WALKING AND EATING AND SPITTING

Yep, it's loquat (aka Japanese plum) season here in Florida. Meaning, a morning walk through my neighborhood brings free fruit for the picking.

Most folks with loquat trees think they are purely decorative and never bother eating the fruit ... which means, more loquats for me. Tastewise, they are kinda like mini-mangoes -- a peachy, juicy, sugar bomb.

But eating them requires the same technique one might apply to really soft boiled peanuts: You pop the whole thing in your mouth, chew up the goodness, then spit out the seeds and whatever's left of the skin (usually the little nub at the blossom end, which you can certainly swallow if your diet needs more roughage.)

I'm told that if you want to go to all the effort, you can make a fairly decent jam out of loquats and a passable wine (say, if you were in prison or something.) But I am content with walking and eating and spitting.

And ye shall know me by my trail of seeds ...

WHAT DO YOU CALL A GAZILLION WHELKS?

So there we were, walking along the long, lovely, low-tide beach at Cumberland Island, where there were no other people to be seen—only the distant pulp mills in Fernandina Beach—but gazillions and gazillions of whelks. So many whelks, dug into the sand, that it was tricky not to step on them.

Yes, seeing all those whelks made me kinda hungry. Truth to be told, just about anything makes me hungry. And it got me thinking about the Cayman Islands, where one of the local specialties is a spicy whelk stew. We could have had ourselves a feast. But these particular whelks were protected since they live along the Cumberland Island National Seashore, and despite being sorely tempted, I did not poach. Promise.

But it got me thinking: We have all sorts of collective nouns that describe groups of things—a pod of whales, a congress of ravens, a murder of crows, and, famously, an exaltation of larks—but what do we call a mass collection of whelks?

Which is to say: I'm open for suggestions. And if someone posts a brilliant one here, then I'll give you something cool and as-yet-undetermined as a reward. Maybe a book. Maybe a whelk. Maybe my recipe for whelk stew.

TURKEYS WITH TESTOSTERONE

One of the coolest things we saw on Cumberland Island -- the magnificent and largely deserted barrier island off the coast of Georgia -- was a couple of wild turkey gobblers tussling for territorial rights. Or, more likely, over some hen. We were walking from the beach down the path toward the Greyfield Inn when we came across them. There was a third gobbler, but he just watched. Turkey voyeurism, I suppose.

WHAT TO READ WHEN YOU'RE OLD AND COLD

Don't know if it's the recent cold snap or the sense of mortality that overtakes us at the beginning of another year, but my reading list has taken on a distinct Scandinavian tilt in the last week or so, along with all the dismalness that implies.

Knocked off THE SNOWMAN, by Jo Nesbo, set in Norway with alcoholic, self-destructive cop Harry Hole. Then followed it with THE TROUBLED MAN, by Henning Mankell, in which we bid farewell to Kurt Wallander, the depressed and achingly introspective Swedish police detective who is facing an endlife with Alzheimer's.

No matter how old and cold I might be feeling, these guys really brighten my day.

WHAT GOOD DRUIDS GET FOR CHRISTMAS

I was out walking the dogs this morning when a big hunk of mistletoe fell out of an oak tree and landed right at my feet.

The Druid in me took note that this happened on or about the Winter Solstice and hearkened to the ancient Celtic ritual of cutting mistletoe from the sacred oak at this time of year to bolster the chances of prosperity and, ahem, good lovin' in the days ahead. A gift from the gods? You bet.

The Episcopalian in me thought about the birth of the Christ child and how is it that a Druid symbol got entwined with Christmas anyway?

The Jewish guy in me (I lived on a kibbutz, my brother is Jewish, I'm an honorary Jew) wondered if maybe I couldn't make a little extra money selling mistletoe door to door, perhaps even corner the worldwide mistletoe market.

The Buddhist in me contemplated all of the above deeply but then let go and didn't pass judgement one way or the other.

The dogs, well, you know what the dogs wanted to do with it. Or on it. After all, this was their morning walk.

