Did everybody but me know how easy it is to make homemade jam?

The thing about me is: I love jam. If you go out to brunch with me you will see I always order toast and jam. Even if it’s not part of the brunch special, I get it on the side and pay the extra two bucks. Even if it’s on the side of eggs Benedict, I will probably still order an additional English muffin with jam. And if you see the waitress coming over to our table without the jampot, you will most likely remind her that I asked for jam before I have a chance to get the words out of my mouth. That is how much I am identified as a jam lover. Me and jam are like this (imagine I am putting two fingers really close together). Bonafide.

Growing up, my Gran would make jam practically all summer long. She had a peach tree and a strawberry patch and a boysenberry bramble, and she absolutely could not stomach wasting produce. I remember there would be three stockpots bubbling with ripe fruit and sugar and I don’t know what else because she would never let me help her in the kitchen. She told me that making jam was really complicated, really difficult. She said I would probably end up burning myself or messing it up somehow and that I should leave it to her. Which sounds kind of mean, but, I swear, Gran said it really nicely and I didn’t take it hard – all along I’ve just assumed making jam was this dangerous activity, something only to be undertaken in a solitary manner (working solo keeps jam casualties to a minimum) by courageous cooks who were willing to spit in the eye of the devil (or whatever) in order to ensure that their loved ones had something sticky-sweet to slather on brioche. She’s a brave soldier, my Gran, much braver than I.

So it was with more than a little trepidation that I set out to develop some jam recipes for the cookery book I’m writing. I started out by reading this article by the Irish cook and organic farmer Darina Allen (she has a new book out called The Forgotten Skills of Cooking – I haven’t read it, but it’s really lovely to look at with a nubbly linen cover and no jacket, as everyone knows the best books don’t hide behind a jacket). Ms. Allen made jam-making sound like no big deal, something any fool could accomplish. Sounded too good to be true, but our book is due, like, last week and I had to figure this jam thing out on the double.

I figured I better start slow with this whole enterprise, so I worked out a recipe that would only yield about two cups max of chunky, rustic-style jam – plus, I only had the one jar. I got some organic blackberries and a lemon from the market (I’m already well stocked with sugar), said a little prayer to the kitchen gods, took a deep breath, and gave it a go. I was ready for tragedy. I was ready for tears and burnt fingers and jam that refused to set. But none of that stuff happened. Blackberry jam was unequivocally the easiest recipe I’ve ever tested. I mean, easier than popcorn. All I had to do was put the ingredients in the pot, stand there for 20 minutes, and stir. It was E-Z. And when it had set up and was spread on a bit of toast – I can’t even tell you, words cannot describe how good it was. I am not even exaggerating: it was jam nirvana.

Which begs the question: What’s your damage, Grandma? Maybe Gran just needed a little me-time in the kitchen? Maybe I gave the impression of someone who might combust if I stood too near molten berries? Maybe she wanted to maintain the illusion of saintly caregiver, patroness of the jampot? In any event, I think I will send her some jam to show my appreciation and in honor of Mother’s Day and all that. Please see the recipe (so easy!) below, if you’d like to do the same for your maternal figure.

Blackberry Jam

Makes about 1 1/2 cups jam

2 cups blackberries (about 12 ounces)

1 1/2 cups sugar, heated (see Note)

2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

Pinch kosher salt

Put a small plate or saucer to chill in the refrigerator.

Place the berries in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan and smash them with a wooden spoon. Add the sugar, lemon juice and salt and place the pan over a medium high heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon or heatproof spatula, until the mixture bubbles and rises almost to the top of the pan (take care that it doesn’t bubble over – take the pan off the heat and stir vigorously if a bubble-over is imminent), about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium low and allow the mixture to simmer until slightly thickened, 10 to 15 minutes. Because the jam will have the freshest flavor when it is least cooked, give it a test around minute 10 by dropping a small spoonful on the chilled plate or saucer. Use your fingertip to push the outside of the jam puddle inward. If it wrinkles at all, it will set when chilled and you can take it off the heat. Don’t cook it more than 15 minutes.

