Whatcha gonna do? Come at me, Ko-Bros.
I added powdered sugar to the sour cream in the famous Ko Jello Salad.
Oh, and I didn’t have any bananas on hand so it’s banana-less.
Yeah, I already ruined Thanksgiving 2020.
Run and tell that, Schmoo-bear.
[That’s powdered sugar, about to be mixed into the sour cream. Blasphemy. Pure Turkey Day blasphemy.]
No one is even going to half-heartedly attempt that 2020 will be a banner year for holiday celebrations. There are clearly no parties or gatherings on the near horizon, and quite frankly I was planning on laying low again this year because doing so may have played an integral part in barely saving my sanity last year. To that end, I’ve decided not to go big on the decorations, choosing instead to focus on a few choice focal items in the form of fresh greenery (we haven’t had a Christmas wreath in years) and a few extra candles. Love and light and evergreen glory.
I’ll also spruce things up with displays of fruit and nuts that can be as pleasurable to the eye as they are to the palette. Little mandarin oranges, jewels of pomegranates, and crisp golden apples always remind me of childhood holidays, when boxes of fruit would arrive from my parents’ friends and land in the kitchen. Each pear or apple or orange would nestle in the neatest packaging for such precious cargo, every one a little gift, and so appreciated in the throes of winter. If we were lucky, someone would send along a big box of Middle Eastern desserts that looked like bird’s nests – all gooey and buttery phyllo dough and nuts – a glorious holiday treat that felt like a page out of some magical Nutcracker story. (And so much better than that questionably-heralded Turkish delight which is anything but delightful.)
This year demands simpler pleasures and sparser treasures.
How do you celebrate Thanksgiving when you have to social distance and protect the elderly and otherwise-immune-compromised in a family? You get creative and rustic, and recall what they did in epidemics of the past, all while being flexible and willing to go with the flow. Keeping all that in mind, I came up with a possible solution to the worrying question of what the Ilagan family would be doing for this Thanksgiving.
Recently, I saw a picture of a class being given during the big flu epidemic of 1918, when open-air classes were an actual thing, even in January. The students looked as fine as students in a learning situation could be, all of them bundled up and at their desks, safely distant from one another in the open-sided airiness of what looked like a glorified tent. That gave me an idea.
My parents have a decent-sized garage, with a rustic wooden interior. Two traditional doors are in the front and back, three windows let in light (and air if need be) and the main garage door opens to allow for maximum air-flow and circulation. With a couple of heat lamps, some buffed-up electrical wiring, and decorations by yours truly, we have a Thanksgiving-in-the-making that will likely be one of the more memorable on record. A single long table (or pair of long tables) will make room for social distancing, while a wall of sheer curtains will allow for air movement and a pretty screen. An abundance of candles will add light and a surprising amount of warmth to the space. Most exciting for me is the opportunity for an expanded palette of wardrobe options. The fashion possibilities of wraps and scarves and faux furs that this opens up is a gift unto itself!
Taking lemons and making lemonade is something that 2020 has certainly taught all of us, so we will be well-equipped to re-fashion our holiday celebrations this year. Depending on how this goes, we may repeat the rustic glory for Christmas. (Though we might need heavier curtains in December…)
“I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.” ~ Sylvia Plath
When Suzie asked me how Christmas had gone, I responded that I went through it like a stunned mullet. I’m not entirely sure what a stunned mullet is, but in what I believe was a ‘New Yorker’ profile on her, Liza Minelli once described coming off stage feeling like one, so I’ve always used that phrase whenever I feel shell-shocked. Not entirely sure what that means either. But when you spend a heightened holiday around people with whom you’ve shared a complex and primal relationship for twenty to forty-four years, you sometimes feel like a stunned mullet. I take it to mean someone or something that’s been shot with a stun gun or hit with some other method of blunt force trauma, and who’s just beginning to come to consciousness again.
The simile fits. The fog is lifting. The heart is heavy. And I’m tired.
Here are a few photos of Christmas 2019. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and when you’re channeling a Dickensian state of existence, you know you’re in trouble.
What do most people do on the day after Christmas?
I’m not an expert on most people so I have no idea.
For me, it’s back to work, and I’m neither mad nor thrilled about it.
This holiday season has been one of transition. Not only in holiday traditions, but in life traditions. Shaken to the core with memories of the past looked at in a new light, I’m learning that change is vital and necessary, if painful and terrifying too. That’s taken precedence over any celebratory aspect of the season, so I’m happy to see Christmas and Thanksgiving and all the rest of it complete their long trajectories this year and slink into the past. Get this show over so I can begin again.
