Barbra Austin

My mother loved to send little cards and packages around all of the holidays, some holier than others: There was candy corn at Halloween, a set of cookie cutters at Christmas. There were red hots and (if I was lucky) heart-shaped cupcakes at Valentines day and decorative cheese spreaders for every other major or minor holiday. These boxes started to arrive when I was in college and never stopped, no matter how far into adulthood I was.

Some things really are better in moderation. Foie gras, for example. Yes, last Friday’s dinner was bien arrosé, but I’m blaming the fattened liver (and subsequent cassoulet) for the lack of sleep and cold sweats.

This was an absurdly rich meal, one in a series, that I would only eat in France. The night before I had a terrine of rabbit and a beef stew with prunes and mashed potatoes tangy with crème frâiche. And for lunch, just hours before the foie gras cassoulet one-two punch I had the silkiest chestnut soup topped with whipped cream and crispy lardons followed by a roasted stuffed chicken leg over a buttery celery root purée. Oh, and dessert.

One year when I was in high school, my mother and her sisters decided to mix things up. Instead of our traditional Christmas dinner of turkey and all of the trimmings, we would just have “a bunch of appetizers” which people could eat at their leisure while opening presents and watching TV and playing games.

My grandmother was horrified.

Dear Mom: It’s time to go through your spice cupboard.

You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Or, in my case, drastically overcook some chicken to realize that the oven runs hot.

Do you find this as strange as I do?