Carefully pour the hot mixture into a sterilized jam jar and seal it tightly. Allow it to cool to room temperature, then leave it in the refrigerator to chill for at least 4 hours before serving.

Note: I took Ms. Allen’s advice, and heated my sugar by placing it in an metal baking dish for 10 minutes in a 200° F oven. If you skip this step, it may take up to 5 minutes longer to cook your jam. Which is not the end of the world.

Toast. Everybody can make it. It can be as cheffy or as slobby as you like. It can pass as a snack with tea or a cocktail party tapas. It can be loaded up with good stuff for a full meal or drizzled with sweeties for dessert. I love toast. It has the capacity to be anything to anybody, while still retaining that humble “who me?” innocence that is so coyly endearing. And it smells good too.

I generally prefer my toast made from whole grain showing the barest hint of color – ever so slightly crisp and just warm enough to melt the butter. Very easy to prepare, especially if using fresh bread of good quality. Of course, and this is another beauty of toast, if the bread is stale you can just leave it under the heat a little longer and it will get all chewy-crispy, as good as new and ready for topping. I do have a friend who has a more exacting standard of toast perfection than I, she preheats her toaster to ensure the desired level of color on every slice. Otherwise, as her husband explained to me (sweetly chuffed at his bride’s cleverness), the first piece of toast is too light. You think you have to set the dial higher for the next slice and before you know it all hell breaks loose.

There is truth in that, I think. Who among us hasn’t fiddled with the toaster setting only to end up opening all the windows and using a broom to fan the clanging smoke alarm? So, there you are.

Seriously, you can put anything on toast and it will be good. Start by smearing on my favorite Kerrygold salted butter – toast is (just about) the only place I use salted butter, it’s usually unsalted all the way for me. You can get Kerrygold at most supermarkets and even your better delis, it’s a little more expensive (two sticks are nearly the same price as a pound of unsalted organic butter) but has a special sort of creamy, grassy taste that seems to go so nice with whole grain goodness. Incidentally, it also makes a phenomenal butter cookie. Though, the economy being what it is, you may want to conserve your Kerrygold for toast buttering where a little will go a long way.

Then top away. A see-through layer of proscuitto draped just so over the butter. Or thin sliced avocado and a splash of balsamic. Perhaps a crumble of Stilton and a couple of cut figs. Maybe an egg, sunny side up with a grind of fresh black pepper. Nutella, all on its own, is always welcome.

Pickled pepper or olive tapenade spread on toast triangles for smart parties. Almond butter and banana on toast for a breakfast on the go. Half-melted cheddar cheese and sliced tomato on toast for lunch (I actually used to love to dip that combo in ranch dressing for an after school snack – don’t judge me). And there is no better up-in-the-middle-of-the-night snack than a slice of buttered toast with a generously sticky drizzle of wildflower honey. Maybe put the merest sprinkle of sea salt on top, just so you feel like you’ve really created something with culinary flair. Simply shake the crumbs off the covers after eating, go back to sleep all tucked up warm and toasty to dream.

I have a deadline coming up. The manuscript of a cookbook I’m writing with a friend is due in two weeks. It was originally due today, but we were given an extension, which is fortunate because we are not ready. I find this situation a bit worrisome, but I’m trying not to become overwhelmed. Worrying never helps, I’m told.

People say that deadlines are good because they focus the mind, laser-like, on the task at hand. But one can only write so many words about food before becoming a little peckish and those laser beams of thought wander over to the cupboard. Before I knew it I had backed away from the (blank) computer screen because while I wasn’t confident in my ability to finish Chapter 7: Campfire Sides and Vegetables, I was satisfyingly certain I could finish that bag of chips. And I did polish it off, effortlessly, even the ultra salty crumbs at the bottom – got just a little bit high off that lovely sense of completion which had been eluding me for, well, truthfully, months. Then it was back to the laptop once more to bang out a sidebar discussing the ins and outs of wild mushroom foraging. (Did I mention that the premise for this book is haute wilderness cookery?) And I did manage to type a few whole sentences until I started to get dizzy from the quick passage of time – quick at least when considered in relation to the slow progress of recipe writing.