Christmas has always been anti-climactic. Nothing ever measures up to expectations. That lesson was learned long ago, but every now and then I forget and slip into a hopeful mode of childish wonder, when I think this year might be magical, this year might be better.
It never is.
Oh there are happy holidays, and some Christmases are better than others, but all that goodwill and getting along lasts a night, maybe two. Then it’s over. Then the winter begins in earnest. Then it’s dark and cold and real and all the demons from the past return with a vengeance because you’ve tried to silence them with a false balm of peace and cheer.
Having said that, there are ways to deal with the holidays, and this year I taught myself a few of them. Largely removing parties and big (and even little) get-togethers has markedly removed a great deal of stress from this busy time of the year. Next year I may pare it down even further. (For instance, I dragged out and put up all the Christmas decorations shortly after Thanksgiving, and no one besides Andy and me has seen any of them, so why even bother?) Next Christmas I may forego the decorating altogether. I may take a trip somewhere far away and get my time in with loved ones when we might actually be able to talk and connect. The hustle and bustle of the holidays makes authentic connection almost impossible.
These are just ideas now, abstract notions likely dreamed up in the bitterness and disappointment of all that’s happened this season. Perhaps I’ll find a shred of Christmas hope when the fall rolls around again, when I’ve had some sun and summer to warm the heart from the outside in. Or perhaps this is it for Christmas.
I won’t be sorry if that is so.
Near the end of a decade, Christmas 2019 will be remembered for its themes of change, growth, and letting go. With such seismic tremors comes certain unease and trepidation. May this Christmas Day be a moment of quelling such doubts and fears, and may it offer comfort and succor for anyone looking for peace. I know a number of people who have lost loved ones this year, some very close to the holidays, and for anyone missing someone, there are no words or exercises that will ease such pain. All we can do is honor and remember those we have lost, taking the lessons they taught and living in the way they would want us to live.
For anyone else who may need a little Christmas spirit, for anyone who may be having a hard time finding their Christmas cheer (and I count myself among both those unhappy camps) I’m going to make a long list of holiday links to remind us of the good and the bad and the beautiful of the holiday season. If we keep on painting Christmas as something pretty, perhaps it will one day turn true. Merry Christmas everyone. See you on the other side…
A Holiday Party ten years in the making.
My favorite Christmas decoration, all humble simplicity.
A shocking holiday card. No way!
Little drummer disappointment.
Holiday pants & revelry.
Christmas sundaes and brotherly love.
Christmas massacre. There was blood.
Run Rudolph, run!
An office Christmas party, the worst kind of party.
Back when we kept Christmas traditions alive.
Don we now our gay apparel. {Now?}
In service of the holiday, a pomegranate sparkler.
The Holiday Stroll: Part One and Part Two.
Classic Mariah Carey Christmas.
Ghosts of Holiday Cards past.
A Madonna holiday Masterpiece.
Rose memories on a banister with pearls.
Family fun for the holidays.
In my arms, a Christmas bear.
Holiday Card 2014: Let it snow, let it blow!
A funny Christmas tree adventure with my brother.
When Christmas goes dark and memories turn sorrowful.
A Christmas candle in the night.
Bringing decorations back to Boston.
This is OUTRAGEOUS!
Holiday Card 2015: Bring me the ax.
The Holiday Stroll 2015: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
The very first Boston Children’s Holiday Hour.
If I gave you diamonds and pearls…
In the Santa hour, I can feel your power.
Silver and gold without all the silver.
A holiday dinner mainstay: the famous Jello-mold.
The world is run by Mrs. Claus.
The Holiday Card 2016: Trigger Warning (for real).
A Christmas carpool with James Corden and Mariah Carey.
The Ilagan Christmas tree tradition, intact in 2016.
The Ilagan twins have always been hams.
Christmas carolers of questionable taste.
Butt-flap booty suit, in red.
How Madonna ties into my holidays.
The 2nd Boston Children’s Holiday Hour.
In the bleak Christmas aftermath.
Naked but for my Christmas balls.
A Christmas song, some might say The Christmas Song.
One of my favorite Christmas memories: a highball with Andy’s Mom.
The Holiday Card 2017: elegance & simplicity.
We didn’t know it then, but this would be our last fully-intact Christmas tree tradition.
A retro holiday punch with extra pizzazz.
The 3rd Boston Children’s Holiday Hour: Part One and Part Two.
In the wake of Christmas children.
Dreams of retail Christmases past.
Tom Daley under the mistletoe.
All the world in a single ornament.
