I’ve probably mentioned before that Christmas trees are my favorite part of the holidays.
For a time, I had a Christmas tree, albeit some were quite small, in every room in the house. A few years ago, I consolidated those into the Big Tree and the Little Tree. This year, I’m adding Doug’s big-ish tree to the guest bedroom – so three of them – Papa Tree, Mama Tree, and Baby Tree. Nevermind, the baby is a mere 7’.
I’ve loved Christmas trees for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, I was the first one to clamor for us to put up the tree. I was adamantly a real-tree person for decades until my carefully (and expensively) decorated tree fell over on me. As the ornament collection grew, so did their weight, and real trees just weren’t straight enough with heavy enough branches to handle it all. Enter artificial trees into my life. I’ve grown to like them, especially the pre-lit ones. They still take a lot of fiddling farting, but nothing like stringing lights.
The ornament collection is out of control. I select ornaments based on events in my life, or my child’s, or other significant events. I choose ornaments as memorials to folks gone, ornaments of pets past and present, ornaments as souvenirs from vacations, ornaments of pop culture that caught my attention or my son’s.
I believe my love of Christmas trees is genetic and Chef Boy ‘R Mine inherited the gene although it’s lying dormant right now. But when he was little, he was as entranced by the tree as I was. To protect him and the ornaments, I gave him a small, one-piece tree with battery-operated lights and a number of fabric ornaments that I procured from here and there.
He loved that tree from when I gave it to him at 18-months-old until he was 12 and felt manly men didn’t cotton to such things. He dragged that little tree around, decorated and undecorated it, augmented his ornaments with toys, dishtowels, potholders, Grandpa’s watch and anything else he could drape on it. I believe he was mimicking my penchant for ornaments never intended to be hung on a tree (like a McDonald’s Happy Meal Johnny Depp Stuffed Pirate.)
As Chef Boy ‘R Mine got older, his tree got bigger and his ornaments now icluded the stuff he made at school and collectible Star Trek ornaments I began buying him.
While developing his tree, “my” tree continued to grow. I bought Wizard of Oz ornaments by the dozen to celebrate my love and my son’s love for the movie. I bought Alice in Wonderland ornaments to signify the wonderful time he and I both had reading Alice aloud. A few years ago, my mother gave me the ornaments she made for the family tree – precious little figurines of ceramic angels and wisemen and shepherds.
When my son was about 9, I caught him and my manly-man brother lying on the floor engrossed in The Nutcracker Ballet – so engrossed they didn’t hear me ask them a question about dessert. The Nutcracker ornaments were procured.
All of these and more are now the ornaments that go on the “Little Tree” – a white extravaganza of whimsy designed to appeal to children and inner-children. I usually put this tree up first and some years it’s the only tree that goes up. It’s bright and colorful. It’s cheerful. It’s friendly. It reminds me of my son and the best years of my life.
I’m going all out with the Christmas decorations this year. The first year Doug saw my house decked out in full, he was charmed. I don’t, generally, these years put everything out, but this year it will be a memorial to him. There are ornaments on the little tree that I got because of some shared experiences with him (the lobster) and some he got (Santa in a coal truck.)
Everything on the tree has some significance even if I can’t remember what it is. I should write this stuff down before I forget it all. I hope that Chef Boy ‘R Mine comes to his senses by the time he inherits all this stuff – I hope to see it loved for generations to come.
The Big Tree is just as commemorative of my life, but more elegant and traditional. I’ve got the behemoth set up and arranged, but ornaments won’t go on until Tuesday. I don’t know that there will be time, but hopefully on Tuesday we can arrange the village that lives underneath it. Yes, I’ve arranged for help with the Big One – it’s overwhelming for one person.
Chef Boy ‘R Mine left today to return to his life in Charlotte. We had a nice, low-keyed visit. For once, he got out of here without having to cook for me. I served him a bad breakfast (unintentional), but one that involved champagne. I also had a dozen, fresh Jolly Pirate donuts on hand and some homemade bread, so I don’t think he felt unloved.
Foie gras is the super fatty liver of a force-fed goose. It’s the texture of soft butter and just melts in your mouth oozing the most astounding flavor considering we’re talking liver. It’s sweet with a hint of salty. It doesn’t taste like meat. It doesn’t taste like anything else on the planet. Wittgenstein might as well have said, “Describe the taste of foie gras” instead of “Describe the aroma of coffee.”