But probably I was just anxious because I’d had too much sodium, dizzy with dehydration not deadline panic. I had myself a glass of pomegranate juice and checked the Facebook, because, really, what’s the rush? A little procrastination is not the end of the world, surely. So I fb messaged a bunch of my friends, not as a time wasting exercise, but simply out of intellectual curiosity. I was wondering what they liked to snack on whilst they dodged their work.

Molly B. was the first to get back to me, she said that though she didn’t actually snack a lot when she was meant to be working, she did like to periodically open the fridge door and stare at the shelves hoping something good to eat would appear. This was kind of funny, not just the thought of Molly’s magical thinking, but because I knew that if I were to peek in my fridge I would find something somewhat outrageously good to eat. Because I still have my day job, assisting the wonderful food writer Melissa Clark, and because Melissa was recently involved in this sort of “smackdown” wherein she competed to see who could come up with the best recipe using Girl Scout cookies, because she ended up trying out a bunch of different ideas (and she won the contest, with her recipe for Girl Scout Cookie Trail Mix which had sugared bacon, spiced nuts, and chopped Do-si-dos), for all those reasons I had in my refrigerator a partially eaten icebox cake composed entirely of Thin Mints and whipped cream.

And while I would normally invite someone over to share this treat, the thing is, I am on a deadline and don’t have time for socializing. So I ate the cake. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Engaged in this activity, I heard my fb ping with another reply. It was my friend Kristin and she said, quite level-headedly I think, that she found making a nice cup of tea was the exact right procrastination snack. One could gather one’s thoughts and enjoy a moment of repose while the water came to a proper boil. This sounded to me like just what I needed. But I was out of tea.

I did, however, have a bottle of vodka tucked in the freezer. And though I didn’t have a thing to mix it with (the pomegranate juice being gone by this time), I discovered that vodka goes mad well with Thin Mints and whipped cream, especially when all three are frosty cold. It is quite refreshing, believe it or not. Plus, the combination really works a marvel in regards to combating worry – whether it’s related to looming deadline, or, I imagine, just about anything else.

Incidentally, I know everyone goes wild for Girl Scout cookies, Thin Mints in particular. On reflection, I think this is because they’re only available for a very limited time. I could be wrong, but after experiencing unfettered access to the iconic cookies, I’m not that impressed. Thin Mints are perfectly fine, but that’s all, not superlative in any way.

Oh, and The Girl Scouts of America are in no way affiliated with our campfire cookbook. Not that they’re snubbing us or anything, we’re just going in a different direction than that whole scouting thing. Now back to that deadline. Clearly, I am really busy.

I am not a lover of pickles. But I recognize that many people are, and I respect that choice. Every Sunday at my local farmers’ market I see that the pickle man’s stand has a crowd around it, everybody jostling each other to point out which barrels they want their pickles drawn from. They all seem happy. (Well, at the very least they seem loud.) This past weekend I decided to get myself a quart and see what all the commotion is about.

Here is what I discovered: Pickles are salty, crisp, and sour as hell. They ruin your appetite for chocolate. There is not a wine around they can pair with. They smell strongly of vinegar. If you eat three or four in one sitting (I try to be thorough in my research), the inside of your mouth will burn, not in a pleasant way.

But the fact remains tons of people go wild for pickles. And I hate not liking things that everybody else likes. I’m thinking specifically of certain movies shown at the IFC Center, playing pool, and Guinness (beer or book of world records).

I do like cucumbers. Especially when they’re thinly sliced and placed on petite little triangles of buttered bread served with a nice pot of tea. Followed by cream scones. And I like salt, particularly when it’s coarse and crunchy and sprinkled on roasted almonds drenched in dark chocolate.

The stand at the market sells their pickles in sour, half sour, and three-quarters sour batches. They’re all sitting in the same brine (vinegar, dill, mustard seed, salt, salt, salt), the designations depend on how long they’ve been pickling – half sours, which are most crisp and cucumber-like, have only been in the drink a few days; sours have been soaking up to a three weeks and are the pickliest, a bit on the soggy side and just about to cross the threshold from sour to bitter on account of prolonged exposure to the mustard seed. Three-quarters sour seems kind of a b.s. label – those pickles were sour as could be, if you ask me. Okay, they were slightly more crunchy than sour proper. After four days of sitting in my fridge, the difference between sour and three-quarters sour became imperceptible. So buy from the three-quarters sour barrel, if you’re into marketing.