A Holiday Card Recap: Part One and Part Two.
The Holiday Stroll 2018: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
All I wanted for Christmas last year was a fruitcake. (I’m done with them now.)
The year we grew our own Christmas tree. (And why we won’t do it again.)
Beautiful boxes and a glorious gift idea.
The heart of a Christmas tree.
Christmas reality check: sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it really sucks.
A few favorite Christmas movies.
The secret Russian Christmas tea recipe at long last revealed. (Hint: Tang!)
The 4th Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, better known as ‘The Kids Who Saved Christmas’ – Part One & Part Two.
Making a Christmas entrance the only way I know how.
The day after Christmas is often better than the damn day itself.
I’m starting to experience PHSD: Post Holiday Stress Disorder.
A shimmering holiday fragrance mash-up, Tom Ford style.
A Filipino holiday feast for my father.
Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Lucy and Woodstock.
The exquisite irony of sugar and booze this year.
Holiday beauty by the Beekman Boys.
The Holiday Card 2019: let’s get baked!
How to keep the holidays fresh? No, really, I’m asking.
These are but two of my favorite things.
When sadness and loss seep into the Christmas season.
The happy birth of our Holiday Strolls.
I held out such high hopes for this, so you can guess how it turned out.
A mixed bag of Christmas cookies.
The newest holiday tradition: Hambone Holiday Hullabaloo.
Once upon the most wonderful night of the year.
And proof that the Christmas spirit is still alive in the smallest of ways, we end with this year’s Boston Children’s Holiday Hour: Part One and Part Two.
The 2019 Boston Children’s Holiday Hour took place under the shadows of the missing. Alissa was no longer with us, and Kristen and Anu’s families weren’t able to make it. However, we welcomed Tommy and Janet and their kids for the first time, along with Suzie’s family and a late last-minute appearance by Chris. All in all, some of my favorite people for one of my favorite new traditions, perhaps the last of its kind. Change was in the air this year, for better and worse.
Suzie arrived extra-early, which was a bonus, as the twins were already antsy to begin the festivities and the preparatory exercises. Emi cut the cheese and everybody laughed. Noah did a few dishes. We all partook of the charcuterie board, and the mandarin oranges, and eventually the chocolate milk that Tommy put on, scalding hot water and all. (Cut to a bunch of kids putting ice on their tongues in dramatic, histrionic form.)
There were games in place of crafts, which worked out quite well. Thank God someone knows about kids because I truly don’t. And thank God for Janet, who saved a chair after hot chocolate spilled all over the antique table and ran onto the fabric of the chair. Much as I did when a candle went flying a few years ago, splashing wax all over the carpet and a curtain panel, I remained remarkably detached from the whole fiasco. It’s always a good lesson in easing up on my perfectionist nature. Kids have a knack of leading these lessons.
There were many happy moments, most of which revolved around Tommy and Janet, whom I haven’t been lucky enough to see in Boston in many, many years. This was a good reunion, and the next generation was already stepping up to the plate.
By the time we had finished an order of pizza and Thai food, Chris rolled into town for the night, joining in the bonhomie and bringing the Cornell Crew into the majority. The twins taught him a new card game that they had just learned from Suzie, and new friendships were made. It’s the best thing that can happen at a Children’s Holiday Hour.
The next morning came with the let-down of having to depart. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted, as Chris and I had much to discuss when the twins went to bed. The last time we had been together in the condo, Alissa had been with us. A note she had left was still on the fireplace mantle, a ghostly whisper of raw loss, a searing jolt reminding us of her absence. There she had stood, there she had sat, there we had hugged, there we had said goodbye until the next time. A heaviness had set in, and we each felt a little lonelier.
Luckily there was little time to dwell, as twins will not sit still for long. I paused in the remembrance, still not quite ready to process anything, and allowed myself to get pulled into the mundane matters of the day, the only way to move forward. One tiny step of getting the twins into their winter hats, and going from there.
We headed to brunch at Boston Chops, where Noah bravely tried Eggs Benedict for the first time, and Emi had the fired chicken and biscuits. At nine years old, they knew how to behave at a restaurant, and had been pretty good for the whole weekend. I don’t know if this is a tradition we’ll get around to doing again – after five years most of the original children aren’t even children anymore – and that’s too far away to predict or think too much about. For the moment, we bounded back toward the condo, pausing in a few stores and stopping to pick up a piece of chocolate and a lollipop at the candy store.
This was the province of children.
This was the province of Christmas.
This was the province of learning to let things go.
