BBH's beautiful Google Chrome commercial.

A must-see; brilliant harmony of humanity and technology with an elegant execution. This is totally something my dad would have done if there was internets in the Dark Ages.

I don't count calories at home because I always lose track

Snow days are for making snow angels and pear-shaped snow people, for sipping enough hot chocolate to max out until the next snow day, and for sifting through the ol' excessively unedited holiday photo albums (digital luxury breeds laziness!). As is often the case, the most prominent character of this holiday’s family album is the food itself.

We express our love in calories at the White house. Growing up, Mom made Chicken Marsala and Dad made everything else. I'd mentally snap photos of Mom's beautiful table arrangements with their garden-cut flowers, candles and laced linens so I could replicate the exact spread when my parents would come over to the place I didn't have yet. Morgan and I were trained at an early age to set the table and clean up, and I’d perch myself at the end of the shiny granite countertop as Dad cooked, in hopes that he’d notice my availability and assign a task. I’d usually end up de-veining the shrimp or snapping the ends off string beans. But sometimes he’d let me into the kitchen to wisk or chop or fetch the herbs from the backyard.

Hanging out with Dad in the kitchen continues to be one of my favorite aspects of going home. He can reduce a bag of onions into a zillion perfectly square pieces and not shed a tear in less time than a Porsche can go from zero to 60. Yep, I'm pretty sure I'll be a fossil by the time I find a guy half as great as my dad.

Food is the only thing that brings our entire family together in one place and one time, the foundational element to all serious and nonsensical discussions, and that’s probably, at the most basic level, why I like it so much.

A short montage of winter dinners at the White House,

where we exceed the Daily Value of love in a mid-morning snack.

Love and calories from Courtney White on Vimeo.

Allow me to introduce you to this year’s holiday Food Olympics. The first featured dish is chicken tangine, a rich braised chicken stew with apricots and every vegetable imaginable. Mom's hair had soaked up the spices when she came outside to greet me, and a more potent pool of spicy scent streamed outside when I flung open the front door; the stew had been bubbling for hours. Inspired by the traditional tangine of Morocco, it marries the most unlikely combination of ingredients, surprising with new flavors in every bite. I helped McKenzie finish hers, justifying a couple extra calories on account that I'd kick her seven-year-old butt in soccer the next day.

I might not have splurged on seconds if I’d known that Pompano Pecan came next. Don't be mislead by the name; enough butter goes into this dish to qualify Pompano and pecan as condiments. Dad actually used a different, meatier fish this year.

On Christmas Eve, we drank Chateau Chateau and another wine I drank too much of to remember, and Dad prepared a spread of six decadent cheeses, among them a blue cheese for Mom, the ripest, creamiest Pierre Robert, and Mom's other favorite, formaggio al tartufo. Cheese was enjoyed with fig compote and a Pan e’Dolce Ciabatta loaf whose flour coat snowed on every surface over which it traveled (don't wear black on wine & cheese night, or lean over your plate like it’s a trough to avoid a dusting). For dessert: a slice of deceptively light but caloric-full almond cake with orange zest. Might as well repent for all my sins at once and admit that I helped Santa trim the edges off of his slice, too.

That night I went to bed with an octomom-sized food baby.

On Christmas morning, Dad brought out the Panettone loaf. I doubt anyone was hungry, but it’s only human to find the waft of freshly baked bread irresistible. Later Dad made chili, but I saved myself for the shrimp and grits (even my grandpa forgets Dad's a Yankee with this dish).

Following bananas foster, I waddled outside to my Mini, which felt smaller than I’d remembered, and drove back to Atlanta. I dreamed of the next night we’d all be back at the wooden wagon axle dinner table again…just enough time to work off those tangine seconds.

Happy New Year

May every day of 2011 be as delicious and fiesty and fun as the last night of 2010.

Why am I waiting here like a fish?

This was the question McKenzie asked when I took too long to get ready for soccer practice.

Do fish wait for anything? For anyone?

Cat's first bath

Today the unnamed cat endured her first bath. Shower, actually. She lay patiently under the running water. At first I thought she was having a heart attack because she was so calm, but it turns out she actually enjoys showers. She meowed once -- "for the sixth time in her existence [since joining the White family]," according to Kenzie. It was a mild reaction to the ice cold shampoo in her fur.

Afterwards Dad and Kenzie scooped the wax out of her ears using a grand total of eleven Q-tips. Kenzie was totally grossed out by the wax and asked me to finish disposing of all the used cotton swabs, a task that separates the seven-year-olds from the 23-year-olds.

Persistence

Naming the new cat has been a recurring topic of conversation over break. McKenzie likes names that sparkle, like Crystal, Diamond and Star. Cat hasn't responded to these names, but Kenzie insists that she does. If you squeeze any cat long enough, she'll start talking. I took her contributions into account when announcing the cat's official name at the dinner table last night.

"Gia has been named Giella Spotte Diamond White," I said.

"We mixed Gia and Ella because we liked both," McKenzie said. "But White Diamond sounds better."

Now I had to come up with an excuse besides 'I don't want my cat to sound like a porn star.'

"But then you'd have to change your last name to Diamond."

"Dad," McKenzie said, "can we change our last name to Diamond?"

Merry happy Christmas

Conversation overheard between Big Sister Morgan and McKenzie at grandparents' Christmas party, after Grandpa distributed cards with checks in them:

McKenzie: Do you have an account?

Morgan: Yes.

McKenzie: Then give your checks to Dad.

Conversations like these make me nostalgic for the days when money was just a gift we saved to spend on useful things like bicycles, pet tamugachis, and college.