Paris street person's Christmas |
Christmas is
the day you may begin with photos of sparkling mimosas or a good champagne
straight-up with breakfast or brunch. Christmas is the day of 30-pound turkeys.
The day of a myriad of hors d’oeuvres, side dishes and desserts. Oh, and did I
forget? Gifts galore.
No pictures allows
total freedom from pretty food. There is no need for a preplanned menu. There
is no sharing of festive ideas on social media or on the blog.
Whether I had an
81-day aged rib steak or a 30-pound turkey really doesn’t matter to anyone,
even me. How many sides did I serve with my main? Again, who cares? And if I
listen to Sixpence None the Richer or Counting Crows, nobody knows, nobody
cares.
Jerry Seinfeld
said it best. “This is the problem, there’s too many things,” Seinfeld began.
“You have things, I have things, holiday time, there’s going to be a lot more things.”
“All things on Earth only exist in different stages of becoming garbage,” he
pointed out. “Your home is a garbage processing center...Garage seems to
be a form of the word garbage”.
Christmas is
the proof that the yearlong talk of restraint and avoiding conspicuous
consumption is merely that, talk. Do you really believe that elaborate gifts
are a measure of love and caring? No, I didn’t think so.
How much did
Christmas cost you? How can I say this without sounding like I am bragging but
I spent a total of $50 plus that $25 bottle of bubbly and a good steak. I sent
six cards and delivered four handmade gifts. Does anyone feel left out? No, I
didn’t think so.
What is it like to
be alone Christmas morning? There is a deep silence as big fluffy snowflakes
dust the firs like powdered sugar shaken from a sifter. It is like my house is
in a big snow globe that has been gently shaken and set down carefully not to
disturb. There is no frenzy of opening gifts and screams over spilt hot
chocolate.
There is no
rush to listen to a Queen, a Pope or a politician as he or she lays out the
scene of last year and hopes for the next. I always cry anyway. There is no
Facebooking my partner who is sitting on the other end of the sofa. I would
rather have my vicarious Christmas dinner with Ricardo. Yum, celery soup. I
have celery. Or pomegranates. I forgot I have one squirreled away in the
crisper drawer.
I am not overly
religious yet have enjoyed Christmases past with dramatic cantatas in century
old cathedrals or the burning bush on the mountaintop overlooking the 13th
century Cathedral of St. Andrew in Amalfi.
I have enjoyed a
seafood Christmas Eve and 30 pound turkeys on Christmas Day. I have indulged in
turkey leftovers, pies and cakes. As I ate a more reasonable amount of food
this year I almost began counting the calories I was saving by eating alone
away from the hysteria of the perfect Christmas day of food. One pear hand pie,
half a steak, fiddleheads and of course, a handful of shortbread icebox
cookies. I didn’t even break a sweat.
How was my day?
(Do you really care? No? I didn’t think so but here it is anyhoo) One can never
totally escape the drama of family, even if not with them in person. So I
didn’t miss out on that, phew! But what I pined for most was my camera for I am
also an obsessed documenter of food. There was nothing I could do today but be
the critic. I amused myself by scanning the plethora of Christmas meals on
Facebook. Sloppy place settings and silverware a kilter, white balance off by a
mile, bad lighting and so many moments of pride as the meal was being staged
for the camera before sitting down. I only hope it was still hot for the guests!
Just saying.
Today is Boxing
Day, that vestige of colonialism. Will I run out and grab up
all those gifts I didn’t get? Works of art, meat slicers, a onesie pyjama? Buy
up the candy-striped spatulas, Nutcracker gift boxes, all the on-sale wrapping
paper and cards? Well, maybe. Look at all the money I will save? I have money
leftover from Christmas, after all. You have no idea how much I would love to
have a meat slicer!
Oh well,
perhaps just this one time?
Nah, I think
I’ll just pick up a package of my Miss Sugar’s favourite Friskies treats.
Footnote: I had
intended to write a real foodie piece but in keeping with my fuss free
Christmas this seemed more appropriate. I don’t feel quite ready to indulge.