How a Humble Persimmon Cookie Saved Thanksgiving

It's 1971 or so, mid-morning, late November in a southern California suburb. The house already smells like turkey, even though we have dinner well after dark to accommodate my mother's desire to set a perfect (and perfectly fussy) table, while also allowing sufficient time for everything to burn to a crisp.

Safely blended in to the family-room couch, I can hear the old graniteware roaster hit the floor, followed quickly by a few harsh words. Next, she reminds herself to get out the "good" stemware. (Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, this conflagration is gonna be a dress affair.) I am happily distanced--for now--from the gathering doom that is dinner,

Daddy chats with Aunt Katherine in Pennsylvania ("I'll sharpen the knives in a few minutes, Sunshine. I'm on LONG DISTANCE!"), reminiscing and probably wishing he were there, back in the land of Sisters Who Can Cook. When he asks her "How many inches did you get last night?" I know it's time to start angling for a "trip to the snow" in our local mountains. I sulk, jealously, about my distant cousins' "real" (snowy) holidays.

Neenie opens the door to her best friend Helen, my "other grandmother," who has arrived reeking of Chantilly cologne and all the latest gossip from their Masonic auxiliaries. Her smelly, high-pitched teacup poodle wears bows on its butt and will annoy my passive, sleeping cat until the cat finally gets in trouble and is tossed outside (there is no justice). The dog will barf on my parents' new shag carpet.

Mother grits her teeth and purrs smilingly through it all, but hooo-boy, Daddy's gonna catch hell later (there is still no justice).

But Grandma Helen has a small, foil-covered plate in her hand. As she asks me to put it on the buffet table, she winks at me. Mother gives me The Look, the one that signals "If you so much as THINK about pulling that foil up, young lady, you're done for." However, Grandma Helen only winks when there's a purpose. I am hopeful.

The day drags on. I find things to do, maybe walk over to Vicki's or up to Cheryl's, until at long last, it's time for dinner. Daddy has intervened, and some parts of the meal aren't fully incinerated. I am secretly thrilled that the Mrs. Smith's frozen mince pie was cremated--I hate that stuff and won't develop a proper appreciation for mincemeat pie until much later, when I taste a real one. Daddy got to the kitchen in time to save the Mrs. Smith's frozen pumpkin pie--the one I really like. My Daddy is a hero.

We survive the meal. We always survive the meal. I don't know how Daddy always arranges to lose the wishbone game to me, but somehow he does. I get to go to the snow! Soon! I get to invite Cheryl and Vicki!

 But the best thing of all--the very best part of Thanksgiving--is discovering that Grandma Helen "accidentally misplaced" a second foil-covered plate of persimmon cookies in my room.

Epilogue: When Grandma Helen died many years later, I was married and a mother. Her most precious legacy to me was a Chantilly-scented copy of her persimmon cookie recipe, which I will serve on Mother's early-married plates this Thanksgiving. We will use the good stemware.

Racing to Christmas, November 16, 2014

I've seen several houses with Christmas lights and exterior decorations already, about two-ish weeks before Thanksgiving. As a cradle Episcopalian, reared by an absolute martinet of a rector who insisted we call The Big Green Fir our "Advent tree," I was at first tempted to roll my eyes and dismiss it as too much, too soon. But I got to thinking--what ARE those people doing?

 And the answer seemed fairly simple; I suspect they are reaching for joy, for "peace on earth, goodwill to all" and all the other promises of Christmas. And on reflection, how bad is that? What if they expect this to be Grandma's last Christmas? What if they want to greet a returning service member with longed-for lights and tinsel and an (admittedly Godawful) inflatable Rudolph on the lawn? What if they just became foster parents to grossly neglected kids who've never had a Christmas? If those folks are trying to reach out for festivity and warmth, to spread cheer, to ring in the merriment and jollity a little sooner than most of us, what harm is done?

 So I decided to grab a little of the joy and anticipation from their stuff and not feel all rushed and snarky about it. Decorating houses "too soon" suddenly feels different to me, and it's a world away from the vast commercial grab that's attempting to drown us all. Just a thought.