We had a quick and uneventful ride home – the best possible thing to hope for at this late stage of the weekend, and they asked if we could have one more cup of hot chocolate with Uncle Andy, heavy on the whipped cream. I couldn’t refuse.
It began with this stern but friendly warning from me to the twins on how we would best get through our first weekend away together: “Ok, listen. I need you to behave and stay close. If I lose even one of you this weekend, I’ll get in trouble.”
Happily, they heeded the warning and we made for a more-or-less agreeable Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, one that took up the whole weekend and worked to heal some of the hurt from the previous month or so. Andy’s absence cast a pall over all the proceedings, lending shadow to my mood, but children have no need of moods, nor much care to be concerned. I took that lead and did my best to shirk it off. I’ve become quite adept at compartmentalizing the various pieces of emotional baggage I’ve been accruing these past few months. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
We traveled in the afternoon, once the twins got out of school. On the day before the shortest day of the year, we drove to the east, and by the time we arrived in Boston, the light had drained from the sky. Warmth was absent too. Still, Boston was lit from all the holiday cheer, and Christmas scenes led our way to dinner. The chocolate fantasy world of Max Brenner seemed the best choice for our entry meal, and it was listed on a kid-friendly dining guide for those of us in need of such guidance.
Following dinner we picked up a few supplies, and dessert, at Eataly, where we found a $2000 block of cheese that Noah just had to touch, after which he complained about the smell on his hands until we got back to the condo. After telling us ten times to remind him to wash his hands when he got back, he managed to remember himself.
That night, we cuddled on the bed and watched ‘Mary Poppins Returns‘ – who provided the inspiration I would use to guide us on our way. When in doubt, channel Mary Poppins: stern and a little blunt, cold but caring, stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing. When the movie was finally done it was almost midnight – a late night even by my standards, but I don’t get to see them much, and when at last I gave them their goodnight hugs, we were all fast asleep within minutes.
The chill remained in the air the next morning, but the condo was cozy and there were windows of sunlight in between the clouds. We stayed close, with a quick breakfast at the counter of Charlie’s, before venturing out again. In an attempt to stay warm, we walked through the Copley Mall into the Prudential Center, then across Boylston for some hot chocolate at Starbucks. Fortified by that, and a trio of mint mocha samples (wait, are children supposed to have coffee?) we went back out for a mini holiday stroll of sorts, pausing in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental and sitting by the fire for a spirited few rounds of ‘I Spy’ then playing with their menagerie of stuffed animals. Emi gave us a math lesson on the little chalkboard, and both of the kids colored in a couple of Christmas tree magnets on hand.
We did a little shopping on Newbury Street, finding a couple of gifts for their Dad and Lola, then we stopped at one more fireside lobby – the Lenox Hotel, where they got to spin a couple of dreidels. Noah wanted to head back to the condo before the party, so we made our way from whence we came. It was time to prepare for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour in proper.
When all the build-up of the Christmas season was almost through, when the anticipation and rush of that celebratory day of birth had almost arrived, there were a few magical hours of peace, calm and stillness that constituted Christmas Eve. It held a power and sway to quell the most riotous and violent emotional upheavals, it had a way of healing and knocking some sense into us, if only for an evening. It was, in simplest terms, the most magical night of the year. For my entire recalled life, I’ve spent it in my childhood home, no matter what might be going on. We’ve had years where no one was speaking, where people were pissed, where kids got into trouble, yet we always made it through. It is the single tradition we’ve managed to keep alive in the Ilagan home, and Andy and I have come to rely on it as one of the only traditions we’ve retained over the years. He made the decision to join us a few months after we met, and hasn’t missed one since. That was nineteen years ago. I’ve been doing it for forty-three years.
What we did on all those Christmas Eves depended on the year, and over time our traditions evolved and changed as we did. My earliest memories are of leaving cookies and milk for Santa, then being carried up in our sleeper pajamas even when our minds were too excited to sleep. My brother and I would sit up in bed and look out the window, scanning the dark sky for any sign of Rudolph’s red nose, straining to hear any hooves or bells on the roof. A few years later, we would sit and watch the Melodies of Christmas, then when I ended up being in the Empire State Youth Orchestra I would duck out and upstairs so I wouldn’t have to see myself on the screen. We were teenagers at that point, and going through all the turmoil and emotional mayhem that it entails, but on Christmas Eve we suspended our surly behavior and came together for a few short hours in honor of the season.
