I'm too old to be giddy about Christmas, but young enough that warm memories of seasons past are still vivid. I haven't any children (at least none willing to come forward) to help buoy the Christmas spirit. My Christmas tree remains boxed beneath a staircase because it's a hassle to assemble, and a blinking reminder that at some point it will have to be wrestled down to its constituent parts and stowed away.
Like any other dibby dibby yute, Christmas was special to me. Sure, there was the pee-in-your pants anticipation of opening gifts on Christmas day. There was also, though, a general lightness of being in people around me.
My father, who was typically smouldering ill-humour and sternness for most of the year, was noticeably less so at Christmas time. He seemed to revel in the trappings and kitsch of the season. Perhaps the only thing he took more seriously than making sorrel or defending the ham, was his Christmas music collection.
I distinctly remember the musical stylings of Mitch Miller and the sultry vocals of Andy Williams. Every year my father would break out these records. Perhaps "break out" isn't the proper characterisation. He would handle that vinyl like it was explosives, carefully withdrawing each record from a pristine sleeve. Ever so gently he would nestle it on the turntable and gingerly put the needle in the groove.
In the kitchen, the mule work of preparing Christmas was already in full swing. The enormous turkey, (which was either a giant, hormone-filled fleshy pinata or a murdered ostrich) was lovingly massaged with copious butter to infuse the meat with moisture and cholesterol. A mountain of glorious stuffing was crammed into the turkey until it was fit to burst.
At Christmas time there always seemed to be so many irresistible food options. The pastelles of yesteryear were out of this world. By comparison, many contemporary renditions of this Christmas staple are unpalatable packets of seasoned sawdust entombed in a diaphanous sheath of cornmeal.
I recently swallowed a pastelle which had me guessing for more than a few minutes at what was missing. Then it hit me... everything! This thing has no raisins, no capers, no nothing; just regret. Mind you, as a youngster, I hated capers like the homework. Raisins, as far as I was concerned, were purposely ruined grapes. These additions, however, gave texture as well as a balance of salt and sweet which delivered a nuanced flavour.
As a child, I hung off the kitchen counter by my nose and fingertips staring down the pastelles slowly defrosting and cooking in the double boiler on the stove.
These were the pre-microwave oven days and my impatience was too much to contain. I would harass my mother until she relented, extracting one from the steam cloud and plopping it on a plate. You want to hear bad mind? I would wolf that pastelle down, knowing it was still frozen in the centre. "How is it?" she would ask. "Good..." I would say, even as I tried to muffle the crunch of the meatsicle at the heart of this moreish morsel.
My older sisters usually took charge of the heavy cooking. My mother's specialty was black cake. Our fruits, processed in a hand grinder that could give you arms like Popeye, were soaked for months in alcohol, just like priest at the church next door. When the cake mixture went in the oven, it detonated an intoxicating aroma bomb.
The Christmas of my youth wasn't just about eating, although that was an inescapable part of it. Good food is nothing, though, if there isn't anyone with whom to share it. Eating alone is just a biological requirement of survival.
Similarly, gifts meant more to me as gestures of familial affection. Of course, I wouldn't have said that then because I would have been up to my neck in socks and soap-on-a-rope. I remember a much loved aunt once gave me a bottle of Playboy cologne. It was the gift I always never wanted. At any rate, I was a teenager and nothing close to the playboy I should have been.
Even though I had little use for the accoutrements of a gentlemen dandy, I wore it every day until the supply was exhausted. I loved my aunt dearly, and her gift of this cologne was a reminder that I was in her thoughts. This is cornier than a Christmas corn pie, but there is no value which can be affixed to having a place in another's heart or mind.
Christmas for me will never hold the same affection, the attrition of life has made sure of that. I am grateful, though, to have a deep vault of priceless memories that still give the season special meaning.
It is this special meaning I wish for you all as you celebrate the season. Christmas is a time of renewal. Seize these moments and drink of them so deeply that no matter what may come, the fire of love and hope kindled in your heart will light the way in 2017.