So the Sybarite in me quickly picked it up and took it home and hung it above a doorway with hopes of kissing all the lovely ladies, but mostly my wife, who pass below.

Whatever your flavor, here's to your holidays.

The Drinking Chef Does Gravlax for Christmas

I'm liking me this gravlax that just went into the refrigerator for 72 hours of curing so it can be splendid for Christmas Day. Slice it thin, add bagel and capers, maybe a bit of lemon, and you will fight until the death anyone who tries to take it away from you.

The recipe, from Saveur, called for a healthy splash of Aquavit along with the dill, salt, sugar, fennel seeds and caraway seeds.

What's good for the salmon is good for the chef. Cheers all!

GIMME SOME OF THAT GOOD OL' CUBAN GRAVY

The trees in my mother's backyard put out a bumper crop of sour oranges this year. My friends, Diane and Scott Meltz, showered me with Meyer lemons. Garlic, cumin, and olive oil are always in the cupboard.

The happy result: Mojo.

Or, as I like to call it: Cuban gravy.

It's essential for roast pork. Goes good with chicken, shrimp and fish. And I'm convinced it could make a decent cocktail of some sort. But then, I'm convinced most anything can make a decent cocktail. Further experimentation is necessary.

In any event, if you're on my holiday gift list, this might be what you're getting.

Ho-damn-ho...

WHY YA GOTTA HIKE FAST IN NEW ZEALAND

Hiking in New Zealand's Abal Tasman National Park, our guide, John Glasgow, (that's him in the middle above) kept checking his watch and telling us we had to pick up the pace in order to make it to Awaroa Inlet at low tide. We soon understood his urgency.

Five minutes into our crossing, we were already in ankle deep water as the tide turned and the water rushed in from the Pacific. And five minutes after that ....

We were up to our knees in it.

But our brave little band of hikers made it safely across with more adventures awaiting us on the other side. (Coming next: The Sad, Sad Tale of Evered Hadfield)

BEST VIEW FROM A COMMODE ... EVER

I admit this might fall under the category of "A Little Too Much Information." Still, you gotta admit that this is a killer view and the fact that I shot the photo while sitting on the john at the Wakefield Quay House, a B&B in Nelson, New Zealand, should not be off-putting in any way whatsoever. Full disclosure: I was not actually using the john when I shot the photo. Just sitting on it. Lid down.

OK, moving out of the head to the balcony, we're looking across Tasman Bay to Abel Tasman National Park, where I'll be hiking/kayaking for a couple of days.

Yep, that's snow atop them 'thar mountains.

Here's a streetside view of Wakefield Quay House, built in 1905.

And I'm delighted to introduce you to the owners/hosts of Wakefield Quay House, Johnny (left) and Woodi Moore. Johnny is a captain and teaches sailing on Tasman Bay. Woodi is ... well, she's a hoot, actually. She makes a mean breakfast, pours a fine drop of wine on the porch in the afternoons and has plenty of good stories to tell. So hop a plane, get to New Zealand, find your way to Nelson and check in to what just might be the Coolest B&B in the World.

PUT SOME BAIT ON YOUR PLATE

Lucky me. I just happened to hit New Zealand during the annual white bait run, when tiny fish known as galaxids migrate from the ocean up freshwater rivers and people with fine-mesh nets line the riverbanks trying to catch them.

The season lasts only for a few weeks with most of the white bait taken home for private consumption. It's a pricey delicacy, fetching about $30 a pound, and isn't that common on restaurant menus. I sampled it at the restaurant at Hotel D'Urville in Blenheim, smack dab in the heart of the Marlborough wine region. Chef Maree Connelly prepared it as a light fritter using only egg whites to bind the fish together.

Bottom line: White bait tastes about a million times better than it sounds especially with a hoppy beer to wash it down. I figure there musta been a couple hundred tiny little fish in the entree I downed. And ever since then my stomach has been rising and falling with the tides.