The Christmas Table

by Donna VanLiere

  Miriam scowls at her as Andrea laughs. “Be nice, Gloria. She doesn’t eat that many.”

  Gloria snaps her head to look at Andrea. “How do you think Cookie Monster got his name?” She points at Miriam. “Right here.”

  “You are so rude, Gloria,” Miriam says, snatching a cookie from the plate and putting some of the cheeseball on top, making sure she gets plenty of chocolate chips.

  When Lauren enters the front door, Gloria waves at her through the office window. “A sweet for the sweet,” she says, holding up the plate. “And to answer the question you’re about to ask, no, we don’t know where this came from, but I’m thinking Betty’s Bakery.”

  “Mmm. Delicious,” Lauren says.

  “Tell us! Tell us!” Gloria says, taking another bite. “How’d the appointment go?”

  Lauren grins, chewing the cookie. “Dr. Flores says that Christmas will be extra special this year.”

  Gloria claps her hands together. “A Christmas baby!”

  “December eighteenth,” Lauren says. “Just a few days before our anniversary, but after the annual fund-raiser.”

  “You’ll have a solid week of one celebration after another,” Miriam says, sounding as if she’s delivering a death notice. “It will be like delivering a baby in the Arctic.” She shivers at the thought.

  “Women have babies in the Arctic, Miriam,” Gloria says. “You know what? You complain too much! You complained last year when they decided to have an outside wedding in December. You survived.”

  Miriam is aghast. “I was a Popsicle at the end of that ceremony!”

  Gloria shakes her head. “No, you weren’t. Popsicles are sweet.”

  Miriam ignores her as both of her hands fly to her head. “We have so much left to do to get your home ready for the baby!”

  “The baby could come today and would have a beautiful, safe, and loving home to live in,” Gloria says.

  “Safe and loving it is,” Miriam says, refusing to call the home beautiful. “We’ll add a few more touches to it and it will be ready for the baby!”

  The thought gives Lauren butterflies in her stomach. In less than five months she and Travis will be parents.

  July 1972

  Joan sits on a chair in the middle of the kitchen with Christopher on her lap and a towel draped around her shoulders. John holds the hair clippers between his hands as if he’s about to make a presentation of them to royalty. “Hear ye! Hear ye! By order of the palace, Queen Joan shall be shorn on this day of her golden locks.”

  “What does that mean?” Gigi asks, reaching up so she can hold the clippers.

  “It means,” John says, still using an affected royal voice. “That Princess Gigi and Prince Christopher shall buzz off their mother’s hair.” He bows to Gigi. “I shall plug them in and thou shalt begin said buzzing.”

  “Really, Mommy?” Gigi asks, resting her hands on top of Joan’s knees.

  Joan nods. “Yep! Buzz away!”

  “But you’ll be all bald like Grandpa!” Gigi says.

  “I know,” Joan says, laughing. “But my hair will grow back.” She leans in, whispering. “No such luck for Grandpa!”

  “Princess!” John says, bowing low again and presenting the clippers. Gigi takes them and John plugs the cord into a wall outlet. He shows her where to turn them on, and she giggles as she brings them up to her mother’s head. John helps her move them from the front of Joan’s head to the back, and her long, brown strands collect on top of her shoulders or fall to the floor like strands of silk. He notices Joan’s face; her eyes are filled with tears, and he reaches out for her hand, smiling. Christopher wriggles on Joan’s lap, wanting to help his sister, and John takes him in his arms, holding him so he can use the clippers, too. Gigi takes a few more strokes with the clippers and then deems that the work is finished. John sets Christopher back on Joan’s lap and reaches for the clippers from Gigi. “Thank you, Princess Gigi and Prince Christopher! Now, in order for the queen not to look like a crazy person, I shall buzz off these straggling tufts of hair that make her look like a baby bird.” Joan laughs out loud and Gigi squeals at the sight of her mom. “Perhaps the princess has a lovely scarf for the queen to wear upon her cranium.” Gigi screws up her face, looking at him. He leans down to her and speaks in his regular voice. “Do you have a scarf that Mommy can wear on her head?”

