For the Love of Christmas Page 9

  “Becky, you didn’t thaw the turkey?”

  “No. Was I supposed to?”

  Lynn examined the cavity of the oversized bird. “The giblet bag is still in there, frozen solid.” We all laughed as he struggled to pry it loose. When he finally slid the turkey back into the oven, we figured it would be closer to five o’clock before Christmas dinner would be served.

  Stomachs rumbled and so did the restless crowd that had emerged by now, lured by hunger and curiosity to the kitchen.

  “But I can’t wait until five,” one of the children whined—or maybe it was one of the dads. After all, we’d been working up an appetite for some time and had returned at the appointed hour ready to eat.

  “Why don’t we eat the pies?” someone suggested. “You’ve heard the expression: ‘Eat dessert first!’”

  “She’s right. We never fully savor dessert after a heavy holiday meal. Let’s have it first!”

  Within a few minutes the elements were spread out. There was an array of ice cream, crackers and cheese, coffee and milk—and the pies. Peach, apple, and berry. French silk. And banana cream.

  A meal of pies? The children were delighted (and so were the dads) that moms not only agreed, but piled their helpings high. My own plate held four generous slices, four different flavors, but I did balance it off with a few wedges of cheese.

  I looked at the clock. Actually, Becky’s prediction was right on the nose: we were eating at two.

  Almost three decades later, the same families—those children now bringing spouses and children of their own—gather to celebrate Christmas. We still prepare turkey with all the trimmings, but no one would dream of serving it at midday. Instead, the entire clan swarms around the tables to celebrate a lasting holiday tradition—and eat the pies first.

  The Right Ingredients

  By Robyn Kurth

  When Greg and I first moved from Chicago to Orlando, maintaining our Christmas traditions was only a plane ticket away. But three years later, the thought of slogging through an overcrowded airport with our two-year-old son, Alex, while I was nearly eight months pregnant made Christmas in Florida seem like the only sane option.

  Even though my in-laws were coming to spend the holidays with us, I privately mourned my losses. There would be no chance to see the enormous Christmas tree in Chicago’s Daley Plaza. No stroll down nearby State Street to marvel at Marshall Field’s animatronic window displays. No chill in the air to remind me that it was the most wonderful time of the year. I wondered how I could have the Christmas spirit in my heart when the rest of me was a thousand miles away from home.

  Earlier that year we had moved from an ­apartment to a new house, so I had no more excuses for neglecting to pull out the holiday ornaments. We hadn’t even bothered setting up the large Christmas tree when we lived in our apartment, especially when we spent most of December “up North,” as Floridians like to say.

  A hand-me-down from Greg’s parents, our artificial tree had color-coded branch ends chipped and faded from Christmases past. The top portion of the tree was bound together with twine and a short, thick wooden stick that protruded like a sore thumb from a torn mitten.

  I remembered how my parents passed along an angel tree-topper from my childhood that fit perfectly over the exposed lumber. The angel was an early 1970s dime-store trinket with a plastic doll’s head, acrylic blond hair, felt arms that clutched a tiny tinsel halo, and a cardboard body covered with thin golden foil. The angel’s golden wings clung to its back with yellowed Scotch tape, yet the tattered relic meant more to me than any expensive ornament ever could.

  But where was it? The angel had adorned our inherited tree in the first house Greg and I owned, but I hadn’t seen the tree-topper since we moved to Florida.

  Although I couldn’t reconstruct my favorite Christmas places or replace my missing angel, I was able to recreate my favorite Christmas delicacies: Polish food—hard to locate south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I acquired a few ready-made items at the only Polish deli in town, including several links of smoked kielbasa sausage (shipped all the way from a Chicago meatpacker) and some fresh cheese and potato pierogi dumplings.

  The centerpiece of my traditional Polish Christmas dinner would be golumpki, as it was called by my Polish maternal grandmother, also called holubki by my Slovak paternal grandmother. However you spelled it or attempted to pronounce it, the meat-filled stuffed cabbages (pigs in a blanket) were the highlight of every Christmas dinner I had eaten since I was old enough to digest solid foods.