So, last night I pulled out the last little torchon. I pulled out the bottle of Krupps Brothers Black Bart Syrah Port (2007) which is a more than respectable port. I pulled out the Blis Maple Syrup which is big deal and not something you drown Hungry Jack pancakes in. [
I had a boule of crusty bread, which wasn’t ideal but it was fresh out of the oven. To perfectly complement a torchon of foie gras, a sweet-ish bread such as a brioche is best.
HMO’Keefe has not partaken of the foie gras before and, like I was the first time, taken aback by the thought of drizzling maple syrup on liver and washing it down with port. I believe he liked it, but I couldn’t much catch him with his mouth empty to get an exact quote.
I’m not sure if my son’s foodie gifts to me explain my return to the kitchen, but after not cooking as a hobby for a long time, I find myself in the kitchen more and more.
But HMO’Keefe loves Mexican cuisine as do I. So I’ve been fooling around with a pozole recipe for two days as well as playing with the new tortilla press and the 5 lb. bag of masa harina. Tonight’s Pork and Pozole Stew was lick-the-bowl good and handmade corn tortillas are a gift from a loving deity. The stew changed direction three times and what ended up in the bowl was not what was intended, but what was intended proved to be uninteresting. So after adding this and that, a bottle of beer, and some buttermilk masa dumplings, culinary satisfaction was achieved. Damn good stew.
Other than wandering into the kitchen to dump something else into the stew pot periodically, I’ve done nothing but sit on this couch and watch thoughts bobble in the sludgy creek of my mind.
It’s Christmas afternoon and there’s a lull in the action. We had a Christmas breakfast here in the fancy eating-room. My child toddled off to a nap and HMO’Keefe did the dishes and I think he’s now snoozing. I’m reminiscing and finishing off the mimosas. Besides the fact that it does involve champagne, the lovely libation is in a hollow flute and I love watching the column of bubbles. There’s no way I could just abandon it.
The weeks leading up to this holiday have been busy, yea, verily, frantic! And there’s been some drama. And I’ve been so very worn out and emotionally at the end of my tether. After leaving the office on Wednesday afternoon for a badly needed vacation, I’ve been a whirlwind. Nothing had even begun to be readied for the holiday and overwhelmed was the word of the week. The month. The year.
But before I could wallow in time off, Christmas had to readied. Against all odds, and with a fare amount of shouting, it came together. The house is not at its festive best by a long shot, but it’s so much better than it has been.
I spent the next day wrapping and finishing the trees. And cleaning. In the course of such, I found an old Christmas card from my son. This card had accompanied my gift of bath salts lovingly nestled in a baby-food jar and adorned with a fabric topper. The card is a dandy.
He was such a cute kid. He still is. He got into town about 9 p.m. Christmas Eve. We unwrapped gifts with the folks and came back here where he, I and HMO’Keefe killed two bottles of wine and talked food until 2 a.m.
We’re all pretty tired. I should be napping, but the sun is pouring through the atrium doors and there’s still champagne. I don’t spend much time in this room and I don’t know why. The light, particularly at this time of year and this time of day, is a balm to the spirit.
I was gifted with some very special presents which will merit another post another day, but I also received, because I asked for it, an all-in-one art box. For years, I’ve said I didn’t get the artistic gene that runs rampant through the rest of the family. I’ve also never been particularly interested in painting. I’ve quipped that if I had grandchildren (inserting an evil glare at Chef Boy ‘R Mine at the time), I could be the next Grandma Moses. I have no illusions that I’ll be any good. I don’t even care that it will be dreck. I’m looking forward to tossing paint around.
As for my son, the gift I gave to him that makes me smile the most is the pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sleep pants. In size Men’s Extra-Large. He’s wearing them. They’re, um, colorful. The little boy that gave me bath salts was a Ninja Turtle groupie. It was all Turtles, all-the-time, for a number of years. I chortled at the Wal-Mart when I saw them. He grinned when he opened them. Sometimes the best presents are the least expected ones which brings me to the gift from my father – a year’s worth of journal entries about his life. I haven’t looked close at it. Not yet. I want uninterrupted time to sink into it, but I’m tearing up at the thought of him giving me that window to his heart.
Christmas dinner, which my Dad is preparing, is in a few hours. I should be straightening the house and dressing, but the sun is still streaming into this room and there’s still champagne. Dad’s not going to throw me out if I show up in dirty jeans and a sweatshirt. Such is the acceptance of a loving family.
W. Va. Fur and Root 