It’s been a week since I’ve had time to post as I’ve been in the midst of painting, embroidering, cooking, and canning. Christmas has packed its bags, already journeying on its sleigh ride to visit. A homemade Christmas makes for a bustle of activity in the kitchen where spices have lingered like a sneeze while canning escebeche (pickled carrots with jalapenos). This treat especially needs to be done at least a month ahead of time to allow all the flavors to come together and make merry. Next on the list are almond-cinnamon pancake mixes measured and sifted into jars, and soon it will be time for tamale pies and pumpkin bread to name a few.There’s nothing like making room in your home for all the good smells that come from a winter kitchen… and a Christmas kitchen is like wrapping all the smells up in a bow. Es un regalo sin igual, It is a gift like no other, and putting together Christmas baskets of savories and sweets is a salve for Christmases darkened by the past. If I peer behind me into those years there are no trees (once the aluminum tree was so bent it was like piecing together a pretzel), no tamales, no candy… and a few times no gifts.
I remember finding a box of papery, shimmery Christmas icicles that someone must have dropped from their shopping. I ran all the way home and sprinkled it over the windowsill, and I danced with joy that Christmas would nest there for me to see every morning. Those bits of silver were the only sign of Christmas, and seeing the forced smile my dad managed every morning as it neared I knew there would be no gifts that year. I knew there would be no treats and I had none left from Halloween.
A week or so before the morning I knew others would be tearing open wrapping paper yo justifique, I justified the plan in my head.
The walk to the store consisted of a heated conversation between the proverbial angel and devil that rest on one’s shoulders. The fluttering wings of right were no match for the prodding of that little pitchfork that assured me I deserved this. Once inside the store I deftly picked up a chocolate bar, and never breaking my stride I continued down one isle then another until I found one deserted. Bending over to tie my shoe I slipped the candy underneath my pants, and secured it in my knee-high sock.
The exit seemed miles away, and the candy so light one moment was now a stone knocking me off balance. I knew I wasn’t limping, I knew my face gave nothing away, and no one gave me a second glance, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the candy had dug itself into my leg while I dragged it screaming out of the store. Once outside I counted a few beats before skipping then breaking into a run. I’d done it! Moreover, no sirens were wailing to contradict that little devil that I had done anything wrong.
I’m certain at this point I should say I couldn’t bring myself to eat the candy, that after one bite I guiltily tossed it aside. The truth, however, is that as guiltily as I ate it, it tasted exquisite. Era tan rico, It was scrumptious eating that smooth chocolatey bar, from the moment it cracked between my teeth only to have it soften into a thick, melting mound that easily slid over my tongue and down my throat filling my belly. And I’ll confess it was not the last bar that managed its way out of the store as a stowaway in my sock. Eventually though, the fluttery wings of what is right sent an insistent chill down my spine convincing me that I was not long for the venture of taking what wasn’t mine.
When my daughter was born, Christmas became what I always dreamed it should be: the living room framed with a tree with twinkling lights, and always lots goodness on plates never allowing the thought of stealing chocolate to enter her mind. For gifts, yes there are the designer shoes, or guitar hero, but, also, quite a few homemade presents whether it’s a scarf, pajamas, or a painting. Every year there is a homemade ornament that she opens on Christmas Eve to hang on the tree for Christmas day
, ornaments she’ll take with her when it is time for her own tree and traditions. When the day comes she stands in her own kitchen llenando la con memorias, filling it with all the memories of Christmas past, and all the love of Christmas yet to come.
I’m certain at this point I should say I couldn’t bring myself to eat the candy, that after one bite I guiltily tossed it aside. The truth, however, is that as guiltily as I ate it, it tasted exquisite. Era tan rico, It was scrumptious eating that smooth chocolatey bar, from the moment it cracked between my teeth only to have it soften into a thick, melting mound that easily slid over my tongue and down my throat filling my belly. And I’ll confess it was not the last bar that managed its way out of the store as a stowaway in my sock. Eventually though, the fluttery wings of what is right sent an insistent chill down my spine convincing me that I was not long for the venture of taking what wasn’t mine.
When my daughter was born, Christmas became what I always dreamed it should be: the living room framed with a tree with twinkling lights, and always lots goodness on plates never allowing the thought of stealing chocolate to enter her mind. For gifts, yes there are the designer shoes, or guitar hero, but, also, quite a few homemade presents whether it’s a scarf, pajamas, or a painting. Every year there is a homemade ornament that she opens on Christmas Eve to hang on the tree for Christmas day
, ornaments she’ll take with her when it is time for her own tree and traditions. When the day comes she stands in her own kitchen llenando la con memorias, filling it with all the memories of Christmas past, and all the love of Christmas yet to come.
