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.
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