I doubt my eyes will be open at midnight tonight.
I know for sure I won’t be wearing yellow panties, despite the good luck they promise. (I don’t own yellow panties. Bad color for me.
But, on this New Year’s Eve of 2011, I will be mopping and throwing the dirty bucket water out the door a lo cubano, there will be 12 grapes consumed, and there likely will be some Violetas cologne splashed around the corners of the rooms to santiguar la casa un poco. Oh, and a suitcase by the door to inspire travel in 2012.
And, because we’re Southerners, you know, on January 1, 2012, we will dine on black-eyed peas and greens — a culinary wish for good fortune.
It is my guess Maria, at 8, will think me crazy, ridiculous, even. I know I thought these rituals loco when I was little. But, there is a comfort in ritual, a tie that binds you to your people, your place.
The New Year’s Eves of my past are varied — with family, in NYC clubs with friends, in restaurants, at house parties. All fun, memorable-ish. All rites of passage, maybe.
But, the way we do it now — just us, at home with maybe a quick visit to a friend’s party — is so good. Quiet, comforting, reflective.
For Maria, I’ll explain the New Year’s rituals learned from family, and I will hope she eats the black-eyed peas this year. She didn’t last year, despite my covering them with cheese and making them a creamy dip.
You know, I’m thinking she may truly get it all, remember it when she’s grown, if she’s the one who mops the floor.
Happy New Year, all. May you prosper in 2012.