  Just assembling the main ingredients put me in a more festive mood—whole cabbage heads, onions, tomato soup, beef broth, rice, eggs, and ground sirloin. By Christmas Day my pantry was brimming with the fixings for a hearty ethnic meal, and my refrigerator contained the heavenly scent of the kielbasa’s smoke flavoring and heavy garlic seasoning. Now that was the smell of Christmas!

  However, preparing my authentic Polish Christmas meal turned out to be a five-hour odyssey. My legs throbbed from standing for so long. Worse yet, my unborn daughter pounded inside me with all-too-familiar Braxton Hicks contractions. Yet the tangy aroma of sauce simmering on the stovetop promised I would be richly rewarded for my efforts.

  The meal was a resounding success and tasted just as good as I remembered. The tree lights twinkled, and familiar carols streamed from the stereo as I gazed at the crooked, balding tree. Still, something was missing. Meanwhile Greg and his parents arranged our unopened gifts in several neat piles.

  By the time we were ready to open the presents, I was on the verge of falling asleep in one of the living room chairs.

  “Look, Mommy,” I heard Alex chirp. “Look, Mommy!”

  Emerging from an exploratory expedition in the storage closet where we had been hiding the gifts, Alex cradled a golden treasure in his arms—my dime-store angel.

  Stunned, I motioned him to bring the cherished memento to me. “That’s an angel, Alex. Can you say ‘angel’?”

  “AIN-gel,” he repeated.

  “This angel belongs on the very top of the Christmas tree,” I said. “Have Daddy lift you up so you can put it there.”

  The sight of Greg hoisting our son to plant the ragged angel on top of our equally well-worn tree made my eyes well with tears. When Alex returned to my arms and my round belly, I tousled his curls and embraced both of my little angels as I finally felt the warmth of the Christmas spirit.

  Apparently the angel tree-topper—like the Christmas spirit itself—had been with me in Florida all along. All I needed to do was make the effort to find it.

  Golumpki (Pigs in a Blanket)

  Robyn Kurth

  1 cup white rice

  2 cups water

  2 medium-sized cabbage heads

  2 large Vidalia onions

  1 cup (two sticks) margarine

  1/4 tsp pepper, plus a pinch for final seasoning

  1/4 tsp salt, plus a pinch for final seasoning

  1 tbsp onion powder

  4 cans (103/4 oz) Campbell’s Condensed

  Tomato Soup

  1 can (14 oz) beef broth

  1/2 tsp sugar

  3 lbs ground sirloin

  2 eggs

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Combine 1 cup of rice with 2 cups of water in a covered saucepan and heat until it just begins to boil. Turn off the heat, cover the saucepan, and let the rice continue cooking itself for about 5 minutes.

  2. In the meantime, fill a large pot halfway full of water and boil the water. Add one head of cabbage and let it boil for about 4 minutes. As the cabbage leaves loosen, cut them individually from the base of the stalk and lay them out to cool in a large roaster pan equipped with a lid. Cut away the thick stem at the base of each leaf and discard. Repeat for second head of cabbage.

  3. Chop the onions and sauté
them in margarine in a large skillet. Add salt, pepper, and onion powder.

  4. Combine tomato soup and beef broth in another pot. Add sugar to the mixture (up to a 1/2 cup of water can be added if the sauce appears to be too thick). Simmer on low heat while you assemble the golumpki.

  5 Mix the ground sirloin with eggs. Add the sautéed onions and rice. Mix thoroughly. Use your hands to form a small round patty and place it on top of a cabbage leaf. Wrap the sides of the leaf over the beef patty and roll it up until it is completely covered. Put a little of the sauce on the bottom of the pan, and then place the cabbage roll into the roaster pan. Repeat until all of the beef mixture has been wrapped up in the cabbage leaves. Chop any remaining leaves and sprinkle over the golumpki.

  6. Pour the tomato soup mixture over the golumpki. Lightly sprinkle with salt and pepper. Make sure the sauce does not go more than halfway up the sides of the roaster pan; the extra sauce will be used for serving.

