For Cod and Column #27

As a father of two young boys, every day is a harvest season ripe with moments, mundane to magical, and Christmas is particularly fruitful. My heart overflows and I want to hold onto this sweetness, to vinify it into something lasting. But I can’t pickle or cure joy. Ritual, that ancient alchemy, is the only recipe I know to make such fullness enduring. As a child, Christmas was the holiday my family really turned out for. Against the deepening dark of days we chose to glow, together, in revelry. It was Mom who drove this sleigh. Christmas was “her thing” and she took decorating for it very seriously. The TJ Maxx bedspreads of everyday were traded out for resplendent red-and-green heirloom quilts. Lights and garland hung on every inch of railing. Hand-sewn pillows of our birthyear-balsams beguiled with their vintage scents. The holiday spirit overtook Mom even before the dishes from Thanksgiving were washed. She began preparing her fruitcake by dicing candied cherries and citrus, placing them in a ceramic bowl over which I got to pour two bottles of Myers Dark rum. This macerated for a month, loosely covered with foil, exhaling its fruity funk. My Gram went to the post office on Tuesday of that week so that on Friday would arrive a package laden with the cookies of Mom’s youth. In that package were peanut butter Rice Krispies balls dipped in chocolate, plus “strawberries,” relics of the 1950s that were a mix of shredded coconut, sweetened condensed milk, and strawberry Jell-O, hand-formed with a sliver of Brach’s mint leaf jellies stuck with a clove. (They’re disgusting… and I love them.) Every Christmas Eve we brought a fruitcake to the Mayers’ house for their annual German Christmas party. Our hosts greeted us at the door with a toast, raising shots of warm whiskey to be followed by mugs of mulled wine. Above the crock of simmering wine was perched a 151 rum-soaked sugar cone lit aflame, thawing to caramel and trickling into the elixir. The tree was studded with dozens of candles nestled among the branches. Once the candles were lit by well-mulled (now-incautious) adults, wax fell languidly upon the needles in a holy mess, a good description of the state of affairs by that point in the night. I always looked forward to how steadfast rules, such as “children can’t drink whiskey,” took holiday this holiday eve. My dad’s contribution to the decadent buffet was a whole-poached salmon he labored over for several days. He simmered it in a flavorful broth, then removed the skin before brushing on a sheen of mayonnaise. He laid a mosaic of cucumber slices as surrogate scales, then sheathed it in a coating of aspic. A cherry tomato for the mouth and tufts of tangled dill outfitted his refashioned salmon. I felt such pride when our gathered neighbors hummed with glee and delight as he set it on the table. But with time, even beloved rituals become bygones of our self and kindred. My life has changed. I no longer live where I am from or near my family. My mom died when I was 17, many traditions passing with her. In years since, I’ve met my wife, fallen in love with her family, adopted some of their rituals, and welcomed our sons to this world. We used to travel from Maine to “home” for Christmas. Then in 2020 COVID kept us in Maine, introducing the novelty of a restful holiday, quiet but for our own exuberances. In those particularly bleak midwinter days, our son spent hours sitting in sentinel contemplation of the tree’s twinkle and the mystery of what lay wrapped below. This intentional peace has become a new ritual we share with our boys, contrasted with the joyous chaos and delirium of Christmas morning, ployes, pajamas, and presents. Yet I still pine for the noisy, crowded gatherings of bygone holidays. My rituals are now quieter, more intimate. In my tranquil kitchen I quietly speak the names of those I love, summoning them in spirit. I’ve updated the mulled wine with maple syrup, a dash of smoky scotch, and a sprig of balsam. Dad’s salmon is now my Arctic char in the Italian style of porchetta. I butterfly a whole fish and furrow the fillets to evenly allot the ebullient marinade, chunky with garlic, almonds, rosemary, and fennel seeds. All is rolled in the skin, tied, and roasted. The result is a lusciously rich interior swaddled (if you will) in audibly crackling skin. I am warmed with whiskey and wine, unhurried and attentive. I still myself to savor the smells, sights, and sounds, to preserve the abundant joy in these cherished days. The ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future are with me, and they hover close indeed.