by Jeanne Bice
For a few moments, I was a little girl again back in Mom’s kitchen and I could feel her patient presence.
A few weeks later, I produced a perfect chocolate bread pudding for our first somber holiday without Mom. Every face brightened when I brought it to the Christmas table.
“I didn’t think we’d ever have this again.” Dad cleared his throat. “Now it feels more like Christmas.”
I put my arm around my daughter. “If it weren’t for Shelley, we wouldn’t have the pudding.” My eyes pooled and my voice cracked. “She remembered the part that makes it special.”
More importantly, so had I. I’d been reminded that Mom’s love would always be with us—just like her recipe for chocolate bread pudding.
Mom’s Chocolate Bread Pudding
Donna Rushneck
Yield: 6 servings
8 slices of Italian bread, with crusts
1/3 cup cocoa
1/2 cup sugar
3 large eggs
1/4 tsp salt
4 cups milk
1/4 cup butter or margarine
1. Preheat oven to 300 degrees F.
2. Grease a 9 x 13 baking dish.
3. Tear bread into chunks and place in baking dish. Add cocoa to sugar and blend thoroughly until all cocoa lumps are gone.
4. In large bowl, add cocoa/sugar mixture to eggs and beat until creamy. Incorporate salt and milk.
5. Pour mixture over bread and dot with butter. Let stand 15 minutes.
6. Bake covered for 30 minutes. Remove cover and bake an additional 30 minutes. Remove from oven when a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. (A little additional baking time may be required.)
The Pied Pepper
By Jaye Lewis
Pepper was a brown and white, floppy-eared bundle of warm puppy breath. He was given to me on my tenth birthday, and from the moment he was placed in my arms we became the best of friends. We were inseparable.
Pepper was smart, too, a regular circus dog. He learned each trick in a single lesson. Except one: Pepper couldn’t learn to sit up and beg. I held him up. I supported his back. But Pepper always went limp and slid to the floor. Of course, I hated for anyone to see that side of Pepper. Instead, I showed off his other tricks.
When someone asked if he could beg, I answered, “He would if there was something worth begging for.”
On Christmas Eve, Pepper settled himself near the heavenly smells drifting from the oven. When my mother lifted out our family favorite, a deep-dish pumpkin pie, Pepper did it—he sat up straight, curled his little paws, and begged!
He sat, candy cane stiff, for a long, long moment.
“Why, look at you!” Mom’s throaty laugh was as warm as the pumpkin pie she placed on top of the stove. She covered all the holiday pies with a long sheet of waxed paper and glanced at the clock. “Get your things together. It’s time for church.”
After the midnight Christmas Eve service, we invited friends home for coffee and pie. We drove to our mobile home and tumbled out of our cars, shushing one another in the darkness of the late hour and trying not to laugh.
The first thing Mom did was brighten the small room by plugging in the festive tree lights. In spite of the excitement of company, Pepper didn’t bother to greet us. He didn’t budge from his cozy spot on the couch near the oven.
I sat next to Pepper, but he didn’t even look up.
All of a sudden, my mother gasped. “Oh my goodness!”
Mom was choking. No, she was crying. No—she was laughing.
Laughing?
“Come look at this, everyone.” Mom shifted the wax paper from the pies. Sitting in the middle of four untouched fruit pies was the deep-dish pumpkin—with a carefully eaten-out center. On either side of the cavernous hole were two little paw prints.
I knew Pepper was in for it. He had spoiled the sacred pie. Now he was going to die for his dastardly deed, and it was my mother who was going to kill him.
“Pepper,” Mom commanded, “come here.”
Pepper’s head popped up. He knew that voice. Everybody knew that voice. Even if you didn’t have a tail, you found one just so you could tuck it between your legs when you heard that voice.
Pepper slithered reluctantly off the couch and slinked to my mother. With his head hanging, he cowered at her feet.
