Christmas Eve Haikustars radiant
ink black sky moon not risen
christ child's birthday nears
Christmas Food
I think we can all remember the smells of Christmas. Just the phrase "smells of Christmas" touches senses deep in the brain and disturbs olfactory echoes down there from years of Christmas memories.
The sharp pine odor of the Christmas tree in my childhood in England is replaced in later years by the scent of wild cedar cut from the hillsides around Birney. Of course I can't forget the family quarrels over which tree to cut. We almost killed each other over the tree especially when Sarah was with us; she always wanted us to cut the tallest tree we could find. She wasn't satisfied unless it touched the ceiling.
And poignant memories come back to me of the year that Peter was recuperating from his heart surgery a month prior to Christmas. I cut the tree alone that year and somehow managed to cut a cedar that was about 12 feet high, drag it up the draw, and using scientific thought and the principles of physics put it on top of our Mercury Colony Park station wagon and drove it home! I still can't believe that I managed it, so I attribute a lot to the prayer I say silently before cutting it down.
The smells of cooking? Oh my. During the war the center of feasting was Baking Hen raised on my aunt's smallholding, which in later years was replaced by Turkey. The air in the kitchen redolent with cooking bird was always interspersed with the fresh sage and onion stuffing sizzling along with it. The kitchen, normally cold from lack of central heating, positively glowed with the warmth from the oven, and steam condensed and ran down the cold kitchen window, my mother's face rosy red as she bore the platter to the table. The hen was always served traditionally, surrounded by roasted pork sausages.
There is no adequate way to describe the smell of Christmas pudding - referred to over here as "plum pudding". Every family has its own recipe and each one is a little different. Some smell of the suet, others of the rum, some of the ale with which they are moistened before steaming. But in the end they all look the same as they are carried to the table alight with the dancing blue flames of an ounce or two of brandy saved especially for the festivities.
No Christmas in England would be complete without Mince pies. The afternoon of Christmas Eve found the house filled with the spicy aroma of baking mince pies. These small munchables of buttery pastry each hide a generous amount of mincemeat, which in England contains no meat, just candied fruits, currants and apples laced with rum or brandy, and macerated into one glorious flavorful mouthful. I was so happy when I was old enough to go Carol Singing with the church choir. The Choir was always roundly toasted wherever they sang, and plied with mince pies and small glasses of sherry wine. Younger members got "a spot of the good stuff" too, and we arrived home around midnight bellies full and fell into bed a bit "squiffy" from a few dollops of wine.
May you all have a truly Happy Christmas and the smells of Christmas food permeate your dreams.