When I went away to college, I had a few brief windows to see my old friends, so we would have our Christmas Eve dinner, open our gifts, then make the stops at various friends’ houses. Even when Andy and I had our own home, we would still make Christmas Eve at my parents’ the main priority. When the twins arrived it was a return to the wonder and magic of the season, and I still remember the year after which they first learned to walk (and run) in which they charged the length of the house, jumped off a single step into my arms, and I lifted them high into the air and they flew.
For all of those Christmas Eves, there was always a single moment in which I found myself alone, usually in the dim living room where the Christmas tree lit up the darkness but still fostered all the shadows. I would sit there and live in the magic of the moment, something I could do much easier in my younger years. I don’t know if I ever really believed in Santa, but I believed in the spirit of the season. There was magic enough in that.
“Strength shows not only in the ability to persist, but in the ability to start over.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
During the night the winds arrived. Harsh, driving, window-shaking gusts seeped through the tiniest cracks in the brick and mortar of the condo’s outer shell, filled with such ferocity that it shifted the sheer curtains which did little to keep out the cold. I’d never worried about the condo’s ability to withstand the weather, but on that night the wind was the strongest I’d ever witnessed. I pulled the blankets up to my neck and burrowed deeper into the bed.
The winds continued as dawn arrived. Our Holiday stroll weekend was coming to a close, much to our great regret. It had been a lovely few days, but with more snow on the way it was time to return to upstate New York. Before that, however, we had a few quick morning errands, and a breakfast at Charlie’s right around the corner. Bundled up and battling the wind, we hurried down Braddock Park and sidled up to the counter in front of the grills and toasters. A lackluster order of huevos rancheros was disappointing, but the company was still good, and Kira and I plotted our trip to the market for provisions in anticipation of the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour. Better than that was talk of our next get-together in January. Since the red line to Cambridge was out of commission on weekends, we didn’t get to Porter or Harvard Square, something we will rectify after the New Year. There are Tibetan stores with warm scarves that need our attention, and a couple of cozy dinner spots that we have yet to try. On the day of departure, it’s a small comfort to think of our next meeting.
Finishing our tea and breakfast, we bundled back up and made a hurried shuffle to the market, where we selected a bunch of seltzers, some cookies, and a few other items that would last the week until the children convened for their holiday hour. As much as I love those gatherings, I’ve come to the realization that I’m better in smaller scenes, with one or two good friends, and the peaceful coexistence that Kira and I have perfected in the last two decades would be missed.
With bags weighing us both down, and the wind whipping all around, we waited at Huntington for the light to change. I leaned into Kira hoping for a wind break, falling into her enormous scarf/blanket, then let my head rest briefly on her shoulder. After everything that had happened over the past few weeks, I felt exhausted and wiped out. It all came over me at once, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or shout out of frustration or relief.
We crossed the street and ducked into a cafe for something warm. In a secluded seating area, we found two ridiculous chairs and waited for our coffee and hot chocolate to arrive. It had been a banner Holiday Stroll weekend, quieter but somehow more enjoyable than previous bombastic weekends in the distant past. We paused there, mostly silent, as the light of Sunday morning swept through the windows beside us. In that stillness we found something closer to the true meaning of Christmas, as two friends simply sat together, crossing life-paths, and it was enough.
{See also Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four.}
We were due for a rainy Holiday Stroll after a few years of decent strolling weather, but the rain came almost as a blessing, slowing us down and insisting we stay in the condo a little longer. I made some breakfast burritos and we sipped some tea as the rain descended. Christmas music played in the background; on a guitar ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ sounded after ‘Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella’ and the morning felt tranquil, surrounding us with the softest blanket of gray, the quietest fall of rain.
This, then, was how the Holiday Stroll began.
Like our wedding anniversary in May, or the BroSox Adventures with Skip, or my Broadway weekend with Mom, the Holiday Stroll with Kira is one of my favorite events of the year. While some events wax and wane with luster and sheen as certain years are shaded with sorrow or excitement, our Holiday Stroll has remained a sparkling jewel, thanks to Kira and a seasonal glow that dispels any darkness that might try to creep into the weekend.
This year we kept things light on planning, with a tentative idea of stopping in at the Boston Craft Fair to visit Meredith and Gloria. Meredith was selling her gorgeous handmade boxes – gifts unto themselves, and perfect for the holiday season. As we wound our way through the fair, we stumbled on a magnificent hat booth – Meshugenah Hats – run by a fabulous pair of twins. They were as colorful and intriguing as their fantastic millinery, and we will be revisiting their wonderful wares as soon as possible.
We found Meredith’s booth and said a quick hello before selecting a box made of gorgeous Japanese paper. It was so good to see both Gloria and Meredith, and how wonderful to have them as part of our Holiday Stroll in Boston. Nine years into our tradition, we still thrill at adding new elements and friends to our wanderings.