  “Yes!” Gigi shouts, running from the kitchen. She returns moments later, waving a red-and-black bandanna in the air. “I got it!” Joan looks over her shoulder and cackles at the sight of the bandanna they use to play pirates with, shaking her head.

  “Thank you, Princess Gigi,” John says, continuing in his royal herald voice. He ties the bandanna around Joan’s head and bows down in front of her, lifting her hand. “I would like to present to the royal court, the Queen Pirate Mother of this palace … the only one able to have someone beheaded and steal booty from seagoing vessels.” Joan laughs, watching him. “The only one powerful enough to subdue other kingdoms and get into a swashbuckling sword fight atop a pirate ship. Please rise for the royal Queen Pirate Mother, Joan Creighton.” Gigi and Christopher clap as Joan stands. John wraps his arm around her and kisses her face. “The most beautiful Queen Pirate Mother in all the land,” he says in his own voice, making her smile.

  TEN

  July 2012

  Lauren flips through the recipes from inside the table drawer and finds the one she was looking for: German Apple Pancake. She had read through the recipe a few days earlier and realized that with the time it took to mix together and bake, she would need to make it on a Saturday morning. She hears the mower outside the kitchen window and knows that Travis will be out there for at least an hour finishing the mowing and weed eating around their home. She sits down at the table, holding her cup of coffee as she reads the recipe.

  Do you remember how many times the kids at school told you that they did not eat breakfast and when you would tell them about what you had eaten even that morning, they were always shocked! How our family loved breakfast! It was so hectic inside our small kitchen on those school mornings, but sitting here today, I sure do miss the noise. Every time I made this we would scrape every last bite from the skillet. Somehow, time kept fast-forwarding and this became too big for me and Dad. He always loved it with bacon and the rest of us preferred sausage. It’s yummy with both. Granny Smith apples are tasty in this, but so are Macintosh. You’ll need to cook the Granny Smith for a few minutes in the skillet before popping it into the oven because they take longer to get tender than Macintosh. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did when you were growing up and that your family scrapes every last bite from the skillet, too!

  As she stands up to prepare the ingredients, Lauren tries to imagine again how many children grew up in this house and what mealtimes must have looked like for their family. She peels three Granny Smith apples, cuts the core from each, and then cuts them into thin slices before making the batter of eggs, flour, whipping cream, butter, salt, nutmeg, and vanilla. She prepares a mixture of white sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg and sets it beside the stove. When a quarter cup of butter has melted inside the skillet, she sprinkles half of the sugar mixture over it and then places the apple slices on top. As the recipe instructs, she puts a lid on the skillet for three to four minutes as the apples get a little tender. The smell of the apples fills the kitchen with an aroma that reminds Lauren of Betty’s Bakery. “Watch out, Betty! I’m coming for ya!” she says, smiling. She sprinkles the remaining sugar mixture over the apples and then pours the batter on top, waiting until it bubbles before removing the skillet from the stove and setting it inside the oven. She turns on the oven light and looks inside. Without any experience, she never thought she would be able to follow a recipe, but each of these recipe cards is written in such a way that’s easy to understand. The simple language makes the food sound delicious, enticing Lauren to try each dish. In a way that she can’t explain, she hopes that this mother would be proud of her.

  Bacon
is sizzling when Travis opens the garage door that leads into the kitchen. “Is that bacon I smell?” he says, grinning. He notices the apple pancake sitting on top of the stove. “Holy mackerel! What is that?”

  Lauren giggles as he marches to the stove and leans down to take a whiff. “It’s a German Apple Pancake.”

  He stares at her and back at the apple pancake. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife? I was coming in for a bowl of cereal.”

  She laughs at him, swatting his hand away before he can touch the pan. “Go wash your hands! The bacon will be ready when you get back.” Travis was right; if they ate breakfast, it was normally a bowl of cereal, but she has a feeling all of that is going to change. She sets the bacon on a plate covered with a paper towel, slices the apple pancake, and calls Travis to breakfast.

  August 1972

  Joan pulls on a pair of drawstring pants and cinches them tight around her waist. Her already petite frame has lost enough weight that the jeans and slacks she was wearing just two months ago no longer fit. She still tries out her mom’s recipes, but the smell of the food ultimately makes her nauseous and she ends up nibbling at the food, at best. Her mom and mother-in-law have taken turns making meals and freezing them for ease, but when she’s able, Joan wants to be in the kitchen with Gigi and Christopher.

