a glo­ri­ous Christ­mas was had by all

An absolutely clas­sic cou­ple of days: fran­tic wrap­ping of presents (“Don’t come NEAR this table until I tell you you can!” “Who took all the Scotch tape?” “Why do you get the good scis­sors EVERY time?”), last-minute gath­er­ing of ingre­di­ents (ice cream, water­cress, ALL the votive can­dles that KMart had to offer — I stripped them bare in the sum­mer as well), impromptu vis­i­tors. Rol­lie and Judy appeared last evening just as I was light­ing the last can­dles for Anne and her fam­ily to come from across the road for oys­ter stew, to deliver a flaw­less poin­set­tia and news of their new stone wall, the wed­ding of young Rol­lie in Octo­ber, the mas­sive annoy­ance of their new milk­ing cows… as always, I felt imme­di­ately that I should have invited them for oys­ter stew as well, but I would have had to seat them in the dish­washer, as we were awfully cozy already in this tiny farm­house with 8 for dinner.

Oys­ter stew. Is there any­thing bet­ter? Why do I never make it except Christ­mas Eve? John avers that one year I did make it again, over and over, hav­ing asked myself just that ques­tion, and finally he had to say, “Stop, enough oys­ter stew,” so per­haps once a year is just the ticket. But­tery, stud­ded this year with no less than 8 pints of oys­ters. Can a pint per per­son be true? There was almost noth­ing left over of the creamy celery-laden broth, spiked with a touch of Tabasco, lemon juice, a gen­er­ous amount of cel­ery salt from the great Welsh Angle­sey firm Halen Mon). Huge hand­fuls of oys­ter crack­ers, that was IT. Pure oys­ter stew with its briney breath of the sea, the Christ­mas Eve tra­di­tion. Anne and David and baby Kate, Anne’s mother Con­nie and sis­ter Alice, all gath­ered around the can­dlelit table and we all slurped our way through the evening.

Old friends, John’s mom smil­ing around us all, pho­tograph­ing every moment as always, admir­ing Kate’s absolutely unusual achieve­ments (breath­ing, turn­ing her head, that sort of thing), all of us grate­ful to be there, and together, in what is unde­ni­ably a mag­i­cal house at Christ­mas. Why is it? I can’t account for the immea­sur­able peace that every­one feels in this place, this tiny crooked house perched on a meadow and a pas­ture, flanked by barns and ancient trees and per­me­ated over all by the his­tory of what must have been happy fam­i­lies, or at least hap­pi­ness tri­umph­ing over grief, at times.

Then today… presents, and the cook­ing marathon. Need­less to say, the turkey who had been brined in kosher salt, fresh rose­mary, thyme, oregano, mar­jo­ram, bay leaf and pep­per­corn for two days, was slow-roasted (sorry, Joel, for being too chicken to use your clever free-standing roaster) in the old-fashioned oven, all day long, as John’s mom and I chopped, sauteed, but­tered and washed up our after­noon away: dress­ing with fresh sage, cel­ery, Baby Bella mush­rooms, gar­lic, the one pre­cious onion I had left, cream and chicken stock all soaked up by good hon­est white bread torn into lit­tle bits and dried overnight. Spinach casse­role made of nearly 2 pounds of fresh chopped spinach, swirled into a purely Amer­i­can con­coc­tion of but­ter, gar­lic, evap­o­rated milk, Mon­terey Jack cheese with jalapeno pep­pers, and more cel­ery salt (the condi­ment of the hol­i­day, clearly). Untold pounds of pota­toes peeled and rest­ing in a salty bath, wait­ing to be boiled and mashed with yet more but­ter and cream. A hol­i­day menu not for the faint of heart.

