Behold, a child is born! May you all have a blessed Christmas!
My earliest memories of Christmas were in our Pearland house. For days before, our tribe would count and fondle the growing pile of boxes under the tree. Dad preferred to have a real tree, and decorating it was always done under the supervision of the teenage “elders” to whom we the younger were subject in all things. Tinsel had to be done one piece at a time, I remember that lesson being hammered home more than once. One year Dad brought home one of those rotating things instead of tree lights: a light behind a circle of metal that rotated in front of it. The circle had cutouts with different colored glass inserts. I remember thinking Dad was cheating that year.
All of the kids slept in three bedrooms upstairs. On Christmas morning, the smell of cinnamon rolls and coffee would wake us up, but we were not allowed downstairs until everyone was up and ready to traverse the steps. Mom and/or Dad would sit on the landing with their coffee cups, guarding our only passage to Christmas paradise and keeping us controlled in conversation, while we the younger gritted our teeth while the elders coiffed their hair and performed their morning ablutions. Then we’d make our way down the stairs, youngest in front, to finally behold the glory that was our pile of Christmas loot. Dad handed out the gifts one at a time to make it last longer, then we’d eat our breakfast before taking our new toys outside. I remember the year that two of us girls got go-go boots, and the year we all got new bicycles.
That all ended the year one of my younger sisters sneaked downstairs before everyone was up. She broke the magic of anticipation. I don’t remember the tradition being enforced after that.
As the tribe grew up and moved out to start our own families, we always tried to make it back to Dad’s house for Christmas. Since Mom divorced Dad while I was in college, most of us tried to see her on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day was the only day that we all seemed to get together and see each other. Dad would start cooking on Christmas Eve. He loved to cook and loved to eat even more, and he excelled at both. As he got older and it became harder for him to manage, I started going over on Christmas Eve to assist. The lasagna sauce was a two-day event, cooked on a huge, huge stock pot on his stove: the browning of the meats, the onions had to be caramelized just so, etc. We made the ricotta mixture in a huge bowl, and I’d dump container after container of ricotta cheese into the bowl, then crack a dozen eggs or so on top. Big clumps of parsley was added, as well as other seasonings. Then came the moment of dread: mixing. The only good way to mix all of that was by hand, diving the hand in and squishing and squeezing until it was a big homogenous goo. That stuff was flippin’ cold; I can still feel how cold my hands would get, and how good that warm tap water felt afterwards.
The ricotta done and stowed in the frig, we’d move on to the batter for the fried eggplant. Fortunately, that didn’t require hand mixing, but there was a lot of it since it was one of our favorite dishes and half of it could get eaten by “snitchers” before it was served for dinner. The 12 or so eggplant were sliced, salted, drained, and dumped into the batter bowl. That also was stored overnight in the frig. After all of that, I would go home, change, and attend midnight mass – my favorite church service.
The next morning, after our Christmas gifting and breakfast, I’d head back to Dad’s to help him finish assembling the lasagna and getting it and the Italian sausage going in his double oven. We usually made five large lasagna pans full, and each pan easily weighed 20 pounds. I won’t even try to describe the quantity of food: sausage, salad, desserts of all kinds, big baskets of garlic bread, and on and on. I counted one year, a peak year, and we had about 70 family members in attendance, all Dad’s offspring of varying generations. We all stuffed ourselves, but there was always food to take home and some left to go into Dad’s freezer.
After eating, the gifts would be handed out. Again, Dad played Santa Claus and they were handed out one at a time. I was really grateful for that, since with so much going on we’d miss a sibling opening our gift otherwise. There was still a lot happening at once, and the little ones on the floor would open their presents with abandon. There were so many of them engaged in frenzied gift wrap tearing that one year – I kid you not! – for a few seconds there was a layer of paper and ribbon hanging over their heads. Calls of “Thank you!” and “I love it!” could be heard over squeals of laughter from the kids.
The kitchen cleanup, which had been ongoing all day as we cooked, would complete the day. A few of us sisters always ended up on KP duty while others left. Hugs would be passed around and eventually the day would be over.
As the years went on, it became harder for the grandkids to make it for dinner, since they were splitting their day amongst several households, in-laws and other relatives. After Dad died, I tried to maintain the tradition by moving it to the following Saturday, but so few made the effort that I stopped trying after a few years. That saddens me. Hubby and I had designed our house to accommodate Christmas, since we knew the day would come. We didn’t foresee that it wouldn’t be used for our family gatherings. Ah, well.
It’s a very different version of Christmas now, but I will always hold Christmas past fondly in my heart.
So here is wishing you and your loved ones a lovely, warm, blessed Christmas Day! May you make your own Christmas memories to cherish!
%2Fdo0bihdskp9dy.cloudfront.net%2F08-11-2022%2Ft_3044ed8e1afe49d2af93b6b079607995_name_file_1280x720_2000_v3_1_.jpg&f=1&nofb=1&ipt=4c21401d053fc35ad496e5bd95d16c2fbe1126b5f2fbff23efa392d25ab6ebb5&ipo=images){kind=link}
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.