  “Are you feeling good, Mommy?” Gigi asks, peeking her head inside her mom and dad’s bedroom.

  Joan hates that cancer has made her five-year-old tiptoe around her at times, wondering if she’s too sick to play a game, take her to the park, or cook together in the kitchen. “I’m feeling awesome!” she says, fibbing.

  “Then what’s for breakfast?” Gigi asks, leaning against the bed.

  “How about scones or Grandma’s cinnamon loaf? Of course, that needs to rise, so it will take a long time, but just think of that warm, buttery, cinnamony goodness with pecans on top!”

  Gigi thinks for a second. “What’s the shorter thing you said?”

  “Scones.” Joan tidies her bed as she talks. Even on her worst days she likes to make the bed, convinced that it helps her feel better. “It’s like a yummy, heavy biscuit with blueberries, raspberries, chocolate chips, cinnamon, or whatever we want to put inside them. Grandma used to make them for me when I was your age.”

  “Mmm!” Gigi says, helping her mom make the bed. “Chocolate chips, please!”

  Joan laughs. “I knew you would say that. Did Daddy already leave for work?”

  Gigi nods, tossing a throw pillow onto the bed. “I think so. I couldn’t find him when I came downstairs.”

  John has been going to work earlier each day with the heating and air-conditioning repair company so he can be home by midafternoon when Joan’s energy falls out beneath her. John lives out the “sickness and health” part of his vows in a way that brings daily tears to Joan’s eyes.

  “You didn’t sign up for this,” she told him after she couldn’t make it to the bathroom after her second round of chemo and vomited on their bedroom floor.

  “Yes, I did,” he told her matter-of-factly. “So did you. I might cash in your vow someday, so take notes.”

  She wanted to laugh, but another wave of nausea made her double over. John grabbed her and carried her into the bathroom, where she vomited into the toilet. “What about your table, John?” she said after the last wave was finished.

  “That’s what you’re thinking as you stare into the toilet?” She nodded her head. “A toilet makes you think of the table I’m building?” She began to snicker. “Really? A toilet? How offensive is that?”

  She laughed out loud, clutching her stomach. “Don’t make me laugh, John!”

  “Then don’t compare my table to a toilet.”

  Her voice echoed off the bathroom walls as she howled, reaching for his hand. He helped her to her feet and flushed the toilet, easing her to the sink. “I’m not comparing the table to a toilet,” she said, rinsing her face and brushing her teeth as she giggled. She turned to look at him and he handed her a towel. “You wanted it finished by October and that’s when you were able to work on it after work and an hour or two on the weekend. Now all of your time after work is taken up in here.”

  He helped her back into bed. “My time isn’t ‘taken up,’ Joan. My time is used exactly the way I want to use it.” He pulled the blankets over her thin frame and leaned down to kiss her. “So, I’ll have it done by Thanksgiving instead of October. No big deal.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the extra time will help me figure out how to make it less like a toilet.”

  “Daddy has gotten so good at sneaking out of the house each morning that none of us hears him,” Joan says, smiling at Gigi.

  “He’s like a cat!”

  “He is like a cat,” Joan says. “Your brother still sleeping?”

  “I think so. I haven’t heard him singing yet.” They always knew when Christopher was awake because his tiny voice could be heard trying to sing the songs Joan sang to him, using whatever words he could say, but most of it was babble that made Joan, John, and Gigi laugh while outside the door, listening.

  “All right,” Joan says, leading the way into the kitchen. “Let’s find Grandma’s scone recipe and get to work!”

  ELEVEN

  August 2012

  Lauren and Andrea lead the children outside at Glory’s Place and watch as they scatter across the playground. Andrea notices as Lauren puts her hand on her small baby bump. “Are you still bothered with morning sickness?”

  Lauren nods. “Just when I think it’s gone it sweeps over me again. Did you have it?”

  “For my second child,” Andrea says. “My first pregnancy was a breeze, so I thought my next pregnancy would be the same. I actually lost weight the first four months when I carried my second.”