She bent low and held the Christmas pie in front of him. “What did you do?” Her face was stern. “Did you eat this pie?”
The rest of us eyed each other, held our breaths, and waited for The Lecture.
“Pepper!” Mom peered into the small dog’s face and ordered, “Beg!”
Pepper jerked to attention. He sat up, back ruler-straight and front paws perfectly curled.
“Here, Pepper.” Mom’s face softened as she placed the prized pumpkin pie on the floor. “Merry Christmas. You earned it.”
Pepper had finally found something worth begging for!
Yuletide Traditions:
Cherished Customs and Memories
Log Cabin Christmas
By John Winsor
Sometime after midnight, the snowstorm stopped and bright stars pinpointed a carbon void. The fleeing storm cloud still cloaked the moon; there were no beams dancing across our floor. I tucked the goose-down quilt under my chin and scooched over to the warmth of Tish’s body and smiled with anticipation of a day filled with family and Christmas tradition.
We woke to the smells of brewing coffee, sizzling bacon, and pine logs burning in the fireplace, to the sounds of footsteps and muted conversations and laughter. Our three kids, their spouses, and our eight grandkids were here, all fourteen, for the annual celebration at our cabin nestled along a freestone river in northwestern Wyoming. To relieve Tish of the chores, they’d formed interfamily teams to cook, set the table, and wash the dishes.
The rising sun brushed the top of snow-covered Pilot Peak, creating an alpenglow, a reddish tinge that plunged down the mountain as the sun climbed. The entire world snapped into vivid colors, a vast cerulean sky, miles of untracked snow, emerald green pines, and darker-tinged spruce, all framed by white mountains slashed by dark granite outcroppings. A fine Christmas Eve day.
Someone rang the old locomotive bell perched atop a log pole near the front door—five minutes until breakfast. We joined family on the couch, warmed by the fire, drank hot chocolate and coffee, and made plans for the day: Get the kids dressed for a crystalline ten-below morning, snap on cross-country skis, track to the forest through unbroken snow, spend an eternity selecting the perfect Christmas tree, cut it, sled it back, put it up, and, after all that effort, chow down again.
I watched each of the grandchildren—aged five to twenty—take turns with the ax (some with guidance from their fathers) to fell the tree. After lunch, the grandkids took great joy in decorating it, particularly when they found the holiday ornaments containing photographs they’d given Tish and me when they were young.
I watched and remembered my own excitement when I was their age, and later, a different kind of excitement when helping our children, John, Susan, and Tom. I realized this tradition of joy and anticipation now spanned three generations. Feeling the passage of time, I backed off to let them take the lead with their own children.
After the tree was decorated, naps taken, grace said, dinner served, and dishes washed, we gathered near the fireplace and watched flames crackle around the logs.
Someone distributed sheets of Christmas carols and began to lead us in song. Several grandchildren rolled their eyes and slunk away but, after hearing a chorus of “Jingle Bells,” the slinkers returned and took up voice.
After we’d sung out, we read aloud Christmas stories about Mary and Joseph and Bethlehem and the three wise men and Baby Jesus.
Final
ly, Susan urged the children to bed “because you-know-who might be coming tonight.” Older kids cast knowing glances, while the believers hustled about the kitchen, selecting cookies, pouring milk, and placing plate and glass on the half-log bench in front of the fire.
Someone suggested they should leave a note for Santa, and everyone wanted to write their own. The little ones grabbed a piece of paper and a crayon, flopped on their bellies in front of the fire, and drew passable words and symbols of love and hope.
All the little kids hustled to their cabins to say their prayers and go to bed. Finally, it was quiet in the main cabin.
After a while the older ones, nonbelievers, drifted back from the circle of cabins, and we pulled boxes from hiding places. They helped me don the outfit: black boots trimmed in white, red baggy pants, a pillow tied to an already ample waist, a red, white-trimmed coat, wide black belt, and white gloves. Fourteen-year-old granddaughters Becca and Caroline did their special work: rouged cheeks, colored lips, adjusted white wig just so, combed beard, and perched glasses on nose. Not too far down, not too high, but just right.
