The aroma of baking pies was encouraging. By the time they were done, the whole family was salivating. But, would the meat pies taste as good as they smelled?
Dad placed a slice on each of our plates. The pastry flaked when our forks cut through it. Then the first taste: eyes closed, nostrils flared, smiles appeared and a unanimous “mmm . . . mm” resounded around the kitchen table.
“This is really good,” Dad winked at me, “but I think the meat is the best part.”
“Oh, really? I don’t think so,” I teased back. “The crust is delicious; the meat is a close second.”
The bantering continued until we finally agreed that neither would be any good without the other. I glowed with pride. We had worked—side-by-side—to replicate the old family recipe, my dad and I.
That was the start of our Christmas tradition.
As he aged, it became more difficult for my dad to do his part. Some years we made as many as fifteen pies and stirring such a large pot of meat was not an easy task. Finally, I recruited my children, Brian and Lisa, as our kitchen assistants.
One year, Dad got pneumonia and never fully recovered. The Christmas after he died, I couldn’t bear the thought of making meat pies. Besides, they wouldn’t be the same without his secret seasonings. But Brian and Lisa insisted we continue the thirty-five-year-old holiday ritual.
Forcing my mind to the present, I focus again on the video, curious to see what he adds to the pot.
But Dad smiles now from the television screen while he scrapes the last of his savory meat into a pie shell. As I struggle to position the top crust on this final, skimpy pie, someone off-camera suggests it should be for Uncle Bruce, who’s always first in line to get his.
“Here, let me spit on it.” I wink. “I hope he’s not watching this video.” Everyone laughs and the screen goes white.
Silence.
It occurs to me that I hadn’t noticed a single label on the spices Dad used in the video. Yet a huge grin sweeps across my face when I realize we’d captured the secret ingredients after all.
The secret wasn’t in the seasonings. It was in the people. The teasing and joking. The laughing and loving. And I know it was the working together—side-by-side— that made our Christmas meat pies so special.
Jane Zaffino
Common Sense
Select a cozy corner of your home to create a holiday haven—far from post-office lines, crowded malls and office parties—by engaging your senses.
Sight: Display something that delights you—ice skates from your childhood, an heirloom Bible opened to the Christmas story or even a basket of sea glass collected during last summer’s vacation.
Sound: Hang tinkling wind chimes to catch a furnace draft or play an instrumental holiday CD.
Smell: Light a seasonal candle—bayberry, pine or peppermint. Or select a fresh-from-the-oven scent like gingerbread, sugar cookie or pumpkin pie.
Taste: Treat yourself to a soothing, warm drink. Hot chocolate with marshmallows? Spiced cider? Herbal tea?
Touch: Layer the area with comfortable pillows, a soft throw, your favorite slippers—perhaps a few toys to entertain the cat.
Then set aside time each day to envelope yourself in this sanctuary of simplicity.
Love
Between the Lines
Sometime last year, tucked in the muscled folds of a metropolitan newspaper in Italy, a diminutive advertisement tiptoed out to compete with screaming headlines.
Elderly, retired schoolteacher seeks family willing to adopt grandfather. Will pay expenses.
Eighty-year-old Giorgio Angelozzi had packed himself and his seven cats into the wrinkles of a two-room flat, along with his modest book collection of dusty Greek dictionaries and classics written by noteworthy ancients like Pliny and Horace and Kant. From this cramped home on a dead-end road, he occasionally maneuvered the hilly paths to a local village. But, for the most part, his scholarly, retired life was quiet. Too quiet.
Widowed seven long, lonely years, Giorgio found himself counting the number of words he spoke aloud each day. And on those days when he had nothing to say—even to the padding cats—the count was zero. A zero as hollow as his life.
To his dismay, he discovered he wasn’t done giving and needing love.
Hungering for human contact, Giorgio made a thoughtful decision and put into motion a unique plan: He put himself up for adoption. His humble appeal in the classifieds of an area newspaper immediately captured the attention of an entire nation.
