Happy Christ­mas Eve…

“Whirl­wind” doesn’t approach a descrip­tion of the last few days here in Con­necti­cut. Our arrival was like all arrivals: late, irri­tat­ing, slowed by traf­fic, a bit of anx­i­ety whet­ted by hav­ing Avery ill with a cold, asleep on the back­seat of the car from Newark… The car filled to the gills with lug­gage con­tain­ing every pre­cious Christ­mas present I could find in Lon­don for our near­est and dear­est, my mind filled with hol­i­day prep of a mag­ni­tude I could hardly imag­ine, all to be accom­plished in three short days.

But as always, we pulled up to the seren­ity of Red Gate Farm — newly painted a bright, shin­ing white! — and crunched through the snow, stag­ger­ing under our suit­cases and jet­lag, pushed open the front door, swollen with age. And into… per­fec­tion. Warmth because our neigh­bors turned on the heat, a refrig­er­a­tor full of food because our neigh­bors thought we might arrive late and need a roasted chicken, a dozen eggs, but­ter, milk. And other trea­sures! A newly pub­lished book writ­ten by our Thanks­giv­ing ten­ants, and a bag of pecans har­vested from their Okla­homa sum­mer home!

Elec­tric blan­kets switched on, a Scotch poured, Avery folded into her cozy tiny bed under the eaves, in that small­est of all pos­si­ble bedrooms.

Tues­day I awoke at my usual first-day hour of 7 a.m. and it was a good thing, because I never stopped mov­ing the entire day! A mas­sive gro­cery shop, brisket in Guin­ness and toma­toes and gar­lic put sim­mer­ing on the stove for din­ner, presents unpacked, a light­ning trip to the shop­ping cen­ter for wrap­ping paper in hun­dreds of yards, tape, rib­bons, bows. A rush to get John’s mom’s room ready and wel­com­ing: that barn-red com­forter, green glass bed­side lamp glow­ing over the pho­to­graph of John’s dad, smil­ing at us from his easy chair, clean tow­els and the best Hello! mag­a­zines I could bring from Lon­don, fresh sham­poo! And off to the air­port to get her.

And as Avery and I sat at the first red light on the way, CRASH! Our heads and tor­sos swung back and forth like those crash dum­mies. “What the…?” Rear-ended, by a hap­less young girl from San Fran­cisco, dri­ving her father’s mam­moth 4x4, “I thought the light was green!” No time to call the police, just a quick exchange of phone num­bers and my fore­stalling her “I’m SO SORRY! I’m SO SORRY!” with “Just give me your num­ber, I have to get to the air­port!” The tail­light a goner, the bumper not much bet­ter, but dri­ve­able. And to White Plains we went.

Christ­mas isn’t Christ­mas until I’ve put my arms around John’s mom. An over­whelm­ing sense of grat­i­tude at see­ing her, all in one piece, so grate­ful to have her safe and sound under my wing for the fore­see­able future. I know she’ll leave again, but for right now, she’s safe with me.

Home to dec­o­rate the two trees, left here by Farmer Rol­lie in the wood­shed: one in the front par­lor bear­ing every antique glass ball and knit­ted doll and ceramic rid­ing boot (thanks to my dar­ling Christ­massy mother!) that we could find in the cup­board under a book­shelf that serves as my Christ­mas attic. One of the leather arm­chairs didn’t mind being moved for the dura­tion, to make room for the tree. And another tree in the kitchen, dec­o­rated only with white lights and the sil­ver bells John’s mom gives us each year, engraved with some­thing sig­nif­i­cant from the past twelve months. This year: “Hello Min­now”, for our new lit­tle grey Cinquecento!

The brisket! Heaven.

Clas­sic Win­ter Brisket
(serves 6-ish)

3 tbsps olive oil
1 flat-cut brisket
5 cloves gar­lic, minced
1 white onion, sliced thin
1 bot­tle Guin­ness
2 cups chicken stock
2 large cans Ital­ian plum toma­toes
good sprin­kle dried thyme
pinch sea salt

In a very large heavy pot, heat the olive oil and sear the brisket on both sides. Then add the gar­lic and onions and stir until slightly cooked. Add every­thing else and cook until the sauce comes to a high sim­mer, then turn heat down to main­tain a low sim­mer for at least three hours. After that, the cook­ing may be stopped at any time and restarted at any time, sim­ply reheat­ing when you’re ready to eat.

