Things I'm Thinking About

Category: Holidays (Page 1 of 2)

Taking Another Look


We had a little decoration shifting last night. My son and I bought a puzzle depicting a quaint, snowy village with a steepled church in the background, children playing in the snow around the Christmas tree in the foreground, and cheery pine swags and lights on all the buildings. Where to set it up so we could work on it, maybe even finish it during the holidays?

It’s a tradition to set up a puzzle table. Generations meet to build the picture together. Introverts find a place to stay out of the action while still being with the family. There is time in the lull between Christmas and New Year’s Day to spend time together in pleasant puzzling.

There was no place for the old rickety blue card table in the living room, though. The first spot we tried, in front of the fireplace, blocked the view of our cozy, crackling electric fire log set. The next made the path between couch and chair too tight. It would fit in the corner, but first we needed to find a place for the chair that had been displaced by the Christmas Tree. The best place I could think of was in the dining room, in front of the window where there is a little narrow table perfect for a puzzle.

The only problem was the Nativity Set. It was there on the table, in the wooden stable, draped with greenery and topped with little lights for stars. It is the porcelain set I inherited from my grandparents, painted in muted tones, with a shepherd, wise men, and sweet, docile barn creatures, including the small camel with the glued neck, looking adoringly at the Holy Family. My grandfather made the wooden display out of rough barn wood. I put the set out every year, but this was the first year in a long time that I had given it such a prominent position in the decorations.

To make room for the puzzle, I moved the whole setup to the dining room table until I could find a new place to display it. Walking by it this morning, I stopped to think about it. Maybe I’ll take it out of the stable and put in on the hutch where I usually display it. Maybe it would fit on the sofa table, but would it get knocked over when someone set a drink there?

Suddenly, I remembered a passing comment from a friend who had joined us for dinner a few nights ago.

This friend, a senior at Cal who lived with us during his sophomore year, is a person of color. Over the years, he has shared with us how he experiences life as a child of immigrants. He has gently corrected me when I have been insensitive to the way I take my privilege for granted. I am sometimes surprised and embarrassed at how deeply ingrained my thinking is around people and cultures that are different than my Northern European roots, but I appreciate him caring enough to tell me when something bothers him instead of just pulling away.

As he was passing the nativity set the other night, he said, “Did you just get that?” I told him it was not new; he had probably never noticed it when it was tucked under the cupboard on the hutch.

Looking at it now, I thought about my friend and saw it differently, maybe from his perspective. All the figures have creamy white skin, except one wise man who has a slight tan. The bare-chested shepherd, sweet Mary and tiny baby Jesus have blond hair and blue eyes. Joseph’s wavy locks and beard are light brown. They look nothing like the actual people of the nativity so long ago. The real people would more likely have had dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin.

I may just put it away for now. I still value the set; it is meaningful because it belonged to grandparents. At this time of year, I like to have a physical reminder of the beautiful way God came to live with us in this world, experiencing our joy and pain. It’s hard not to get caught up in my cultural celebrations of Santa, lights, gifts and special cookies, and forget about Christ’s birth.

I can’t help but see this nativity set differently now, though. It’s probably true that everyone tends to imagine Jesus looking like them, making their experience of him more personal. When Jesus looks like me and my family, though, it’s easier to think that he shares my cultural biases. It’s too easy to think he is one of us, and those who don’t look like us are different, outsiders. It’s dangerously easy to think more highly of myself and people who look like me and less of everyone else.

I don’t want Jesus to look like me. I want to look more like Jesus–in his love, compassion and humility, for a start.

My Holiday Recipe

The tree is down, the decorations are tucked away in their boxes in the garage, and the house has a clean, spare look.

During the holidays, the tree and the decorations fill up the empty spaces and push everything into cozy closeness. With lights twinkling and candles glowing, it’s festive and magical. There’s anticipation for our favorite traditions, and busy preparations for the big day. It feels like the whole year builds up to this glittering culmination of joy.

Like most families, we have the critical traditions that must happen for Christmas to be a success. The tree, the stockings, watching White Christmas, a candle-lit Christmas-eve service ending with the singing of Silent Night, opening gifts one at a time on Christmas morning, and certain once-a-year foods.

This year, Grandma’s Bow Knots were rolled out and fried, and the Peanut Blossoms and the Snow Balls were baked and lined up in pretty rows. We made the special Butter Horn dinner rolls, the scalloped potatoes, and–a new addition to Christmas dinner–macaroni and cheese. The Ginger Crinkles, all the pies, and the Chocolate Peanut Butter Balls were missing.