After our craft fair tour, we checked the weather and the rain had stopped. A happy circumstance as we walked along Boylston Street just a block or two, where we paused at Bar Boulud for some mussels and frites. As we sat looking out at the street, the Santa Speedo Sprint rushed by in a fortuitous bit of timing. Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a bunch of guys in their Speedos. We walked a bit more, and then it was time to return to the condo for a siesta. And a holiday photo shoot in matching outfits. These zany things make the yuletide gay.
A silly siesta is just what this holiday season called for, and we certainly got silly. I will not torture you with the parade of selfies that resulted. I’ll hang onto them for when real life bogs us down again, as it surely will. But for those afternoon hours, we laughed and cracked each other up, two friends doing a whole lot of nothing and loving every minute of it.
The afternoon passed quickly, and soon it was time for our dinner out. Keeping with the casual vibe of the weekend, I’d made reservation at Southern Proper. One enjoys fried chicken for Christmas, right? We put on some street clothes and headed into the South End. Festive sights like this Christmas tree kept the darkness at bay, and as we turned onto Tremont Street, the magic of the season made the night bright.
On the way we stopped at the South End Buttery for some more sparkling water and a bemused bartender stood watch as Kira got a phone call that changed the trajectory of the night, and the whole Holiday Stroll weekend.
Since it is not my tale to tell, I won’t divulge the details. Kira handled it quite well, and after everything else that’s happened this year, it wasn’t a tragedy – just a shock. We spent dinner at Southern Proper talking it over, the way old friends tackle their lives together, sharing and commiserating, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, and doing our best to be supportive, to see each other through whatever might come.
Our Holiday Stroll may be intact, but our lives had irrevocably altered. Not just in that moment, but in the weeks and months leading up to it. We were the same people who had met each other in the fall of 1998 – and yet we weren’t. Life has a way of battering and blunting the very things you strive to protect the most. It spares nothing and no one.
Outside, the night had turned colder. The wind was picking up. I couldn’t get warm and we hurried back to the condo. It was warm there. A bouquet of eucalyptus stood sentry in the bathroom, against a brick wall. We were home for one last night before we returned to our regular lives.
{To be continued…}
Cheeseboards were on sale at Crate & Barrel, but I refrained from the extravagance of getting one for a single night, figuring I could use a large plate when it was just me and Kira. I did make a stop at Eataly to get some charcuterie items before the risotto dinner, and here are the results. A new book on ‘dry’ cocktails included a recipe for a Blood Orange Sunrise (more on that experience later, and it’s a good one). We paired that mocktail with meats and cheeses and pepper biscuits and Marcona almonds and cornichons. Next time we’ll just make a meal of these items and pig out right proper. Appetizers are always somehow better than dinner anyway. The beauty of being with someone as easygoing as Kira is that we no longer feel the need to impress one another. There is great comfort in that. Safety too. Two things I need more than ever this year. Such was the realization that struck as we finished up our dinner and Kira began the dishes. (I cook, she cleans, and we both prefer it that way.)
The best parts of these holiday get-togethers aren’t the fancy dinners out or the strolling about the city – it’s those little jewels of time where the world feels full and perfect and as close to cozy that this dark time of year can get. One of those moments happened after dinner. To set the scene, allow me to quickly describe what I have dubbed the ‘spa shower’. It’s an easy ritual that Kira and I developed during an especially cold winter a couple of years ago.
The bathroom and bedroom end of the condo is always the coldest, even when the heat is cranked up. The bay window – a boon and beautiful bonus for a bedroom – is a double-edged sword when it lets in the heat of summer and the cold winds of winter. Getting into the shower, especially in winter, is a chilly experience. To combat this, I decided to boil a kettle of water and pour it into the bathtub to raise the heat and humidity. Before this, I sprinkled a few drops of essential oils into the tub – some lavender and lemongrass and geranium and a bit of clove for holiday spice. When the hot water hits the oils and the tub, it gives off a glorious plume of steam, filling the small space with warmth and peaceful perfume. It’s an instant embrace that makes getting into the shower a pleasurable routine. We call it a spa shower, and it’s part of any proper winter weekend in the condo.