It’s possible I’ll learn to like pickles – I’ve still got a bunch left, getting sourer and less tempting by the day. But I doubt it. I think I expended too much effort in the years I tried to like Guinness, sipping it with a forced smile, pretending that warm beer isn’t gross. I’m over that kind over pretense. Though I still long to be one of the crowd.

In case anyone is reading this who is interested in the show Lost and hasn’t seen the first couple of episodes from the new (and final) season, be warned: there are spoilers ahead.

If it’s possible anyone is still interested in a show with ridiculously confusing plot twists, which, come to think of it, shouldn’t really be called twists but rather entirely new plots that go nowhere and then get dropped, but are occasionally referenced like they contain some kind of vaguely intellectual or philosophical meaning. With characters that get shot multiple times in a tropical environment (I imagine wounds get gnarlier faster in the tropics) and survive with no ill effects, not even a limp. And there is a smoke monster who, oh yeah, is also a dude from 1845. And then the writers have the unmitigated nerve to include this line, delivered by the fake Locke recounting the death of the real Locke, “his last thought was, ‘I don’t understand,’ isn’t that the most pathetic thing you ever heard?” Let me tell you something, Linderhof and Cuse: none of us understand.

I could go on, but I do want to talk about snacks. Okay. You know how some movies are sort of there just to get you out of the house and into the theatre where you can eat movie popcorn which is unbelievably delicious but also a bazillion calories and a half-bazillion dollars? Which is prohibitively expensive so you stay home and watch TV and get hooked on shows like Lost and before you know it five years of your life go by with nothing to show for them but a (waning) crush on Desmond? Right, well I can’t give you back all those Wednesday nights, but I can give you a really great technique for making popcorn at home. So that’s something.

Put three tablespoons of oil (I always use extra-virgin olive oil as it’s what I always have, but use any kind of oil you like – I bet hazelnut oil would be good) in a large saucepan with a lid over medium-low heat. Medium heat would be okay, if you want the popping to go faster, though the oil might sizzle in kind of an alarming way and anyway it’s not a race. Don’t use medium-high or high heat because that is how grease fires start.

Have ready one-third cup of popcorn kernels. Drop two or three kernels into the oil. Wait for a couple of minutes. When they pop, dump the rest of the kernels into the pan, cover it with the lid, and take it off the heat. Count out loud one to thirty (you don’t have to say the Mississippis), then put the pan back on the heat. Be patient, the corn will take about a minute to start popping. After you stop hearing the pops, take off the lid and decant the popcorn into a big bowl. Shake on some kosher salt and flavor as you wish.

Melted butter is an easy option, you can just drop a pat or two into the saucepan while it’s still hot and it’ll be liquid in no time. Another simple treat is to crumble up some goat cheese (four or five generous pinches) and toss it into the popcorn right when it comes out of the pan, so the soft cheese crumbles melt a bit. Then again, you could break up a chocolate bar into the bowl or add butterscotch chips. Don’t forget to shake on the salt for that satisfyingly sweet-salty combo. Or, if you don’t mind taking a little trouble, make a garlic paste by pounding a minced-up garlic clove with a big pinch of kosher salt using a mortar and pestle (you can smash it together on a cutting board with the flat of a knife, if you’re not gadgety). Whisk two tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil into the paste and drizzle all over the popcorn, tossing well to combine. It’s garlic-tastic.

Any way you flavor it, this homemade popcorn is healthier than movie popcorn, certainly cheaper, and you can crunch it as loud as you want, no worry about drowning out the sound of the castaways’ dialogue. It’s not meant to be understood anyway. Nuclear bomb-created alternate realities, let’s move the island, Locke is dead – no he’s alive – no he’s dead, indeed.