To the One Who Left Us Too Soon

The second Christmas without you. I planned on more. You were supposed to see him graduate, go off to college, get married. I expected to warn him someday against leaving his fragile newborn in your ancient, shaky hands.

But you didn't make it to his senior year of high school. By now, the gift of numbness has evaporated. The pain is less frequent, but it cuts deeper. The hair-salon magazines issue a breezy, facile suggestion--they tell me to reach out, ease someone else's pain, make Christmas merry for someone who's REALLY hurting.

Bitter backlash plagues me for half a day. I'm "REALLY hurting," d*mnit. Does my pain not count because I'm well fed? Is my loss invalid because I have a good job and pretty shoes? Does privilege render my broken heart ineligible for solace?

Perspective stuns me, whips me. The rancor was false--a mask for deep, searing sadness. The memories are joyous and painful. Remembering, the senses torture and comfort.

I smell your nut roll. It's seconds away from burning. Daddy rushes in, rescues it. EVERY TIME. He chuckles that you'll never learn--and you never did. It's the taste of Christmas. Until my dying day, nut roll will taste like Christmas, even when I'm not entirely sure I like the stuff. Mexican wedding cakes. Spritz. Peanut-butter fudge. Sugar cookies, rolled with the ancient maple pin on the ancient maple board--among the few useful implements you left me--frosted with a powdered-sugar glaze and decorated with contraband silver dragees. I won, Mother. Mine taste and look better. They just do.

I am three. Your soft, flawed soprano croaks "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" as we look out my bedroom window for Santa in his sleigh. We spot him--there he is! We find him every year.

I am 19. My roommate has come for Christmas--her first visit to California. You and Daddy rush out to make sure there are lots of gifts for her. We eat nut roll. You sing "Rudolph." All is merry and bright.

I am 30. The little girl who will become my stepdaughter beams in the Alice-blue pinafore dress you made her. You and she spend an hour or two finding frisky elves in your enormous Christmas tree, spotting them just before they duck behind a thick branch or an oversized ornament. Later, she piles onto your lap with your dog and the cat you stole from me; you read "A Visit from St. Nicholas" to her. She refuses nut roll; together, you sing "Rudolph."

I am 35. Your grandboy will be 11 days old on Christmas. I am tired, sore, spent. The in-laws swarm, grabbing my baby, chattering happily, exhausting me. You promise Christmas Eve dinner for the assembled masses. I end up cooking it. My son and I adjourn, seeking silence, darkness, nut roll. When they leave, you sing "Rudolph" to your weary girl and her miracle baby.

I miss your ugly styrofoam ornaments--I cry for your tacky plastic icicles--I sigh when I wear your rhinestone-laden Christmas pins, a gift every year from the blue-eyed Bing Crosby lookalike who adored you. We treat the blown glass stork, the faded bells, the crumbling Eskimo doll from your first Christmas in 1929 as honored guests. They go high on the tree with my Radko Holy Family ornament, Everything else is supporting cast.

You are presumably beyond longing, impervious to sadness, past tears and pain and loneliness. You are, I'm told, busily rejoicing in eternal life, enjoying your well-earned rest, living jubilantly and peacefully. I don't doubt it, not really. If anyone "deserves" heaven and salvation . . .

He will be home from his first semester at college soon, racing in all aglow, talking about his finals, his girl, his buddies, his adventures, the snow. He will enliven me, energize the house. He will jolt me out of this reverie. He has a hard time admitting he'd love to tell you everything too. Maybe he does, maybe he's taken to ancestor worship as he explores his place in the cosmos. I know his heart reaches for you, even if his words do not. We will eat nut roll.

I will sing "Rudolph." Maybe I won't. Maybe the tears will overcome me, as they have of late. But my heart will sing "Rudolph" while my ears reach back through the years to hear your voice. We will have a merry Christmas, come what may. We know no other kind. That is your legacy to your two heartbroken "babies." Sleep in heavenly peace, Momma Wolfie.