  7. Cover the roaster pan and cook at 350 degrees F for the first hour. Reduce the heat to 325 degrees F for another 1 to 11/2 hours.

  Meatball Madness

  By Candace Simar

  In my family of origin, food is our love language. Especially at Christmas.

  We may not speak of the strong affection we feel for each other, but we eat—eat and keep eating when we are together. Ruby’s pickled beets, Inga’s brownies, and Auntie Nora’s buns fill the Christmas table end to end. It’s what we do. And we do it well.

  Annie took this feeding frenzy to new heights years ago when she hosted Christmas Tea. Using only the prettiest and most formal dishes, she served elegant desserts, finger-length sandwiches, truffles in crystal punch bowls, and Sally’s macaroni salad with real crab. Only the women of the family were invited, the aunts and nieces, with everything formal and lovely, while harp music played in the background and Annie’s Martha Stewart–like Christmas tree lit up the living room like a glowing star.

  The men ogled the bulging table with disbelief before they shuffled downstairs to the family room, grumbling all the way. “Why weren’t we invited? We like sandwiches. We like truffles. We like seven varieties of olives.”

  When the women finished their holiday extravaganza, the men and boys swooped in like hungry seagulls, pecking away at the leftovers, squawking about the inequity of it all, complaining about the small portions.

  The next Christmas, we sisters each contributed something to ease Annie’s workload for this new family tradition—and invited the men and nephews. It was such a success that the following year we begged for another increase in the guest list. What about our second cousin from White Bear Lake? What about the Omaha in-laws? Couldn’t my best friend, going through a messy divorce, join us? With each added guest, we sisters brought more food, despite Annie’s insistence that we had more than enough.

  Last year, Linda, the oldest, almost ruined Christmas Tea by bringing enough Swedish meatballs to feed the state of Minnesota.

  “That’s it!” Annie’s eyes blazed as she shoved yet another ice cream bucket of meatballs into her refrigerator. “You can’t bring this much food! I can’t take it anymore!” We stared at her in horror. “You can’t really expect all of us to eat this much. We can’t do it,” she said as tears dripped down her face and splashed on her gravy-spattered arms. “Unless you promise to bring less food next year, the tea is canceled!”

  Solemnly, we vowed to bring only what we were assigned. Nothing more. Not even if we were tempted. Not even if we found something on sale or stumbled across a great recipe.

  “And no meatballs next year!” Annie insisted. “Never another meatball at Christmas Tea or I’ll lock the doors on you.”

  This year, in charge of salads, I brought only one giant lettuce salad and limited myself to a single bottle of gourmet dressing. Craisins added a touch of color on top of sliced hard-boiled eggs. The leafy greens looked great in my best crystal bowl.

  “I hope you didn’t bring too much.” Annie met me at the door. “This year will be different.”

  And so it seemed. Manageable amounts of salad. Fewer buns. Enough pickled beets to send home with the second cousin from White Bear Lake. Not too many. Just enough. We did it. We cut back.

  But as I washed my hands to help fix the sandwiches, I saw Annie’s egg salad and mentioned it was larger than we needed. “I only used two dozen eggs,” she said, defending herself, “because I didn’t want to run short.”

  “The recipe calls for four eggs,” I pointed out, “enough for sixteen finger sandwiches. What you made would feed an army!”

  After a moment of hedging, Annie pulled a giant mixing bowl filled with ham salad out of the refrigerator. Enough to feed the entire state of Minnesota. Much more ham salad per capita than the meatballs of the year before.

  “What were you thinking?” I stared in disbelief. “We can’t possibly use this much ham salad.”

  “Without meatballs,” she said in a quiet voice, “I was afraid we’d run out of food.” She bit her lip and looked away. “And, anyway, the ham was a freebie from the grocery store.” Were those tears in her eyes? “It only weighed twelve pounds . . . and Jordan had so much fun turning Mom’s grinder.”

  This family needed help. I wondered aloud if there was a support group for perpetual food pushers of Norwegian descent. If not, we might start one . . . the sooner the better.