Photo by kozumel

Does anyone enjoy cocktail hour more than an eight-year old? Not possible. Though my grandmother was an excellent cook, her pan-roasted pork chops with string beans and potatoes remain the height of culinary achievement in my estimation, it was the hour or so before her dinners that most resonates.

When we were ages, say, six through ten, the years when our parents were busy getting divorced and starting careers and such, my brother and I had dinner and drinks with our grandparents just about every weeknight. It was all so sophisticated. My grandfather would come home from his office and make martinis in a shaker, strain them into a proper glass with little stars etched into the side. My gran would have a Seagram’s and 7 or a screwdriver in a cut-crystal highball. They’d make us our own Shirley Temples in these shiny tin cups and put two maraschino cherries (picture perfect, as if from a slot machine) on top.

And there would always be a plate of hors d’ oeuvres set up on the coffee table, too. Salty mixed nuts served in a delicately painted porcelain bowl (my grandfather had won a set of them in a talent competition at his VFW hall) alongside Ritz crackers and sliced cheddar fanned out on a plate. Or cubes of Swiss cheese and pimiento-stuffed olives skewered with a foil-tipped toothpick. Or skewered slices of smoked sausage painted with barbecue sauce. Foil-tipped toothpick skewering was key to an appetizing presentation. Even on the nights my gran was kind of phoning it in (pizza rolls heated in the microwave) you better believe those rolls were cut in half and run through with a party pick before being arranged on the platter. Because that is the way my grandparents rolled: even when your guests are a couple of elementary school latch-key kids whose conversation didn’t much rise above speculation as to which A-Team episode would be re-run that night, you still put on a fancy spread to make for a civilized evening.

It’s possible, probable even, they would have done the same if they had only had each other for company. And why not? In my experience, having a little drinky-poo and snack before dinner will never ruin your appetite. Rather it prepares you for what’s to come. If the dinner is very good, it’s that extra bite that will prevent you from making a pig of yourself. If the dinner is very bad, it’s that cocktail inspired serenity that will allow you to compliment the cook with eyes that are loving, if only a bit glazed over. Either way, I’ve come to believe it’s the cocktail hour that is the cornerstone of our society, makes us into better people.

In a more perfect world we’d always take an hour as the sun goes down to eat a little something off a toothpick and drink a little something topped with a cherry. 60 delightful minutes when we can all, pre-teen and senior citizen alike, act our fantasy of what it is to be a grown-up. Which is a lovely way to start the night, I think, no matter if after-dinner plans include doing math homework or laundry or the bossa nova.

I was a vegetarian once. It started soon (well, immediately) after I saw the movie Babe. It lasted for four whole years until I took my first trip to Paris. Less than one hour after catching a cab from Charles DeGaulle I ate a ham sandwich.

It was a spur of the moment decision. I didn’t speak French and I didn’t want to be an uncouth American staring at the menu, consulting my phrasebook to make sure I didn’t order horse or brains or anything like that. I saw Jambon-Beurre, reckoned it to be non-equine, and asked for one along with une café in my best imitation Gallic accent. I may have blown through my lips a little bit as well, in that Frenchity-French way. I like to fit in.

The waiter brought the sandwich (he actually said “voila!”) and it was, in a word, su-freaking-perior. Simple and perfect, the baguette hot and fresh (not just toasted, but fresh from the oven) spread with this butter that was unlike any I’d ever tasted, and, of course the ham. I mean, if that cute little singing pig had to go, better he should be cured for ten days in a not-too-salty-brine with some kind of fragrant bouquet garni then sliced tissue paper-thin and draped over warm, crusty goodness. And with that good French beurre? Oh, that piggy’s number was up.

Though this lifestyle-changing menu choice set the tone for my stay in the city of light, a visit happily marked by un-planned for excess and extravagance, the real takeaway was how great a sandwich could be when served so plain and simple. None of this smearing of mustard and mayo to disguise a tomato that was sliced too thick and came out of the fridge. No shredded lettuce to cover up the objectionable texture of slimy deli meat. No substandard cheese that has to be piled high in order to give a smidgen of cheese flavor. Just the three perfect ingredients – and maybe a sprinkle of sea salt on top of the butter. Because sea salt is rad.