Fruit Bread, a recipe handed down from my Norwegian Great-Grandmother, which must be toasted and eaten during the gift-opening on Christmas morning, was the traditional recipe that turned out perfectly this year. Last year it was dry. This year, it was the way we all remember it.

You’d think I’d have it down by now, the recipe for holiday success.

After all the turkeys I’ve cooked, I still overcooked the Christmas bird this year (after undercooking the Thanksgiving bird). The tree, after 32 years of trees, was so far from straight that we had to prop one side of the stand up with two boards and hope it wouldn’t fall over. The lights on the tree were bright white instead of warm white, which, unfortunately, is very noticeable.

It wasn’t perfect. In the snug, dim evenings, and especially after a few sips of the traditional Stinger, it all looked beautiful anyway.  I relish the holiday moments when we are together, not for the the straightness of the tree or the variety on the cookie tray, but because we are sharing and laughing and enjoying each other.

After the new year, cozy evenings give way to bright winter days, and all I can see is spider webs crisscrossing the tree, brown, spiky needles on the floor, and dust collecting on the ornaments and the row of grimacing nutcracker dolls. The tree’s piney-green smell that was so fresh and woodsy now has a sharp edge to it, a mulch-like odor that I can’t ignore. The wise men, the shepherds and the holy family are all jostled out of position in the nativity scene, and the stockings sag empty from the mantle.

It’s all put away now, though. January is a clean slate.

Maybe this year, I’ll start my hand-made gift projects early enough to actually finish them. I can find some warm-white lights on clearance, and finally figure out a way to not spend the whole Christmas day in the kitchen. Maybe this year I’ll get my shopping done early, wrap the gifts as I buy them, and stick to my budget.

Maybe this year I’ll be able to follow that perfect recipe for holiday success. I probably won’t though; it just wouldn’t feel like our traditional Christmas.

Patchwork Holiday

It’s the day before Thanksgiving.

The air is chilly for a Bay Area day–the high temperature only in the 50’s. The trees are in full fall color after stretching the season out as long as they could, finally starting to fill the streets and sidewalks with their lovely, crunchy litter. The leaves on my persimmon tree are bright orange and yellow, with the shiny, deep-orange persimmons peeking through. Soon, the leaves will drop, leaving the fruit hanging like ornaments on the black tree limbs.

Two of the kids are on their way home now, flying into the Oakland airport. I can’t sit still waiting, hurrying the minutes along until I see them, hug them, gather them home. Another will be home this evening, lugging a case of wine she picked out for the holidays. I got their rooms all ready, pillows plumped and extra blankets on the bed, and I gave the dog a good scrubbing yesterday.

I’ve got plans for them–food to make, shopping to do, restaurants to visit, movies to watch. They may have plans too, and friends to see, but for this afternoon and tomorrow at least, they are my babies again.

The 21-pound turkey is in the fridge, and ten pounds of potatoes, 6 pounds of brussels sprouts and 5 pounds of apples are waiting to be peeled and chopped. Day-old loaves of sourdough bread are ready to be cubed, toasted and combined with sage and thyme and rosemary for stuffing. The four pounds of butter I bought will disappear, I know from experience, into pie crusts, stuffing, rolls and other deliciousness before tomorrow is over.

Three of the kids won’t be around the Thanksgiving table this year; two have to work, another will be at her boyfriend’s family celebration. Two of them will be home for parts of the weekend to see everyone and enjoy leftovers. Plans are forming to get the Christmas tree on Friday; they can all be together for that tradition, if not for the feast.

One of my sisters will join us tomorrow with her family, but my other sister will have a lonelier holiday, with only her two girls there. A snow storm threatening the Rocky Mountain region–perhaps the same storm that brought us rain and these chilly days, moving east now–is keeping our parents from joining her, and stranding them alone for the holiday too.

Together and apart, on the holiday and after, it’s the dance of family, and it leaves me both filled and empty, sometimes at the same time. I will have some here, close, literally in my arms, I will be looking for some, waiting for them to arrive, and I will be missing others, aching for them, worried that they are lonely.

This is how it will be as children grow up and we all grow older, this patchwork of togetherness–seeing some here, others there, now and later, bringing greetings, sending hugs. I’m thankful for all these moments–here or on the way or somewhere else, and dream of a day when we will all be together at the same time.

For now, though, I’m off to the airport.

A Gift

One Christmas, I made flannel nightgowns for my four daughters. They were stair-step sizes, the oldest 9, the next 7, then 5, and the youngest 3. The girls loved them and wore them every night. On cold winter mornings, they sat on the heater vents on the floor, waiting for the heater to blow and puff their gowns into little balloons of warmth.