After final inspections, I was escorted—just like I had been each of the past nineteen years—to the back door, out of sight from the other cabins. Tom handed me a huge sack filled with brightly wrapped gifts, and John handed me the sleigh bells and said that he’d return to his cabin and turn the porch light off when all was ready.
The snow was calf-deep, soft, silent, and a full moon rose on the eastern horizon, casting tree shadows. Bright reflection from the snow turned the cabins into black silhouettes. Slipping through the trees behind the cabins, I circled until I was in position. I waited for the signal.
The porch light snapped off.
Sleigh bells tinkled, the ring slicing through crystalline air, echoing in the night.
Hunched over by the weight of a sackful of surprises, I waddled past the cabins, ignoring excited movement at windows.
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”
I heard a door open and spotted little fellas scrambling onto the porch, held in check by their mom and dad. “Hi Santa! Hi Santa!” they shouted and waved.
I acted surprised and laughter rolled from deep inside my belly. I waved back and toddled through moonlight and snow toward the main cabin. Later, after I stacked presents under the tree, I sat by the fire nibbling a cookie.
Daughter-in-law Bridget sneaked back into the room. “When I put the boys back to bed, little Harry said he would never get to sleep. So I asked, ‘Why not?’”
“And what did Harry say?” I asked.
Eyes moist, she gave me a hug and whispered, “‘Because I have Santa’s laughter in my heart.’”
A fine Christmas Eve, indeed.
Tea for You
By Jean Richert as told to Carol McAdoo Rehme
The holidays were flying on swift wings this year, but I was ready. Right on schedule. Tree, gifts, stockings, cards, decorating. All done ahead so that I could fully enjoy today’s traditional celebration.
With my two children conveniently situated at the sitter’s house, I took a minute to think. “Let’s see,” I scanned the dining room, “have I forgotten anything?”
I straightened the holly-leafed tea set; it was, after all, about the Christmas tea. My Windsong china ringed the walnut table. The silver-plated flatware I inherited from my grandmother—and polished, spoon by spoon, fork by fork for this occasion—flanked the place settings. Perfect. My hand-blown crystal stood at attention to the right of each plate. And, beneath it all, lay a crisp linen tablecloth freshly ironed.
“The napkins!” I hurried to fold the matching cloth squares into the crisp points of a bishop’s mitre and placed them around the table.
Scrumptious scents of minted tea, seasonal desserts, and tempting appetizers wafted from the kitchen. But, to my way of thinking, the food was secondary. It was the setting, the centerpiece, the time-honored, minute details that would delight my seasoned guests. They were, after all, the sole reason I was willing to “put on the dog” as my friend Marie would say.
And in they came, lonely elders and widows and friends, all of a different vintage who, themselves, once entertained with a flair for formality and an eye towards decorum. Who once welcomed Christmas with unlined faces and the boundless energy of youth.
I knew that’s what drew them to my annual holiday tea. I made certain every detail harkened back to yesteryear and spoke to a more genteel era in their lives, when there was more leisure time to linger over a fragrant cup. And that was exactly why I delighted in providing the experience each year—the Girlfriend Christmas Tea that crossed the generations.
“Happy holidays!” I greeted the first guest. “May I take your coat?”
“Merry Christmas, Marilyn. Let me hold your gloves and handbag while you unbutton your jacket.”
“Why, Wanda, what a lovely holiday brooch.”
Marie, the eldest of the group at ninety-three, needed my close attention with her cane and over boots.
And so the gracious lunch proceeded.
Dressed to the nines in their best pumps and nicest jewelry, the ladies dined with classic deportment—interspersed with lively discussions, reminiscences of Christmases past, even poetic recitations mined from memories of school days long ago.