Serve with noo­dles and some­thing crunchy like slaw. Per­fect for a cold night.

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Tomor­row I shall tell you in proper detail about what you do with the left­over brisket cook­ing juices, but for right now, one word: MINESTRONE.

Yes­ter­day I did noth­ing in the morn­ing but wrap presents, watch John’s mom wrap presents, dis­cuss wrap­ping presents with Avery and John! Secrets abound: “Avery, your present isn’t really a THING at all…” and all the elab­o­rate prepa­ra­tions for John’s mom’s present which isn’t a THING either… much whis­per­ing, shouts of “Don’t come in here!” “Can’t I come through to get to the bath­room? I really want to brush my teeth…” “NO!” And we con­cocted the tra­di­tional Christ­mas oys­ter stew, which really must rest for at least a day before serv­ing. Fresh-shucked Mary­land oys­ters, minced cel­ery, onions and gar­lic, cream and Tabasco: you can’t go wrong.

Then in the after­noon we headed off to my sis­ter Jill’s for the true fam­ily reunion! The delight of see­ing my entire fam­ily in one room! My dad’s twin­kling eyes, my mother’s crinkly, delighted smile, my brother’s shy hug. And Jill, Joel, Jane and Molly! We took a tour to see their fab­u­lous entryway-bathroom ren­o­va­tion, the house truly per­fect now. Heated floors! Bath­room draw­ers with their names burned into them! What lux­ury and style. Their house sim­ply bub­bles with wel­come and com­fort, as do they. We loaded the car with all the parcels they’ve been gra­ciously tak­ing in from the post­man for us, in the weeks run­ning up to Christ­mas. A shock­ing pile!

Jill set up a cookie-decorating sta­tion for the girls, and of course Jane dis­cov­ered that if you put a great deal of glit­ter on a cookie WITH­OUT icing it first… “Uh oh!” John and Joel tried in vain to res­ur­rect our tail­light… I fear that’s going to be a long, unpleas­ant story. “Did your neck or back hurt at all, Kris­ten?” some­one asked, and I had to admit, “Not until I talked to the insur­ance agent.”

Finally I read Jane her nap­time story and it was time to head home, try­ing to arrive before dark fell, with our plun­dered lights. Mine­strone, more wrap­ping, pre­tend­ing as always that there is no jetlag.

And tonight, the light­ing of can­dles in the hydrangea tree, a fairy­tale moment. And not a breath of breeze, so we skipped the yearly “will they or won’t they” with the can­dles. Then the tra­di­tional Christ­mas Eve with Anne, David, Con­nie, Alice and now baby Katie from across the road. The child can say “bub­ble” and “baby” and “Avery”, renew­ing her love affair with my teenager, her boon com­pan­ion of the tram­po­line over the sum­mer. We talked, as usual, all over each other, enjoy­ing lit­tle canapes of smoked dilled salmon on bli­nis with creme fraiche, watch­ing Katie run from “mama” to “dada”, nar­rat­ing her progress as she went, star­ing into the fire and say­ing dream­ily, “Pretty, pretty…” Oys­ter stew, gin­ger­bread men and brown­ies made by John’s mom, the delights of a small child up far past her bed­time who doesn’t seem to mind, good­byes on the snowy porch. Con­nie said, “It’s such a joy to see this house so fes­tive and happy, when it was dark and neglected for so long. I just wish you could be here always.” So do we, Con­nie. Sometimes!

When I am in Lon­don I dream of the peace of this place. Can­dles always flick­er­ing, fam­ily always here, friends we can never see enough of, peo­ple to cook with, gos­sip with, sur­rounded by books and old, shabby, favorite fur­ni­ture and art from the 20 years of our mar­riage. Of course Lon­don life bub­bles in its own way, revved up like a super-caffeinated drink some­times, all fizzy, glit­tery and excit­ing. But when I take a late-night walk here, down the unpaved old road, and look back to see our lit­tle white house, perched in the moon­light, Christ­mas tree lights wink­ing from inside, a blan­ket of stars over­head, fam­ily inside safe and sound, I think, “If only…”

The truth is, for me at least, the beauty of life is in the con­trasts. The quiet of Red Gate Farm finds its charm in my know­ing I’ll be back in the bus­tle of Lon­don very soon, and the fran­tic pace of Lon­don is lovely because I know I can always touch qui­etude here. I know how lucky I am.

Merry Christ­mas to you all, friends and fam­ily alike. Have a won­der­ful one.