Month: December 2010

“O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree…” well, I don’t know the rest of the words to the song but it didn’t stop me from humming the tune the entire way back to the house from the market yesterday as I carried one in my arms–not at easy feat as it is far taller than I am. I had bought it, as I always do, from the gentle giant that drives down from the mountains in the Ardeche region each year with a truck full of freshly chopped trees. He has pointy teeth and stutters if I look him directly in the eye but seems genuinely delighted each time someone chooses his wares over those of the other sellers. I joked with him that I feared that Remi would be furious with me–I always get ambitious and chose the biggest tree possible and this year was no exception. I figured that who knows where we will be next year or if we will have such high ceilings, so why not?

Remi had the rather brilliant idea of securing the trunk in the base for the outdoor umbrella. But it just wasn’t the evening to do more. I was up on the ladder, ready to go when Luciano Pavarotti singing “Ave Maria” on the stereo took me by surprise. My Dad was a huge “Luch” fan (as he called him) and would drive us all crazy by turning the song up to full volume as we were trimming the tree. “Listen to this! Listen to this!” he would say with delight, even though we had all heard it so many times during so many holiday seasons. My Dad didn’t even enjoy decorating and would usually disappear after ten minutes only to later pout that we had done it all without him. So I don’t know why I started to cry so hard but I did. It isn’t the first Christmas since loosing my Dad but it was just one of those moments when it still seems so recent.

So tonight will be take two. Time to light all of the candles and continue the tradition with joy and gratitude in my heart because that is what the spirit of the holiday season is all about.

…is sometimes just to stay. A gift of being so relaxed and ready to keep spending time together, most especially as we all swing into the dance of the holiday season.

On Saturday, we invited a small group of friends to join us for an “After the Market” buffet-style lunch. This our new favorite way of receiving folks as it is like tapas on steroids, you can serve as much as you wish without breaking the bank and everyone finds something that they enjoy. Here is the table as it was at 12:30ish, with most of the group arriving at right before 1pm.

Blinis topped with either lobster or scallop purée, toasts with tapenade or sun-dried tomato “caviar”, two kinds of olives (including a rather slimy version with anchovy paste), a jumbled pile of crudités, mini-red peppers stuffed with goat cheese, sliced Andouillette (if you don’t know what it is, you probably don’t want to), a pepper and zucchini Provençal tart, a salmon quiche, two dozen oysters, a charcuterie plate of smoked ham and paté, another of chorizo and saucisson…Oh, and don’t forget the cheese plate! All of this served with the amazing cremant from Bourgogne that our dear friends Sonny and Michael convinced us is far better than cheap champagne and an earthy red from the Luberon.

Now, this is a group that we don’t get to see as often as we would like. It turns out that everyone has a lot going on, major changes in the air, so there was much to discuss. I mean really. A lot. We just kept talking and picking at the food and sipping and listening and talking some more. Until it was 5pm, which meant that we could somehow qualify it as time for the “Apero”, the Frenchified version of cocktail hour. Remi showed some of his most recent photography, dogs were walked and the fire was kept well-stoked. In the blink of an eye it was 8:30pm when everyone became peckish again, here is what the table resembled at that point:

With my ratty Dallastown High School Cheerleading sweatshirt pulled up over my ears, I stomped through the garden this morning, trying to stay warm as I reluctantly picked up fistfuls of leaves, crunching them into three garbage bags. How many memories are packed into that gesture, especially as some of the best that I have with my Dad were from days just like this. The only difference being that, then, there were so many that he would rake them into a giant pile for me to fall into, one sweetly redolent of sap and rot.

I did what feeble pruning I dared save for the rose bush which still has two loopy white blooms lolling off its branches. I stacked up the many small candle holders that lit up our summer nights like fireflies and replanted a lone hyacinth bulb. Will I be still living here in the Spring to see what has survived the chill? Or will it be for someone else to finally see the camellia tree bloom?

Remi and I let the air out of the massive iron radiators–we need all the help they can give us–and will soon head out to buy more fire wood. The kitchen cupboards are already packed to the gills with reserves of coffee, rice, pasta, everything I would need to make any soup that struck my fancy as well as small jars of things like curry mustard from Fauchon that always seems too “good” to open.

So we are prepared but I am already (already!) sentimental about the Fall that has just left us. My favorite season and a whole year lies ahead before I will see it again. Only one thing to do, drag out the box with the holiday lights.