I paused in my own conversation and glanced around the table to rejoice in the moment. Be-ringed hands fluttered over heirloom silver. Behind rimmed glasses, faded eyes sparkled enough to rival the shine of my crystal. The scent of lilac talcum powder and Taboo perfume drifted across the table to co-mingle comfortably with peppermint tea.
And, beneath it all, reedy voices rose and flowed, caught up in the heady mixture of company, Christmas, and auld lang syne.
I smiled in satisfaction. Next year, I thought, I believe I’ll invite a few others. My mind raced ahead with anticipation. I’ll simply put an extra leaf in the table, arrange transportation for my additional guests . . . and brew another pot of Christmas tea.
Holiday Blockbuster
By Debbi Wise
Throughout the holidays, my mind performs flashbacks from my childhood in Memphis, Tennessee, with memorable images that rerun like the Charlie Brown Christmas special featured year after year on TV.
When it came to Christmas, my mother was a leading contender in the category of Best Production. Funding was tight, making it a low-budget show, but for the audience—the four Walker kids—it was always a blockbuster hit!
The season officially opened after the last Thanksgiving plate was washed and the pumpkin pie was served. Dad would bring out the box of tangled Christmas lights, furrow his brow, and make his annual declaration: “Guess I should test these to see if they still work.”
Before long, all the brown tattered boxes were down from the attic. Rummaging through the decorations felt like a fond visit with relatives who made an appearance only once a year. As the excitement accelerated, my parents would decide it was time to buy a tree. Before long we were driving home with an evergreen tied to the top of our Chevy.
I was always convinced we had the best pick of the selection sold from Al’s Christmas Trees, regardless if Dad had to surgically reshape the trunk and curse under his breath to get it into the stand. He hauled it inside, leaving a trail of pine needles on the shag carpeting. Clogging the vacuum with the prickly spikes was as much a tradition as placing the star on top of the tree. The scent of fresh pine was ripe in our home as we hung ornaments while sipping hot chocolate sprinkled with bobbing miniature marshmallows.
Christmas was the only time we received gifts. In our family of six, money was stretched thin all year. My parents conserved the best they could, making sure our basic needs were met, but there was nothing to spare for luxuries. So at Christmas, I felt like Dorothy when she stepped out of black-and-white and into
the colorful Land of Oz. Knowing I was standing in Christmas was almost enough for me!
As wrapped gifts were placed beneath the tree, my sister and I shook only the packages tagged with our names. Though our gifts were meager, they put a spark in our eyes. We were always pleased.
When I was three years old, my sister and I received doll beds crafted by Dad. The next year we got a tea set arranged on a small wooden table with little chairs, more evidence of his ingenuity. It never crossed my mind that these gifts should come from a store. After all, they were handmade especially for us.
Since our mother knew her way around a Singer sewing machine, each year she used her skill to earn extra Christmas money. The Barbie doll outfits she designed and sold easily competed with those sold at local stores and padded the Christmas fund so well one year that my sister and I were the recipients of bicycles—our first. Never mind that they were used. When it’s magic, you don’t see anything but matching blue bikes. And Mom made sure Christmas was magic for me—for all of us.
My mother’s script for Christmas was handed down to me like her recipe for holiday turkey. The magic, I learned, was all about the waiting. Holding out, not overindulging during the year. That was her key ingredient. It was an easy habit to practice, since, like my mother, I had to work within a tight budget.
I stuck to the script closely; only once do I recall a misstep. Two days before Christmas we took our three-year-old daughter to see Santa at the mall. She was well prepped with the items I convinced her she wanted: a miniature sink and stove, a Little Mermaid play tent, and the homemade doll bed I received when I was her age.
From her perch on Santa’s lap, Hailey shyly recited her list and added, “And Santa, I want a red fire engine.”
Huh? I thought. A fire engine? Where did that come from?
On the way home, I asked about her odd request.