This kind of sandwich does not have to be eaten in the 7th arrondissement to be an extra-special snack. It’s every bit as splendid at your desk during coffee break. What better time is there to enjoy a moment of elegant sophistication? Savor the pleasing harmony of pure flavors on your tongue before you return to the workaday world. And try not to think of Babe.

Some people like to use the month of January as an inspiration to get healthy, exercise, eat right, and stop drinking. I think those people are making a huge error in judgment.

In actuality, this month is a glorious 31-day window of opportunity to eat and drink too much and it should not be wasted. Honestly, do you really want to be abstaining right now? It’s freezing outside and anyway there’s nothing else to do. Hot yoga class is too packed with all the poor slobs who resolved to take hot yoga class. Nobody’s throwing any parties, so you won’t find yourself tagged in any random party pics. Swimsuit season is months away. In January, there is no point in trying to look good or act cool. So put on your Slanket and pick up a Mallomar.

If you can even find a Mallomar in this town. I stopped at three stores (one Key Food and two Mets) on the way home and not one of them had the s’more-ish cookie. The Key Food and the first Met were just plain sold out, but the second Met won’t stock them anymore on account of they’re switching over to selling more organic food, less Nabisco. Thanks a lot Food, Inc.

But they did have Newman-O’s (organic, so whatever Michael Pollan) and I bought a one-pound bag of chocolate chocolate. In case you didn’t know, Newman-O’s are a lot like Oreos but the middle is creamier, less marshmallow-y, more ganache-y. They are a slightly more sophisticated cookie and therefore lend themselves to dunking not into milk but into red wine. My preference is for Malbec, though any of your full-bodied reds will do. This also works well with chocolate vanilla Newman-O’s, the vanilla crème soaks up the Malbec more than the chocolate and gives you a truly pronounced wine flavor. Please don’t try this with chocolate mint. You would be disappointed, I assure you.

Another snack that’s perfect for a month of hermiting is something I call a lazy crepe. Take a six-inch corn tortilla, spread half of it with Nutella or quality strawberry jam (or both). Add a pinch of sea salt if you’re feeling cheffy. Fold it over and fry in a little butter. You’ll think you got it off a food cart in Montmatre (especially if you make it after a couple of glasses of the Malbec).

No, neither of these treats is the sort of thing I’d serve to guests, or even eat in front of another living soul but that is the point. January is the prime season to indulge personal guilty pleasures, don’t squander one week of it with carrot sticks or cucumber water. Just overpour a glass of wine and run a bath. Go ahead and put on your Harry Potter audio book, nobody has to know. Have a lazy crepe and another five Newman-O’s (or Mallomars, if you can get them). Wait for the spring to come.

Sometime in the last decade, at a Billy Bragg concert, I remember the venerable folk-punk rocker telling the crowd that there were sweet countries and there were savory countries – the U.S. decidedly sweet and the U.K. savory through and through. And while I’m certain ol’ Bill was using this observation to make some sort of lefty political statement, it made me think rather more of snacking than socialism.

We do make great ice cream here, really you won’t get better anywhere else. (Okay maybe Italy. Or Argentina. It’s pretty nice in France, but still.) And with bits of raw cookie dough swirled in? That is a product of a proud, sugar-loving nation. Even our salty snacks have sweet in the mix, I’m thinking of barbecue potato chips or Cool Ranch Doritos; McDonald’s putting corn syrup in the fries. And it’s true, we do wash it down with sticky sweet soda pop, or beer that is advertised for the merit of temperature – cold as a mountain stream, pal – with a flavor that is considered beside the point.

Whereas in good old London town, pints of porter are on order and the little bags of crisps you get at the shops are piquant to say the least. Pop in at Meyers of Keswick on Hudson Street to try them yourself. They sell normal flavors like Cheddar Cheese or Salt and Vinegar, though the vinegar is robust enough to make you blush from the inside of your cheeks out. Then there’s Smoky Bacon and Roast Chicken which, I’m not joking, taste absolutely and exactly like smoky bacon and roast chicken. The package says it’s done with a blend of paprika, allspice, dried milk whey, and barley, completely vegetarian. It leaves you with a weirdly ominous disconnect, just what I figure it would be like to eat soylent green (because those wafers must have tasted awful meaty, even though Charlton Heston was acting all shocked).

