Quietly Indulgent.

You likely know - or perhaps guessed - that I never go out on New Year's Eve.

It isn't that I dislike people. I actually find crowds exhilarating. What drains me is the choreography.

The ritual of doing oneself up. The negotiation with weather. The implied contract to stay out late simply because the clock insists.

I require optionality.

The freedom to dip out.

To Irish exit.

To bounce.

So instead, I light a fire. I open a small bottle of Perrier-Jouet. And I take my time preparing a grounding supper.

This is not an event. This is how I live.

And for the past few years, Petrossian Osetra caviar has made an appearance to close out a year. Not as a flourish, not as a spectacle, but as something quietly expected.

In the earlier years, I served it casually on tater tots. On potato chips. This year, I went classic and placed it on roasted potato slices, crisped until golden, sliced thick enough to be substantial.

Then came seared filet. And more roasted potatoes, because restraint has its limits.

Roasted potatoes, cooked to a decisive crisp, are a personal passion. Lemon was squeezed generously over everything. Salt and fat demand acidity. One must respect the balance.

But I couldn't leave the caviar confined to the potato slices.

So I placed a few of those tiny, briny bubbles onto vanilla ice cream.

It sounds indulgent. It is. But not in the way people imagine. 

Sweet and salt are not opposites. they are collaborators. Together, they sharpen each other. They become more precise.

More interesting.

I didn't discover this combination so mush as arrive at it.

This is not performative luxury. Nothing here is meant to be seen. there is no audience. No reveal. No caption waiting to be written.

I welcomed the new year quietly. Well-fed. Unhurried. And completely myself.