Giorgio’s plight tugged at Italy’s heartstrings, made it sit up and take notice. Government officials and villagers, counselors and commoners, clerics and laymen—all jolted to the core by this plea for adoption—took an internal accounting. The result? An immediate surge of response that brought more than offers of lodging. It brought eager offers of friendship. Of family life. Of . . . love.
After all, Giorgio didn’t advertise himself as a mere tenant. He didn’t seek a position as a part-time professor nor a salaried tutor. Instead, Giorgio sought a family willing to adopt a grandfather, a family willing to accept him as part of itself.
At one time or another, each of us—like Giorgio—must face life’s tough, emotion-wrenching moments. We might deal with the trials of rejection, bankruptcy, terminal illness, loneliness, unhappy partnerships or even death. Love is the universal answer to our difficulties.
If we are fortunate, we realize the power of love—that spark of the divine inherent in each of us—to smooth and soothe, to heal and restore. We search for it in our relationships; we invite it into our lives. We admire it in others; we cultivate it in ourselves.
We grasp for it with both hands and, if we are smart, we give it away with both, understanding that love, like music, is a melody that lingers in the heart long after the words have been sung. It is the grace that allows us to feel for each other, to put ourselves in our neighbors’ places. We see with their eyes, hear with their ears and feel with their hearts. Better yet, we learn to view others through God’s eyes.
Giorgio moved his seven cats and his worn library to the home of his new family. Undoubtedly, he also packed enough warmth and memories to flourish wherever he settled, valued by this new family that love alone created.
The lesson we might all share from this Italian love story? L’amore é come il pane. Bisogna che si faccia di nuovo ogni giorno. “Love is like bread. It needs to be made fresh every day.”
And what better time than this Christmas season to share your loaf, to reach out in love and adopt others into the embrace of your family’s circle?
Sweets for the Sweet
Every year, between Thanksgiving and December 26, something mystical happens to me. The festive foods of Thanksgiving dinner start the process. Then Christmas music, piped from radio and DIRECTTV for an entire month, trips my alarm to shrill. Recipe ideas, over a half-century of them, cork to the surface like soda fizz.
Each chorus of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” transports me deeper and deeper into a rhapsodic trance that has my husband, Lee, shaking his head, mumbling and slanting me knowing looks.
“What?” I snap, stirring candy.
“You’re doing it again.” He saunters past, sniffing the chocolate mixture.
“Why do you want to spoil Christmas for me?” I glare at his back. He just doesn’t get it.
“I hate to see you work yourself to death,” he says, munching spoils from my fudge heap.
“Hey, I love working myself to death.”
At the same time, something deep inside concedes that I do actually go a little mad. I can’t rest until I whip up thirty pounds of walnut fudge, fifteen pounds of Mounds candy, five gallons of Rice Krispies/Snickers balls (so the grandkids can, once a year, eat to their hearts’ content), ten dozen peanut-butter balls, twenty pounds of butterscotch fudge, and—although I swear each year I’ll not do them again—I cannot resist making several batches of yummy chocolate-toffee bars.
“But why so much?” Lee snatches a couple of toffee bars and crams his mouth full. I roll my eyes at his duplicity.
“Tradition,” I say.
And, dear Lord, on one level, it is. But, I ask myself, does tradition alone justify my annual cooking frenzy? I’ve done it since I was a teen practicing home ec class recipes. During ensuing years, I involved the children in the fun, building happy memories, packaging gifts of food for friends and family.
Now, with the kids raised, the activity has become, at times, tiresome. Yet the urge persists. Mystified, I wonder, What is the core of this crazy compulsion?
Later, I browse through some old family photos.
“Look, here’s my Two-Mama,” I tell Lee. “Remember how, after we married, we used to visit during Christmas? As far back as I can remember, she always had goodies of every description to feed us. I loved the way she would always . . .”
