Every year on Christmas day, after piling the coats on the day bed in the study at Mamy Durandeau's house, I would cross the black and white marble tiled hall and go back into her little kitchen and offer to help. Several consecutive years, I touched the curved banister on the way through the hall and made a point of it. It was as if I was creating Christmas ritual of my own. Every year aunts and uncles wrapped in threadbare aprons would bustle about me and push around me and say everything was taken care of. Every year I would retreat into the living room and find Loic's cousins in their places.
We would sit and patiently wait for Yves to wheel the apero cart into the room. The drinks would all be poured, kirs - peach, cassis, or plain champagne, then everyone would sit in a circle around the room and wait until just the precise moment to take a sip. The platters of little baked things and olives would begin to make the rounds, going round and round until they were empty.
Everyone always sat at the same place at the dinner table, so the transfer was always a fluid affair. The dishes, the decor, menu were always identical. The only things that changed were the years of the wines and the flavor of the buche. These subtle changes in detail always were the point of departure for the conversation, which never strayed far.
I admit, after the first magic Christmas, the rigidity of the ritual in the following years seemed monotonous or even spooky, a little bit like being in the twilight zone, reliving the same day over and over again. For nine years we replayed the same scene. But as I settled into my place at the table, tasting that delicious langouste tail with the velvety light touch of tarragon in the hand whisked mayonnaise sauce, it began to grow on me. While I put little pieces of foie gras little by little to a slice of toasted brioche, making them last the same amount of time, I would think about years past and enjoy the sight of Mamy across the table from me. A sip of Gewurtz. The sun would sparkle in the jelly from one precise angle, the wine would marry with the flavors, Mamy's parakeets hopping from perch to perch in the sun on the window sill. I watched her gnarled hand place the knife just so on its little stand, I came to anticipate it, to wait, to breathe and watch her do it again. I took comfort in the repetition after a few years, and began to feel feel a curious pull of my heartstrings if things wavered from tradition.
Last year, Mamy moved to a retirement home. There was no chapon. There were no langouste tails with lemon wedges from the garden. Mamy came to dinner, sitting as a guest at Brigitte's table. The meal had taken on a strange new tone at Loic's parents' house. The seats at the table were mixed up. Some people didn't come, new guests were invited. A draft was blowing through the room. The light was different. Fred left early, to join her boyfriend's family. Brigitte had chosen to do a dish involving pineapple and crab. The bouche was covered with polka dots! Was it Christmas? Sure. Looking around, anyone could tell it was Christmas.
I was deeply touched by the loss of Mamy's Christmas dinner, but shrugged it off. She seemed quite happy to take whisky instead of kir, and ate the crab and pineapple dish on her plate as heartily and any robust 95 year old would. Not a word was spoken about this drastic change in tradition. Our conversations changed a bit, since we had new table neighbors, and new voices filled the void. Young cousins that had been children were now taking their place at the table, joining in the conversation.
I realized after some reflection that Brigitte had stirred everything up for a reason. Mamy Durandeau needed to know that her move to the retirement home nearby had changed everything for all of us. Christmas dinner cannot so easily be transplanted. The flavor combination from a magazine recipe and the energetic rattling loose of long held rituals was necessary. It was meant to contrast against our memories of the langouste with velvety sauce, foie gras, and chapon that we all knew. It was a loving message to her mother: Mamy's dinner, Mamy's home, Mamy's beautiful Christmas ritual, bathed in sun, overlooking the harbor, cannot be replaced. Like the mimosa and lemon trees blooming and fruiting in her garden, they stayed at her empty house last year.
Just like Loic now cherishes Christmas memories with bow ties, langouste, foie gras and chapon, the never ending story of the ever changing bouche de noel, the kirs and nuts, the platter of 13 desserts, I have my own memories. Memories of traditions I don't want to leave behind. I told Loic about them after the first snowfall at the country house. In years past I could not talk about them, I don't know why. I just clammed up, afraid to let any of it out. At first he didn't think it was a good idea. Our own celebration?
I remember rituals and traditions from snowy central New York. A silhouette of my father's towering form hauling in the tree across the wood planks of our front porch. Maple sugar on snow, hot cider, big red sleds down the Murray's hill, having our own creche made from salt dough. The carols, skating on the pond by Meadowbrook Park. Candy canes, special holiday stories and poems, cookies, popcorn and cranberries on string. An enormous tree that smells just so, skiing, hot cocoa, listening to the old music box while shaking presents under the tree. Settling down warm and cozy after a day trundling through the snow to quietly think and dream and watch the sparkling lights. The ornaments were mismatched, each with a story of its own. Shadows made beautiful shapes on the ceiling at the house where I grew up. Will my children ever know memories like these?
We discussed how children might eventually change the formula. How we might balance it out, ensure that traditions from both sides be honored, discussed the intricacies of attempting to include as much of our extended family as we can while creating our own mix of traditions. Like stockings instead of shoes. Like maybe adding cookies to the 13 desserts platter. Like candycanes on the tree. Presents from Santa Claus. Eggnog. Yes, Eggnog!
This year, since the baby hasn't come yet, we are again at his childhood home. I decided though, to introduce eggnog to his family, their first. Elise's recipe at Simply Recipes worked quite well as a good base, although I did add more Rum than was called for and increased the cinnamon and cloves. I loved the way it thickened up when chilled. It is a recipe to be doubled, and noted in your kitchen notebook! Stick to your guns, don't give in when Seb says it would taste good flavored with mint, or served over lime sherbet!
yield: 6 servings
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 cups milk
Pinch of cinnamon
2 whole cloves
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
3/4 cup good rum (6 oz.)
Put the 2 cups milk, the cinnamon and cloves on to heat in a saucepan until hot and steamy but not boiling (you might opt to add 1/2 a vanilla bean at this point into the milk and skip the extract later). While it heats, put the yolks in a bowl with the sugar. Whisk for a couple of minutes, until the mixture turns pale and fluffy. When the milk is hot, turn the heat to very low, and pour half of the hot milk into the bowl with the beaten egg yolks. Whisk the yolks and hot milk until fully incorporated, then transfer the egg yolks and milk back into the saucepan with the remaining hot milk. Stir over low heat with a wooden spoon until the mixture thickens enough to coat the spoon. This can take a while, be patient. Do not turn up the heat and do not let the mixture boil, because it will scramble the eggs. Once it thickens, remove from heat, add the heavy cream, vanilla, and rum. Run through a strainer (to remove the cloves) and funnel into a wine bottle. Let cool, then refrigerate for at least one hour. The drink will thicken nicely when chilled, and the flavors will mellow. Serve cold. Omit the rum for kid friendly eggnog.
