RIP, Stuart Little, the tiniest mutt I ever met. (photo by Chris Erskine)

The new year starts with cream cheese on the mountains, a smear of good fortune for this brittle, windswept land. I mean, where were all these sloppy storms a year ago?

The new year also starts with a video on the best way to crack an egg: NOT on the edge of the pan, or karate-chopping it with the spatula, as I’ve done for decades.

Actually, the best way to crack an egg, cooks say, is to tap it hard and quick against a flat countertop, then pull the two sides apart over the pan. The result: fewer shell fragments. Fewer “oh frapps.”

See, 2026 has already been better than the year before. If you do it right, you will never botch another egg.

Speaking of eggs, a passel of new babies is on the horizon, five preggers among family and friends. Five reasons to buy tiny Dodger t-shirts. Five guarantees that this will not be just any other year.

So, to recap, we’ve got the snow on the mountains, a new egg technique to try and (soon) five of the

cutest smiles you’ve ever seen, surrounded by more smiles, plus concentric circles of smiles after that.

My advice to all young couples: Conceive, conceive, conceive. It’s fun (and occasionally quite profound)!

As we saw at Christmas, there is no bigger reason for celebration than a new infant, sometimes born to privilege, most times not.

Hey, who am I to provide cosmic life answers? I’m still trying to figure out why Susan Dey never returns my calls. I’m still trying to figure out this new Kindle.

We shan’t shun progress, ugly as it sometimes feels. FYI, they shuttered Brennan’s the other day, that spectacular old tavern down by the sea, 200 layers of shellack, 400 layers of sticky beer.

Famously, Brennan’s was the bar where they held turtle races on Thursday nights, with cheeky LMU kids cheering them on.

My theory: Weed and video games are killing off our best saloons. Where will we turn now for culture and kinship?

Anyway, on non-race days, these race turtles lived in stables on Brennan’s patio. What’s to become of them? Will they be turned out to stud?

Conceive! Conceive! Conceive!

I’d hoped to get over there for one last beer. But then Stuart Little, Suzanne’s micro sidekick, her yakety-yak soundtrack for 14 years, passed on. And our world stopped.

Stuart Little was the tiniest mutt I ever met, with the biggest heart and an ornery demeanor (90% heart, 10% ornery demeanor). Reminded me a lot of myself.

Every dog has his own epoch. Puzzles me why such valuable and beloved creatures have such short reigns while senators and other thugs seem to carry on forever.

Please keep a special place in your heart for our furry friends, who aspire to nothing more than to be your best pal, who know when you’re sick or sad, who turn every homecoming – from the grocery store to the gym – into a red carpet celebration.

“If dogs don’t go to Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they are,” Will Rogers once said.

You know, we deal with a lot of quiet in January. The holiday lights come down and the church choirs go missing. Maybe that’s a good thing. A little quiet now and then isn’t so awful. We fill the gaps with the crackle of the fireplace, or the rustle of leaves during a glorious January walk.

This, I vow, will be a year of small resonant moments. This, I vow, will also be the year of taking chances, of trying pungent new cheeses, of watching the grandkids grow.

Nothing stays as it was. One of my best buddies just saw his son move his family to Nashville. As a fellow parent, I feel it in my bones and belly, all the way from Chicago.

In 2026, there will be losses too. But, oh, those babies. The new cribs, the baby showers, maybe even a cigar or two.

Let’s get lit!

For some, especially new moms and dads, this will be a year of blown-out diapers and the biggest revelation of their lives: Being a parent is so %*$^*%#)%(% hard.

Well, just wait till they turn 14. Just wait till they eventually move to Nashville.

My lovely and patient older daughter is already having separation anxiety, knowing kindergarten is around the corner for her 4 year old. At Christmas, she teared up at the sight of Cakes on her new two-wheeler.

Trigger warning, kiddo: The really good stuff flies by.

Too quickly? Who’s to say.

Seriously, let’s get lit.

Having kids can be fun – and occasionally profound. (photo courtesy of Chris Erskine)