. And, depending on your mood, maybe a little minced garlic, maybe a little minced thyme. Fresh thyme. Always fresh. I grow it on my deck.
Then you process this down to a chunky paste. If it seems a little dry, add some olive oil. Stir it around. Taste it. Add stuff. Get it just right. Now what you want to do is scrape this out into a fancy dish. Not the good china, but not a cereal bowl either. Maybe that little pottery piece you bought at the art fair last summer and haven’t used since. Then you need some crackers. Not the square kind with salt that you used crunch up into tomato soup when your Mom let you stay home “sick.” And not fancy, delicate things that come in round metal canisters at Christmas time. Just a box of good, sturdy water crackers. Put those in a fancy dish too. Or maybe a small basket lined with a napkin. Cloth, not paper. And certainly not a paper towel!
Ten minutes. That’s about all it takes. Once everything’s ready, pour a little libation. In a fancy glass or cup. Even if it’s just water. Use water from a glass bottle. Pour it into a nice glass. Do it right.
Now take all this somewhere nice. Not in front of the TV Maybe outside on the deck if weather permits. Or by a window in a favorite chair. And then enjoy. Have joy. Do not answer the phone. Do not answer e-mail. Do not read the newspaper. Maybe listen to music. Or, share some conversation about the day if you have someone to share with. The nice stuff. Save the bad stuff for later. Unless it was a really bad day. Then, okay.
That’s my plan for the end of the workday. Not everyday, but a lot of days. Enough days that I miss it when I don’t do it. It’s kind of a master plan for me. A happy hour template. A reminder that, at the end of the day, life should be a joy. Maybe happy hour is not for you. For a friend of mine, it’s breakfast. For you it might be dessert. Whatever, we all need a plan.
Usually we make plans to keep ourselves out of trouble. But making a plan like this—a plan for reveling, for soaking up the goodness, for joy—won’t do that. In fact, it will get us into trouble. That’s kind of the point. We want to stand counter to the culture of scarcity and despair. We want to look happy. We want to be happy in a world that awash in misery. But that makes us stand out. Sometimes it makes us seem odd. Sometimes it gets us into trouble.
I went up for Communion at Mass last Sunday—the church’s happy hour plan—and no one looked happy. Not the presider, not the ministers, not the assembly, not even the musicians who were hymning us to “taste and see the goodness of the Lord.”
Maybe they were worried about something. Maybe it was a really bad day. Maybe they didn’t have the right ingredients on hand. But I rather think that maybe they just hadn’t planned on being joyful that day.
Probably just need more practice. I’d recommend they start with kalamata olives.
Then you process this down to a chunky paste. If it seems a little dry, add some olive oil. Stir it around. Taste it. Add stuff. Get it just right. Now what you want to do is scrape this out into a fancy dish. Not the good china, but not a cereal bowl either. Maybe that little pottery piece you bought at the art fair last summer and haven’t used since. Then you need some crackers. Not the square kind with salt that you used crunch up into tomato soup when your Mom let you stay home “sick.” And not fancy, delicate things that come in round metal canisters at Christmas time. Just a box of good, sturdy water crackers. Put those in a fancy dish too. Or maybe a small basket lined with a napkin. Cloth, not paper. And certainly not a paper towel!
Ten minutes. That’s about all it takes. Once everything’s ready, pour a little libation. In a fancy glass or cup. Even if it’s just water. Use water from a glass bottle. Pour it into a nice glass. Do it right.
Now take all this somewhere nice. Not in front of the TV Maybe outside on the deck if weather permits. Or by a window in a favorite chair. And then enjoy. Have joy. Do not answer the phone. Do not answer e-mail. Do not read the newspaper. Maybe listen to music. Or, share some conversation about the day if you have someone to share with. The nice stuff. Save the bad stuff for later. Unless it was a really bad day. Then, okay.
That’s my plan for the end of the workday. Not everyday, but a lot of days. Enough days that I miss it when I don’t do it. It’s kind of a master plan for me. A happy hour template. A reminder that, at the end of the day, life should be a joy. Maybe happy hour is not for you. For a friend of mine, it’s breakfast. For you it might be dessert. Whatever, we all need a plan.
Usually we make plans to keep ourselves out of trouble. But making a plan like this—a plan for reveling, for soaking up the goodness, for joy—won’t do that. In fact, it will get us into trouble. That’s kind of the point. We want to stand counter to the culture of scarcity and despair. We want to look happy. We want to be happy in a world that awash in misery. But that makes us stand out. Sometimes it makes us seem odd. Sometimes it gets us into trouble.
I went up for Communion at Mass last Sunday—the church’s happy hour plan—and no one looked happy. Not the presider, not the ministers, not the assembly, not even the musicians who were hymning us to “taste and see the goodness of the Lord.”
Maybe they were worried about something. Maybe it was a really bad day. Maybe they didn’t have the right ingredients on hand. But I rather think that maybe they just hadn’t planned on being joyful that day.
Probably just need more practice. I’d recommend they start with kalamata olives.
Labels: Editor Notes, TodaysParishMinister
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