Chestnuts roasting over open fire...

I woke up early. Well, that's not entirely true. It felt early. Not too early, just early in a you-didn't-miss-the-day sense. My sheets felt extra soft. I knew exactly what to do.

I crawled out of bed, padded down the stairs, and removed a paper bag from the refrigerator. I read the side of it carefully, then opened the knife drawer. "Hmm," I said audibly to no one in particular. I selected a few knives and took them to the kitchen table, where I dumped out the contents of the paper bag on a plate. I began scoring. The contents? Raw chestnuts, purchased yesterday from the farmers' market.

I giggled as I hummed "Chestnuts roasting over open... heating element?" I preheated my oven to 375ºF (That's 190ºC). The only place I've ever eaten chestnuts - open fire or not - was in Spain. Castañas. Even there, it struck me as ironic that in order to fully experience an American Christmas song, I had to be in another country. Around this time of the year in Spain, street vendors set up on well-trafficked corners. They roast the chestnuts over open fire and the chestnuts are very ashy. You go up to the vendors and ask for how ever much you want to pay. I always got a euro's worth. With blackened hands, the vendors scoops hot nuts into a paper cone. You trade your moneda for a cone and are on your merry way, eating your castañas and throwing the shells on the street.

After 15 minutes cooking in a cast iron pan in my preheated oven, my chestnuts are not covered in ash. I hope to make soup with them. Like a good Spanish wife, I go about my tasks of preparing for the day's meals before I even have breakfast. (As an aside, I could never be a good Spanish wife. I am not tidy enough.) I peel the meats out of the shells before they cool. It makes my fingers raw. I have about eight more to peel as I write this. Back to work!