After this, clean and moisturized with some Beekman Boys goat’s milk lotion, I shuffled into the living room and snuggled into the couch while Kira finished the last of the dishes. This was it – the highlight of the Holiday Stroll weekend – coming the night before the stroll itself. And I realized it right then and there, which is not customarily the way it works. Unforced, unplanned, unexpected, I returned to a childhood feeling of warmth and safety, before everything became so dangerous, before everything turned so cold. In a pair of pajamas, my feet bare but brushing against the softness of our new blanket and pillow, and backed by another pillow against the cushion of the couch, I felt a coziness I’ve not felt in years, as if I was small enough to disappear into this little corner of cuddliness and look out at the whole of the immense world from a single lofty window.
Holding the moment as long as possible, I made a memory, something to grasp onto when the winter arrived with its bluster and boorish behavior. We moved into the bedroom and returned to a movie tradition, ‘The Man Who Came to Dinner.’ Sleep came before the end of the movie, as it usually does after a full day. The next morning was slated to be our loosely-plotted Holiday Stroll 2019, and steady rain was forecast until the afternoon. We would sleep in as long as possible, a rare luxury for both of us. After my jewel-box of a moment, everything else would be a bonus.
{To be continued…}
Kira wasn’t due at work until 11:30, so we had some of the morning to get a head-start on grocery items for dinner. I would make a risotto while she was at work, and an easy side vegetable, all of which would be ready when she came home at the end of the day. At the entrance to the nearby Whole Foods Market, I contemplated getting a little Christmas tree, so swept up in the season did I suddenly feel, but Kira wisely steered me back into reason.
We ambled our way along Massachusetts Ave and stopped at the hardware store for light bulbs. Apparently I’m the only one who knows how to change them in the condo. Not unlike the way I’m the only one who knows how to launder bath towels. Or clean out the refrigerator. Ahh, digression… not becoming for the holidays but I don’t really care.
Arriving at the Newbury Street TJ Maxx, it was time for Kira to head to work, while I worked on our matching holiday outfits for a fun photo opportunity later in the day. If you can’t be silly and stupid and carefree during the Christmas season, when can you do it? I’m hellbent on finding that out.
Kira had been cold the night before, and the small throw that had sustained us in the fall was but a trifle of a thing that was more for decorative purposes than real warmth. I examined similar throws in similar scant sizes before deciding to make the trek to HomeGoods in Downtown Crossing to find something more substantial. We needed a real blanket to see us through the winter.
I found a fuzzy one in muted shades of gray and white, with a mottled snowflake pattern, along with a big pillow in gray and white plaid, overlaid with embroidered snowflakes. After a few more shopping stops later, it was time to head back to the condo and begin dinner preparation. There is something gratifying and rewarding about cooking a dinner you are sure someone else will appreciate and enjoy.
Passing through Copley Square, I paused at every tree, and made a quick stop at the Lenox Hotel. It brought back happy memories, and the scent of the lobby reminded me of birthdays and joy and love. Sometimes the day provides enough warmth and light to last through the night.
Before I started the long stir-crazy stir-fest that was risotto, a cheeky photo shoot to send some blog traffic stats into overdrive. Modeling the latest in ridiculous holiday garb, I tried out this Ralph Lauren nightshirt, a smaller version of which I had on hand for Kira. Those pics yet to come… As for these, here’s some wisdom I mentioned earlier in the day to Kira, “Christmas is not about being sexy.”
I stand as testament to this.
In the words or sentiment of Jesus (the reason for the season), I turned the other cheek.
{To be continued…}
For our 9th Holiday Stroll (or thereabouts), Kira and I turned it into an extra-long weekend, and it still went by much too quickly. The Boston sky was deep blue when I touched down on a Thursday afternoon. The forecast was for a little bit of everything – the typical Northeastern challenge posed by our variable weather patterns. I made the most of the waning blue, as rain and wind were due nearer the end of the weekend.
Arriving with a batch of Mexican wedding cookies, but not much else in the way of culinary provisions, I made a last-minute decision to try out a grocery-shopping app which promised delivery in about an hour. This would be a super-casual weekend, both in activities and dining options. Neither Kira nor I were up for anything very fancy this year. What we yearned for more than anything was comfort and warmth, and I thought back to a simple dish of creamed chicken over toast and butter that my Grandma had made for us when we were kids. It was a basic roux of butter and flour which I punctuated with some fresh garlic and herbs, but otherwise stayed true to its rustic simplicity. Kira helped dissemble a rotisserie chicken and dinner was soon on the table as the temperature dropped outside.
The holidays candles were lit, emitting their pine fragrance and recalling winter forest scenes that could have been real or imagined, a trick of memory or wish. Christmas spirit slipped into the condo like Santa through the chimney. I kept one eye on the fireplace when I wasn’t peering outside.