  They sit on a bench next to the swings, where they can see all of the children. “Were you afraid for your first one?” Lauren asks, tying five-year-old Aaron’s shoe when he thrusts it in front of her.

  Andrea chuckles. “I was afraid for both of them! For each pregnancy, Bill and I always said, ‘I hope we don’t mess this one up!’”

  “How did you know what to do?” Lauren asks, shielding her eyes from the sun so she can get a better view of the children on the slide. “One at a time,” she yells.

  “Well, you figure it out together. It’s funny because you get a marriage license, a driver’s license, a fishing license, business license, or whatever, but there is no parent license. You just have a baby and you’re a parent! No paperwork and no classes required. Bill and I were a team and we trusted each other. You and Travis are a great team! I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “I feel like there are lots of things to worry about!” Lauren says, chuckling. “There’s a lot to know.”

  “Yeah, but you learn it,” Andrea says, brushing mulch and dirt off of Molly’s legs after she falls in front of them.

  “The world seems kind of crazy now.”

  Andrea nods. “We thought the same thing when we started having kids. Bill and I learned that’s there’s only so much we could do as parents. We did everything we could to teach and guide our kids, but we learned that there are things that only God can do. We learned to pray when we became parents,” she says, laughing. “One thing we did was we asked other parents who had older kids what they did, and we used the advice that worked best for us. Some of the most common advice was to get our baby on a schedule and to keep that schedule. As each child grew, we put them on a schedule that was appropriate for their age.”

  Lauren thinks for a moment. “I don’t think my mom ever had me … or herself … on a schedule. When I went into my first foster home, I couldn’t believe they said my bedtime was nine o’clock! I always stayed up until eleven or midnight.” Her face clouds over as she looks across the playground. “What if I’m like my mom?”

  “You’re not,” Andrea says.

  Lauren turns her head to look at her. “How do you know?”

 
; “Because you just asked that question.”

  * * *

  Lauren pulls out the recipe for creamy spinach soup from among the cards in the table drawer and begins to read through it again.

  Someone once told me by the time a child is five their eating habits are already established. I started you kids on vegetables and healthy food when you were just toddling around here and you’re still healthy eaters today! The green of this soup was never an issue because you loved the taste. Remember when Dad got so sick that one winter? I was practically spoon-feeding this along with tomato soup and chicken soup to him, and he got better quicker than the doctor expected! I always got our milk and cream from Bud’s. Remember going with me to the farm? I’m convinced the cows on his farm produced the best milk around, and it was worth the drive there every week. Use good half-and-half, fresh spinach, and farm-fresh chicken for this, and your kids will love it as much as you did.

  Lauren pounds out a couple of boneless chicken breasts and puts them into a skillet to cook and glances again at the recipe. Dice half a cup of onion and half a cup of red pepper. Make sure you make the dices small. They should blend into the soup, not stick out. Lauren is careful as she dices, paying attention that the onion and red pepper are as small as she can make them, before placing them in a pot with a tablespoon of melted butter. She sautés them for a few minutes before adding one pound of thawed, chopped spinach, two cups of chicken stock, and two crushed garlic cloves. She looks at the recipe card again and moans: Salt and pepper to taste, and a touch of cayenne pepper. Just figure out what your family likes and season the soup according to that. “What does that even mean?” Lauren says aloud, sprinkling a bit of salt into the soup.

  As it cooks for ten minutes, she melts a quarter cup of butter in a saucepan, adds a quarter cup of flour to it, and begins whisking it over low heat. Don’t let it scorch! Whisk for two minutes, the recipe says. After measuring out three cups of half-and-half, she pours it into the flour mixture and whisks until it is blended. Then she pours it into the pot with the spinach, letting it simmer for ten minutes. She wonders how much of a difference this half-and-half and chicken is that she purchased at Clauson’s, compared to what she could buy on a farm somewhere. She’s not familiar with any local farms, let alone one called Bud’s, and assumes the table she purchased and these recipes came from another town, or even another state. She hasn’t lifted the lid of the skillet since she began cooking the chicken, and when the ten minutes are up, she checks on it, and it is perfect. She cuts the breasts into small pieces and adds it to the soup, turns the stove burner off and covers the soup. To let the flavors blend, as the recipe card says.