Tears spring to my eyes. I miss her. She and PaPa have been gone for many years. I remind Lee how my grandparents’ fragrant house welcomed and cheered me during childhood holidays, how their table sprouted delectable treats and how she always had plenty. Two-Mama made sure her loved ones never left her home hungry, even loading us down with carry-home bags.
That’s it!
My Yuletide frenzy evokes memories of Two-Mama’s gift to me. That’s what motivates me! I never felt more loved than there, in her home, knowing in my child’s mind that she’d prepared all this in honor of me. She celebrated me with all those goodies. That was her way of loving.
I smile at Lee. “I guess now it’s my turn to celebrate my loved ones. It’s my way of loving them.” He squeezes my hand in understanding.
So, five weeks later, here I am: ten pounds heavier, crash-landed back to sanity. I’m also exhausted.
“Y’know,” I admit to Lee, propping my swollen feet on the coffee table, “I’m getting older. I believe next year I’ll skip the candy-making thing.”
“That’s a good idea, hon.” He winks at me.
This time, I vow I’ll remain staunch. Immovable. At least until Thanksgiving rolls around, and I hear those first strains, “I’ll be ho-o-me for Christ-maaaas . . .”
Emily Sue Harvey
Nickled and Dimed
I was sitting at my desk involved in paperwork one sunny May afternoon when the door opened, and a young boy, about nine or ten, came into the store.
He walked confidently toward me and said he wanted to purchase a gift for his father. His serious countenance made it obvious: This was a mission of importance.
As we wound through the furniture division of Loy’s Office Supplies, he expressed dismay at the cost of each chair and lamp. Finally, I suggested a desk-pad set. With eyes glowing, he thoughtfully chose a maroon faux leather unit with matching pencil cup, memo holder and letter opener. His joy nearly matched my own—the whole process ate two hours of my time—and we headed toward my desk to finalize the sale.
“Okay, I’ll be in every week to pay on this for my dad,” said young Michael Murphy.
“And you’ll pick it up just before Father’s Day?” I asked.
“Oh, no, ma’am. This is for Christmas.”
My mouth gaped as wide as my eyes when he handed me his first payment: a nickel and two dimes. But that day changed all of our lives at Loy’s.
As the months passed, neither rain nor snow kept Michael away. Week after week, he arrived promptly at four o’clock every Friday to make his payment. His mother stood outside during each recorded transaction, and one day I asked to meet her.
From her, I learned that Michael’s father was out of work. She took in laundry and ironing to eke out a living for the family of seven. I felt badly, but I respected their pride and refusal of help. But with the approach of winter, all of us at Loy’s noticed Michael wore only a thin sweater, no matter how deep the snow. We concocted a story about a stray coat left at the store—that just happened to be his size. It worked.
One day Michael ran in to announce he had a job— bringing in the newspaper and sweeping the front steps for an old lady down the street every day after school. The ten cents she paid each week would bring him closer to his purchase.
As the holiday season drew near, I feared Michael would not have enough money to pay off the gift, but my boss advised me not to worry.
Two days before Christmas, a dejected Michael came into the store. He hadn’t earned enough money to make his final payment.
“Could I please take the present for my dad so he’ll have it for Christmas?” His eyes bored straight into my own. “I promise I’ll be in after Christmas to finish paying it off.”
Before I could answer, my boss looked up.
“Why, young man, there’s a sale on desk sets today.” He glanced at a paper in his hand. “I think it’s only fair that you get the sale price, too.”
That meant his dad’s gift was paid for!
Michael raced outside to tell his mother. Amid teary hugs and broken thank-yous, we sent them on their way, with Michael clasping the precious, gift-wrapped present to his chest. All of us were proud of Michael’s commitment to his project and his devotion to the dad he loved so much.
A few weeks after Christmas, a shabbily dressed man came into Loy’s and limped directly to my desk.
“Are you the lady my son Michael talks about?” His voice was gruff and as oversized as the man himself.