  The next day I phoned to thank Annie for the lovely party. “I got rid of all the ham salad,” she said with pride. “Every last bit. Sent it home with Claudia. Made Dede and Tommy take a bowl. Sent a ziplock along to Omaha. Made sandwiches for Nathan’s lunch tomorrow.”

  “Nathan’s a vegetarian,” I said. “He just took the sandwiches to be nice.”

  “At least it’s gone,” she said with a happy sigh of relief. “It was a great Christmas Tea.”

  And that’s the other thing about my family of origin. We like to make other people eat like we do. It’s how we show our affection. It’s how we expect them show it back to us. It’s how we do things. And how I’m sure we’ll do it next Christmas, too.

  The Proof Is in the Pudding

  By Donna Rushneck

  Many families have a special custom that puts the joy and magic in Christmas. For us, it is Mom’s chocolate bread pudding, as traditional as the wreath on the front door.

  My older brother Bill liked the pudding soaked in milk with a sprinkle of sugar. My younger brother Jerry and I mounded it with whipped cream.

  “You kids are ruining a good thing with all that stuff,” Dad always said. “It’s perfect right out of the pan.”

  We took for granted that Mom and her chocolate bread pudding would always be part of Christmas. But we unexpectedly lost Mom to cardiac arrest one October. Gloom hung over the family and drained all joy out of the upcoming holidays.

  As the only daughter, I opted to host Christmas dinner and wanted to surprise the family by serving pudding. On a Saturday morning in early December, I decided to give the recipe a trial run. I got out Mom’s oldest cookbook and, on a tattered page marked by an old Christmas card, I found a recipe—for plain bread pudding. To my consternation, there was no alternative listed for chocolate. I scanned Mom’s other cookbooks, as well as my own, but none of them offered a chocolate bread pudding recipe.

  A lump crowded my throat. Then I thought to call Aunt Cora. But she didn’t know how Mom made the family favorite, either.

  “I remember that your dad once said he loved bread pudding and wished it could be chocolate,” Aunt Cora said. “Maybe your Mom just experimented until she got it right.”

  If Mom found a way, I thought, so can I.

  As I prepared the recipe from the tattered page, I vaguely recalled “helping” Mom make bread pudding when I was a young child. I remembered her adding cocoa to the sugar, so I stirred together equal amounts
and added them to the rest of the ingredients. Although there were lumps of cocoa in the batter, I figured they would dissolve during the baking process.

  When I lifted the pudding from the oven, it looked strange. Spotted. I spooned a bite, blew on it, and nibbled. The chocolate lumps tasted bitter.

  I felt my eyes sting with disappointment, and I slumped in defeat at the kitchen table.

  “Why are you sad, Mommy?” Eight-year-old Shelley snuggled against me.

  “I tried to make Grandma’s Christmas pudding but it didn’t turn out right.”

  Shelley stared into the pan. “That doesn’t look like Grandma’s pudding.”

  “It doesn’t taste like it either.” I forced a smile through my sigh.

  “I helped Grandma make the pudding last year.” She reached for the open cookbook still on the table. “I remember how.”

  She pointed at the recipe. “Mommy, you put the sugar in a bowl and add the rest of the stuff.” Shelley smiled ear to ear. “And I’ll do the important thing that Grandma said makes the pudding special.”

  My first inclination was not to repeat the fiasco. But Shelley was so eager and confident that I decided to chance it.

  While I poured sugar into the mixing bowl, Shelley read the handles of the measuring cups. “Grandma said to use the cup with the one and a three on it.”

  She spooned cocoa into the one-third cup then dumped it into the bowl of sugar. Using the back of a spoon, Shelley pressed the mixture against the bowl. Just like Mom once taught me, I suddenly realized, my childhood memory sharpening.

  Shelley squeezed the brown beads of cocoa between her fingertips. “Grandma said it’s really important to get out all the lumps.”

  As I watched my daughter’s little fingers working the batter, I could hear my mother’s directions to me when I was a child helping her bake: “Now, Donna, this is an important job. Mix the sugar and cocoa really good.”