Lisha Cassibo has been writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos for two years, both as a freelancer and as a columnist. She has also written for several parenting magazines both here in Canada and for English publications in Switzerland. She graduated from Carleton University with an honours degree in Journalism and English Literature. She lives with her family in Sunderland.
A table of memories
Ah. Christmas food is our given topic this year. Let me pour myself a glass of wine and take a mindful stroll through my memory as I reflect on what the food at Christmas time has meant to me.
Food has never not meant anything to my life. Both my parents were huge foodies, amateur gourmet cooks. My mom loved cookbooks better than novels. My father loved a good meal more than anything in the world. They had like-minded friends, and social get-togethers were called exactly that - “Throw Togethers”, where they would throw together the contents of their respective refrigerators and concoct weird and wonderful meals that would be talked about for months afterwards. They were adventuresome in their culinary forays, to say the least. For years they were part of a “Gourmet Club” here in Uxbridge, a group that several couples belonged to, and they were constantly trying to out-do, out-cook, out-shine everyone else. They were foodies before The Food Network was ever thought of, and I was brought up eating things most people have never heard of.
Christmas time, though, was the one time of year when nothing was left to chance. No trying new recipes, no shopping for exotic ingredients, no elaborate menus. Our Christmas meal was tried and true, always the same. And always delicious.
It wasn't anything spectacular. Roasted turkey, roasted potatoes, stuffing - part done in the bird, part cooked out - sausage meat (never touched the stuff, myself)… nothing out of the expected, really. My mom always made brussel sprouts, and my maternal grandfather, my uncle and myself would always make a big show of putting exactly one on each of our plates. Still not a fan, I must say. That same grandfather would also make a show of putting one carrot on his plate, as they were his least favourite vegetable. I always claimed his portion, as they were always my number one. We had cranberry sauce, gravy that my nana made (looking back, the gravy may have been a bit dubious in its contents, as I now know that, when my mom and my nana hit the kitchen to make the gravy from the turkey drippings, they had been happily imbibing since about one in the afternoon. Gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “getting sauced!”)
Every year we would sit at our big long dining room table, say the blessing, and everything would be passed clockwise around the table. It was generally a fairly quick affair - my mom would always observe that is was amazing that it could take all day to make, and 15 short minutes to devour.
Dessert was never as carved-in-stone as the dinner menu was. My mom would make a pumpkin pie, perhaps a cheesecake. Couldn't make too much extra, as the one thing that could be counted on at dessert was the Yule Log that my grandparents brought from some flash bakery in the city. They were always so proud bringing it in, setting it on the table, and opening the box for my brother and I to gaze at longingly. They never did know that I despised those cakes. The icing was crunchy, the cakes were too light and fluffy, and they just always tasted so… so store-bought. I thought my brother and I were like-minded on the subject of the yule log cake that Grandma and Grandpa always brought, and that he hated them as much as I did. It was only a few years ago, after my parents passed away, that I learned he looked forward to that part of Christmas dinner every year. I wish I had known then, I would have happily slipped him my piece.
I've briefly described here a menu, and a tiny bit of the scene, that was enacted for many years, on Christmas Day, in exactly the same way at my house just outside of Uxbridge. If that wasn't tradition, I don't know what was. So I was thrown for a bit of a spin when, as a newlywed, I was living in Switzerland and faced with the great unknown. Our first Christmas dinner there was some lobster pate and fancy crackers with some sparkling wine. Another year we were invited to a friend's, and had, if I remember correctly, ham. Another year it was other friends and roast beef. One year it was with some English friends, and it was more a liquid dinner than anything else - I do believe hot dogs were involved at some point. We began to make a sort of tradition out of having cheese fondue on Christmas Eve, and we brought that tradition back to Canada with us. The cheese fondue pot left my house earlier this year, so I'm not sure what we'll nosh on when we return from the candlelight service next Monday evening.
We'll all be together for a Christmas brunch this year, and I'll likely find some new recipes to try out on my unsuspecting guests. We'll be together to watch the girls open Santa's booty, and we'll fill our bellies mid-day. The girls will head off with their dad and I don't know what's happening for Christmas dinner at this point. It'll be a kind of fly-by-the-seat-of-the-reindeer kind of day, I think.
I sometimes worry that, in not having the same sort of schedule and routine and set menu that I had growing up, that somehow my children are missing out on the wonderful experiences and solid memories that make up what we know of Christmas. Something tells me, however, that no matter what's on their plate, as long as it's served with a heaping helping of love, it won't really matter.
Merry Christmas to you all, and en gute, mittenand.