When I nodded, Mr. Murphy paused. He cleared his throat.
“I’ve just come to thank you for all your help and patience. We don’t have much,” he picked at his worn glove, “and I still can’t believe that youngster would do this for his old dad. I’m awful proud of him.”
Rising from my chair, I walked around the desk to give him a hug. “We think Michael is pretty special, too. As we watched him pay off that desk set, it was clear he loves you very much.”
Mr. Murphy smiled in agreement and walked away. But as he approached the door, his head swiveled my way and he blinked back the tears.
“And you know what? I don’t even own a desk!”
Binkie Dussault
Fair Game
The real intent of our holiday trips to my wife’s family in Oregon is for her to visit with her sisters and niece, along with shopping and cooking, of course. So I’m left twiddling my thumbs a lot, nobody to play with. Except my nephews Adam, Jimmy and Tyler.
A few years ago, I initiated an “Uncle and Nephews’ Day” when we go out in force and spend time together doing something, somewhere. Bowling, skiing on Mt. Hood, whatever. Unbridled fun and freedom from parents with rules that only uncles and nephews share. Secrets and promises kept, love secured.
This time, I suggest a drive to the Coast Range west of Portland to an elk refuge called Jewell Meadows where hundreds of magnificent Roosevelt elk congregate.
“It’s awesome,” I assure my nephews. “Warm steam shoots from their black nostrils as they sound an eerie paean,” I wax poetic. “We’ll hear big bulls bugle their mating calls and see them proudly standing at attention as they oversee their harems.”
The nephews say they’re game.
On a cold, damp December morning, nephews and uncle—puffed in parkas—pile into an old sedan and head west in anticipation. The guys are loose again!
Now, Uncle hasn’t been to Jewell Meadows in a couple of years maybe, but feels certain he knows the way.
Wrong.
Taking the well-remembered turnoff to the north and the I’m-sure-we-go-left-here crossroad, the beige Volvo wanders onto snowy mountain roads that become more and more unfamiliar.
The three nephews, ages twelve to fifteen, hurl taunts that are immediately challenged, which escalates into an exchange of witticisms and good-natured personal insults.
It’s a guy thing.
It’s how guys show love: taking potshots at each other, poking at each other’s weaknesses and sensitivities. It’s primitive preparation for the competitiveness they’ll face as men in this still occasiona
lly Neanderthal world of aggressive mentalities. Whether blue- or white-collar combat, it’s all the same. This banter toughens them and keeps them tough, with an underlying, supportive subtext of love.
An uncle is a special being, both buddy and adult authority figure. More slack than dad, more unguarded camaraderie. An equal for a nephew—but an equal with acknowledged wisdom amid his playfulness.
An uncle is like a god, but pleasantly flawed and bemused by earthly existence. An uncle lets you in on the secret: Nobody really knows what life is all about, but don’t worry about it. Be a good person and enjoy life to its fullest.
Heck, everyone’s lost in the winter woods looking for elk and laughing their tails off over Uncle’s ramblings. Ain’t it great?
After two hours of wandering—with the required detours: roadside pit stops to pee, snowball fights in drifts with dog piles of nephews on top of Uncle, then pushing the car back onto the road from icy shoulders—Uncle stumbles onto the road to Jewell Meadows.
But today, the long-sought meadow—historically populated with 400 to 500 regal animals against verdant green grass and bucolic woods beyond—is abo-so-lutely . . . empty.
Not an elk in sight.
“So, Uncle, where’s the elk? We don’t see any elk.” Nephews are on Uncle’s case.
Uncle’s heart sinks; his male ego falters; his child leadership merit badge is at risk. Uncle’s macho dissolves into nacho.
“I don’t know,” Uncle stammers. “They’re always here, hundreds of them. This is weird. Maybe they’re off in the tree line browsing. They do that sometimes. Let’s get out of the car and walk up to the fence. Take the binoculars, too. They’ve got to be here somewhere.”