I had chosen an easy pattern, without any buttons or buttonholes, so the neck openings were a little big. On my littlest girl in particular, one side would always slip, falling off her shoulder.

When that littlest girl was 16, the sister closest to her age moved out to go to college. She claimed the newly-vacated room, which had more space and light. Cleaning out the cast-offs she left behind when she changed rooms, I found that little pink nightgown, wadded up in the back of her closet.

I held it up, hem to the floor, trying to picture that little girl, tugging at her pjs to cover up her tiny, soft shoulder. How could she have been so little, this woman-girl with attitude and plans big enough to fill the house? In my heart she’s still that little girl, even when my mind loses track of her in that  grown-up person standing in front of me. This time the nightgown is gift to me, a tangible memory.

I know you’ve heard it so many times–how fast they grow up. We older moms say it because we still can’t believe it. We hope maybe you can learn from our experience,  and make time keep it’s boundaries better, keep it from rushing ahead so fast. 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving does not sparkle with magic and mystery, or glow with the promise of gifts and wishes come true like it’s holiday partner, Christmas. It is instead a day to be content, to appreciate what is already seen and known. Somewhere between the giddiness of childhood and the practicality of adulthood, I began to enjoy Thanksgiving instead of rushing past it as just another hurdle to clear before Christmas. It was a calm before the frenzy of holiday activity; a day to enjoy for it’s own sake, not for what would be given or gotten.

I was still living at home, and Thanksgiving meant traditional foods, grandparents and cousins, sitting and talking and playing games. I watched my grandmother, mother and aunt cook, sneaking tastes, disappearing when work was needed. When my grandfather began to carve the turkey, I would be at his elbow, ready for any small bits he would offer as he worked. The anticipation and satisfaction revolved  around the meal and the foods eaten only on that day. The gifts of Thanksgiving were received around the table.

My childhood Thanksgivings were spent as a happy recipient of the feast, almost as a guest. Whether by my choice or by design, the work was behind the scenes. I had little appreciation for how it happened that the lavish meal appeared on the carefully decorated table.

My perspective changed again when I had children and began hosting the day at my house. No more gazing into the kitchen in anticipation of delicacies to fill the holiday table.  I became the cook, with splattered apron, pumpkin in my hair, and the scent of stuffing as my perfume. I was up early to finish the pies, make the stuffing and get the bird in the oven. The day flew by as I was making messes and cleaning them up, rotating side dishes in and out of the oven, calling for helping hands and later chasing out sticky-fingered tasters, and then, with a sigh of relief, sitting down, everything done, to give thanks.

As my children have gotten older, they have ventured into the cook’s domain and wanted to help, even taking over a favorite dish. Their joy of eating was enhanced by the preparation, the camaraderie in the kitchen, and the pride of serving something that tasted good. One daughter would work on the pies, another on the green bean casserole, and others on the rolls, jello salad and stuffing.  Some would collaborate on the decorating and setting of the table, pulling the good china and silverware out of the cupboard, arranging the flowers and candles, and creating a centerpiece from fall leaves and persimmons from our tree.

The commotion in the kitchen tends to draw others in, and the jostling, the stepping over the dog and the ducking around sparring siblings–the happy confusion of so many in a small space–tempts me to shoo everyone out. When I stop, take a breath and look around, though, I love the busyness and the laughter.

Another change is upon me now. With only one child still living at home, my house feels quiet and a little empty, and when they all come home for Thanksgiving, I welcome the busy, loud explosion of activity. They come like waves, tumbling in with their bags and the food they are going to prepare and their excitement at seeing each other, dancing around with the dog, flooding the house with life. They come in with the cold, fresh scent of their journey  on their coats and wraps, but they take them off, leave them by the door and settle into being home.

They come hungry for all their favorite traditional foods, but also with new ideas. The sugary yam casserole topped with marshmallows was the first to get a make-over, becoming more about the vegetable and less about the topping. A couple of years ago, my practice of using a roasting bag for the turkey ended when a more ambitious cook found a better way, involving lots of butter and fresh herbs.  Another Thanksgiving, my dry, bagged stuffing went unused in favor of a delicious, from-scratch recipe. Last year, new side dishes free of processed foods were introduced, so the jello and the green bean casserole were replaced by seasonal fruits and greens. I think it is only the butterhorn rolls that remain unchanged.

With so much competence in the kitchen, I find time to sneak off to the living room to sit down and rest, leaving the meal to my opinionated, energetic children, and basking in the happy chatter and laughter. I’m still involved in the process,  but I can see a new era just around the corner. I will find myself again the recipient of the feast, and I will be content to savor these gifts of a life full of love and family.

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