There was time at sun­set to fol­low Avery up the hill to John’s dad’s bench, to sit and reflect for a moment on our last Christ­mas with him, a year ago, to be glad he has such a view over the mead­ows and hills from that bench. Then she was off sled­ding! As you see, even with the melt­ing snow, or per­haps because of it, she was able to get up a decent speed, whizzing over the lit­tle grassy hillocks and threat­en­ing the ancient stone wall. Her shrieks echoed over the bee­hives of Young Rol­lie and the pas­tures hayed by Chris in the sum­mer. There is noth­ing but good feel­ing in those places. I could feel John’s dad all around me, as the set­ting sun’s light lit up Avery and John on their sled­ding hill.

Home to make the gravy, let the turkey rest, and light the can­dles on the hydrangea tree, my most quixotic and anxiety-making hol­i­day tra­di­tion. Will it rain on Christ­mas day? It has done in the past, and extin­guished every can­dle as I light it. Will it be windy and blow them out as we light them? There was a bit of that tonight, but not enough to spoil the fun. Anne and David came across with baby Kate to see the lights, and as we gazed and thought our sep­a­rate, pri­vate thoughts, a waft of wind came and every can­dle flame turned to a frag­ile, tem­po­rary blue. “No, don’t go out!” we all breathed, and as we waited, the blue, waver­ing light drew breath and turned bright gold again, with a strong, steady flame. I am sure there is a les­son there to be learned, about per­se­ver­ance and faith.

Three lit­tle girls! Tiny baby Molly slept, largely, held by some­one or other (not me, who has never been the biggest fan of tiny babies), Jane ran around play­ing crazy games with her toy cars (now, Jane, I could eat whole she is so lovely), and my own Avery, gra­cious in her nearly-teenage dig­nity, bend­ing down to play games and sing songs with Jane. Gravy bub­bling, John beat­ing pota­toes with a vigor that made us all look at his undu­lat­ing bot­tom! “Go for it, shake your booty,” we all had to sing, with great matu­rity. Joel carved the turkey with pro­fes­sional aplomb. We ATE.

And then opened presents. John explained to Jane that the whole point of her new col­lec­tion of felt char­ac­ters and acces­sories was to THROW THEM in the air. Her poor father will suf­fer for this, I fear, and equally I fear this was John’s entire inten­tion. Those two boys.

A jolly, warm, cozy, gen­tly famil­ial, deli­cious hol­i­day. I felt so grate­ful for my sis­ter, a great com­pan­ion dur­ing child­hood but even more so now, pro­vid­ing me with nieces to cra­dle and appre­ci­ate, a hus­band to love, old jokes to appre­ci­ate. And for my mother in law, com­ing to us this year, to remem­ber and cel­e­brate and feel both the weight and the lift of the past. Thank you, all.

Christ­mas Eve Oys­ter Stew
(serves 8 generously)

6 tbsps but­ter
4 tbsps flour
6 cloves gar­lic, minced
6 stalks cel­ery, finely minced
1 white onion, finely minced
8 pints shucked oys­ters with their liquor
1 tbsp cel­ery salt (how­ever fancy you can go, or not, is fine)
1 quart whole milk
1 pint heavy cream
to taste: more cel­ery salt, Tabasco, lemon juice, pepper

In a large heavy stock­pot, melt the but­ter, then add flour and cook till frothy but not brown. Add gar­lic, cel­ery and onion and saute until slightly soft, then add oys­ters with liquor. Stir over medium heat until the edges of the oys­ters curl up (this means they are nearly cooked). Add cel­ery salt, milk and cream, and heat gen­tly until the broth is hot. Try not to let it boil, but if it does, whisk it thor­oughly to pre­vent any cur­dling. Sea­son with more cel­ery salt, Tabasco, lemon juice and pep­per till it’s just to your taste. I must warn you: a great deal of tast­ing may be nec­es­sary, but try to avoid get­ting a bowl to taste. Limit your­self to a tea­spoon at a time. Glo­ri­ous. Even bet­ter if you can make it a day ahead and bury the stock­pot, firmly lid­ded, in a snow­drift overnight. Serve with plenty of oys­ter crackers.