A Strange Rite of Passage

For some reason this year, I’m having the hardest time getting into the Christmas spirit. It was a struggle putting up the decorations, and I wasn’t overly motivated to do any shopping or gift making. Even now, I should be finishing up my gifts and cards for the ladies at work, but I just don’t feel like it.

And cookies. I’ve usually got my baking done by now, but I’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Today, I finally pulled a few recipes and decided to get to it. Well, I got through one batch of molasses cookies before my spatula snapped in half. I was just done after that.

So as I sat here stewing in my bah humbug, something occurred to me. I’m 53 years old. This is the age my mother was when she declared she would no longer bake Christmas cookies. She just hated doing it, and after doing it for almost thirty years and four kids (at 13, I was the youngest), she was just done.

And so at 13, I took up the spatula and continued the tradition of baking tons of cookies for Christmas. I made my dad’s favorite hermits, cutouts, chocolate chip, peanut blossoms, and others as I found recipes. For a long time, I loved doing it, and of course, I loved eating the fruits of my labor.

It seems like things have come full circle as I’m now just disenchanted with the whole mess. Is it just my age? My life circumstances? I’m not sure. My older son started college this year, and while he’s home on break, it’s obvious that he’s on the verge of spreading his wings and leaving the nest. My younger son will be 16 in a few days, and he’s ready to find a job to start saving for college or whatever he decides to do after high school.

I always vowed not to turn into my mother–something I suppose a lot of others have said at one time or another–but it seems in some ways, I have. I’m looking at the broken spatula as a harbinger of this new stage of life. I know change is inevitable, and is really the only constant in life, but I can’t help feeling a bit sad, as well as a bit apprehensive.

What will this new stage of life bring? What will my kids do with their lives? And who will carry on the tradition of baking Christmas cookies?

A Visit from St. Pickle-as

A Visit from St. Pickle-as(with apologies to CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE)

‘Twas the night before Crispmas, when all through the fridge

The pickles weren’t sleepy, not even a smidge;

The mason jars sat on the counter aware

That St. Pickle-as soon would be stopping by there;

The chow-chow was nestled all snug on the racks,

While sealed bins of pickled beets sat in neat stacks;

Papa Pimento in the crisper, and I on the door,

Sank down in our brine for a night’s nap or more,

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,

I jumped from my jar to see what was the matter.

Away to the top shelf I flew like a flash,

Shoved open the icebox, hit the floor with a crash.

The moon through the window up above the sink,

Shone so brightly it made my pickle eyes blink,

When what to my moon-blinded eyes did appear,

But a brine barrel and eight tiny dill-deer,

And a little old driver with eyes bright as nickels,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Pickle.

More rapid than relish his cornichons came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Vinegar! now, Viney! now Garlic and Dilly!

On, Cukey! on, Cumin! on, Briney and Billy!

To the top of the pantry, and then in through the larder!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away harder!

“As the pickling spices that swirl in the souse,

When they meet with the stirring spoon, and season the krauts;

So into the kitchen they whirled into view

With the sleigh full of fixings, and St. Pickle-as too

—And then, in a twinkling, the countertop clicked

As those cornichons landed so smooth and so quick

.

As I took a step back, and was turning around,

From the sleigh St. Pickle-as jumped with a bound.

He was covered in dill, from his head to his stem,

And the leaves on his vine sparkled bright just like gems;

A sackful of seasoning was slung on his back,

And it was fuller than full, like a baker’s spice rack.

His eyes were so shiny! His green skin was on fleek!

His expression so Kosher! His nose like paprika!

His droll little mouth was drawn up in a moue,

And the beard on his chin was as white as a roux;

The stump of a clove he held tight in his teeth,

And green vines, they encircled his head like a wreath;

He was verdant of face and had a little round belly

Like the olive oil bottles on display at the deli.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old cuke,

And I laughed when I saw him, no fear of rebuke;

A wink of his eye and a flick of his vines

Soon gave me to know everything was just fine;

He spoke not a word, but went to the icebox;

He filled all the jars, and he loaded the crocks,

And then leaping up to the top shelf of the fridge,

He crossed to the counter, without need of a bridge;

He sprang to his sleigh, tossed his team mustard seed,

And away they all flew like the downy green dillweed.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight

—“Happy Crispmas to all, and to all a good night!”