From childhood days, I clearly remember the sound of Queen Elizabeth's voice when she concluded her Christmas radio address. "My husband and I," she would say, speaking quite literally the Queen's English, "wish all of you a very happy Christmas."
Like paintings stashed away in the attic or old tunes on tape, the Christmas spirit is rediscovered each year. For me, the remembered sound of the young Queen's voice invokes memories of my long-dead parents and my siblings as children.
On Christmas eve, we had crackers with cheese, smoked oysters, and pickles. Dad's Danish blue cheese, eaten only at Christmas, was a nod to his Scandinavian heritage. Sitting around the stove, we cracked fresh walnuts, hazelnuts, and almonds and stuffed ourselves with Japanese oranges. Christmas breakfast always featured Mom's favourite black currant jam.
The turkey dinner I'm about to make features the same foods: brussels sprouts, mashed turnips and potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, bread and butter pickles and stuffed olives. I do the stuffing with rice now, and some different spices. Mom always made bread stuffing with sage, but my family didn't care for that so quite early on, I innovated.
My trifle goes back a long way too. It's an adaptation of a recipe from my friend Pat's mother, a Cornish war bride. When I make Auntie Alice's trifle, I can hear her jokes and laughter. Only after she was dead did I learn that as a young woman she sheltered with her nieces and nephews under a table during the blitz, and told them stories that made them laugh and distracted them from the danger.
It's the unfolding ritual, along with memories of Christmases past that makes this midwinter celebration so powerful. The sight of the decorated tree, the sounds of carols and the smells of Christmas food evoke a series of Christmases past. And yet each Christmas marks newness and growth. Just as the days lengthen after the bleak midwinter, our lives grow brighter too.
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