On the street below, the fountain had been drained, but decorated in boughs of pine and Christmas lights. I’d never seen it done up like that, and it made for a much happier visage than the bare and waterless feature which will see us through most of the winter.
Inside, warmth and coziness spread out around us. The wet bar was lit up in holiday splendor, its wood illuminated unlike any other time of the year. We had a holiday mocktail of cranberry and seltzer to go along with dinner. Taking our time with it – the entire weekend was still ahead – we eased into the gentle pace of things. There was no need to rush. My shopping was already complete. All parties had been wiped from our social schedule. We had a few things to prepare for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, but nothing too extreme, as that would also be a casual affair. All in all, it was a peaceful beginning to our Holiday Stroll weekend.
To cap the first night off, I presented Kira with her Christmas gift – which is the reason I told her in advance to bring a big-ass carrying bag. This slow-cooker was no small box, and she’s been talking about getting one for a few years now. It was time. I’ll bring some recipes when we get together next month. But I’m getting ahead of myself, which is easy to do when you rush to tell a happy story…
{To be continued…}
It’s been a year for new traditions, and so far I’ve managed to accomplish three of the tentative plans proposed here. Each has been enjoyable enough to make me want to keep them going next year. We shall see. While I like the idea of keeping some of these close to my vest and close to my heart, the Holiday Hambone Saratoga Stroll with Suzie will get a little recap here because it gives us a dose of Bob’s Trees, Broadway, and the Cock & Bull. Three holiday favorites that found fruition, and a few new twists, on one single Saturday in the early part of December.
Suzie and I had been contemplating a Christmas excursion – possibly a movie and dinner, but those had been done to death before [see ‘Into the Woods’ and ‘Mary Poppins Returns’] so we both wanted something a little different to christen our first official Hambone Holiday tradition. It was so-named because of something once written in a high school yearbook, the origin of which remains foggy to me, but Suzie may remember because we seem to have switched off in the who-remembers-what department.
We decided on a Saratoga Stroll of sorts, which harkens to something Andy and I had done a number of years ago after taking in a matinee of ‘Auntie Mame’ on the big screen. Sadly, no such magic was playing at the cinema that day, so we focused on shopping and mocktail stops, and a last-minute decision to pick up a Christmas tree that would prove to be an unexpected highlight of this season.
Saratoga is magical at any time of the year, but it puts on especially impressive plumage around the holidays. I took us to a favorite haunt that offered incense and stones and all sorts of spiritual stuff. Suzie brought us to her favorite tea shop, which also had honey and beeswax in the back.
We stopped for some sparkling water at the Adelphi Hotel, because the only thing better than a hotel lobby and bar is a hotel lobby and bar during the holiday season. It was an especially frigid day, and any opportunity for a break from the wind-whipped streets was a welcome respite.
Charm and whimsy populated every store as they tend to do around Christmas, bringing back childhood memories, or echoes of such memories. How much is really remembered and how much is conjured by us wanting to fill in the missing pieces to make everything pretty where once it wasn’t? Suzie kept the deeper thoughts at bay as we browsed the bookstore and found gifts for her kids.
As the light drained from the sky, and the moon appeared overhead, it was time to head to Bob’s for the Christmas tree. Along darkened backroads we drove, traveling along some of the same routes that I took to high school oboe lessons. They curved and wound treacherously, with a couple of dangerously-sharp turns – a fitting symbol for a journey back in time.
Appearing like an oasis, Bob’s Tree Farm was a patch of light – the recent snowfall lending it a legitimate winter wonderland feel. The frightful weather, usually a constant whenever I end up picking out a tree, was in full effect as the wind deepened and the temperatures dipped. I could not manage to warm up.
We made a hasty and quick selection, then hustled to the office to pay, after which a friendly gentleman tied it on to the top of Suzie’s car. Having lost a tree off the roof once before, I probably should have been more concerned about it, but Suzie worried enough for both of us, taking it extra slow. My attitude was much more of a sigh and a shrug. Let come what may to this tree and this holiday season. My mind was already on dinner and warming up by the fire at the Cock & Bull.
Framed in icicles, the entrance was resplendent in seasonal beauty. Inside, a fire crackled as we were led to our table a few steps above the main dining room. Cavernous yet cozy, the wooden barn exuded warmth and conviviality. It provided the perfect atmosphere for serious talk and serious laughter, something that only Suzie brings out in our all-too-infrequent get-togethers.
Our lives are so different from the days of carefree Christmases on Locust Avenue. We were only children then, but those years felt more meaningful than these, and maybe they were. Coming back in bits and pieces, the memories, if we really thought about them, weren’t perfect, but our innocence was.