And, love it or hate it, there’s Marmite. I like the spreadable vegetable and yeast extract (looks like molasses and tastes sort of salty-carroty) well enough to keep a jar in the cupboard for special occasions, I do find it a bit overpowering for everyday use. I had it out last weekend in honor of BBCA’s two-day Doctor Who marathon, which culminated in (as everyone knows) the Tenth Doctor’s death and regeneration episode. The Rasta-colored label says it’s a good source of B vitamins, which is lovely. The internet tells me B vitamins are good to combat depression and I knew I was going to be pretty bummed to see David Tennant go. He’s so dreamy.

During the screening of the Daleks Take Manhattan two-parter (no worries about skipping those eps – Daleks in the Empire State Building? What was Russell T Davies thinking?) I took a nap, then made myself a nice soft-boiled egg (3 minutes in the boiling water, set it up in a shot glass, cut the top of with a spoon) and spread a slice of whole-wheat toast thinly with the Marmite (seriously, do spread it thin – just a half teaspoon has 8 percent of your recommended daily allowance of sodium). I cut the toast into soldiers and dipped them into the egg, so good. The hot, runny yolk mellowed the flavor while retaining it’s characteristic, er, savouriness.

What conclusions can be drawn from this sweet/savory discussion? Ice cream, porter, and vinegar chips are good. Marmite’s okay, but vegetarian bacon and chicken flavor is weird. Heston is a phony. Tennant is a super fox. And Billy Bragg, though he talks kinda funny, speaks the truth.

This has been a hard month at the end of a rough year capping off a real doozy of a decade. It seems like everybody’s saying it, not just me. And what are we going to do about it? I reckon we’re all going to drink a good deal on New Year’s Eve, to celebrate the back of 2009 and to buck ourselves up for the year to come.

But spending New Year’s Day worshipping the porcelain god (assuming the presence of mind to make it to the loo in time) is definitely not the right choice, symbolically or otherwise, to ring in 2010. We could all agree to imbibe in moderation, consume a nutritious and well-balanced meal, then remember to brush our teeth and say our prayers before bed.

Or we could take a sober moment to form a snacking plan which will help see us through to the welcome click signifying sobriety is no longer on the menu. Then who knows what happens next – because if we just fill our bellies with the right combination of foods we can go ahead and drink like the mid-eighties Tom Waits. Circumstances being what they are, that seems like the only viable option.

Start during the day by drinking plenty of water, nine glasses are recommended for healthy hydration. That sounds like a lot and maybe it is, but if Captain Sully can land a jetliner on the Hudson don’t you think you can manage to gulp down 72 fluid ounces from the tap? (Okay, that still sounds like a lot, but over an eight-hour period it’s really not that bad.)

Grab a slice en route to your party; the combination of olive oil and pizza crust is just the foundation you need for an evening of drink. If there’s not a Famous Original Ray’s conveniently located, have a piece of toast drizzled with good e.v.o.o. at home. And if you’re out of toast, just have a spoonful of the oil. Think pretty thoughts while you take your medicine, remember the inauguration last January – even if you can’t recapture the feeling of hope and pride upon the moment of swearing-in you can surely smile as you picture Ms. Franklin’s lovely hat.

While at the party, it may seem like a good idea to stuff your face with whatever is on offer but, trust me, that strategy can backfire. Going for a couple of canapés between pitchers of dirty martinis is a fool’s errand, especially if we’re talking about caviar spreads, sun dried tomatoes, or your stinkier cheeses all of which are particularly disastrous should they reappear in post-masticated form. I’m only saying.

One last tip: when you do manage to stumble home (or wherever), swallow a tablespoon or two of honey before calling it a night. No need to measure it out, just uncap that pudgy bear, tip back your head, and squeeze away. I don’t know why it works, but it does. And while you do it you can think about, uh, well, that guy didn’t succeed in blowing up that plane over Detroit. So that’s another good thing about 2009.

Here’s to 2010, everybody. Cheers.