In the childhood of novelist Susie Boyt, Christmas is what the world should be, not what it is. And she still won't hear objections
Christmas did not bring out my sanity. I like total immersion. I almost studied myself with cloves. No grain packaging is undecorated. Punch words like Frankincense Sinatra abound. I went all out to spend Christmas both theoretically and practically. The branches of the Christmas tree became my autobiography, filled with decorations from 40 years ago. When I shop, I believe that good gifts will change people's lives. Emotions rushed to me: half of the mood changes in a year in 10 days. If I don't have tonsillitis at least on Boxing Day—sharp scissors at the back of my throat—it feels like I haven't tried it.
When I was young, irritable, and a little lonely, Christmas really saved me. This is not what the world is, but what the world should be: the color of things becomes the highest point, shining with hope and possibility. There are rewards for good deeds and difficult times, gifts can alleviate and protect the future, food is piled up, green dragons are on white plates, and overeating-my weakness at the time-is a requirement, not a crime. Breakfast with chocolate money and oranges; pudding with a heavenly quartet of brandy butter, cream, custard and ice cream. My mother is a single parent of five children. Our situation is usually very tight. But at Christmas, her best friend Annie and her husband stepped in, brought us in and fed us. There is a gift tower taller than me. The donkeys are called Sir Isaac and Josephine. I feel like a person on the quality street. I am so happy, comfort and happiness have remained in my system for months...
Speaking of Christmas, my loyalty to me is feudal. I will not hear any words against it, and when people talk about it, I feel a violent excitement. However, year after year, I cannot always reach the height I desire. I want the old fanaticism, one frozen, two falling in love, three stitching; but the feeling I get is closer to the red wine vinegar that wins school tombola. I give everything I have for Christmas. I wrapped the railings with spruce and red satin. I made three fillings and at least four sauces. I planted a few pots of paper white, sprinkled fake snow on the mantelpiece, convinced myself that Stilton and fruit cake is a reasonable sandwich, designed a position for the package in the stockings, and created a madness with reasonable intervals. The wild is getting stronger. I poured a few bottles of pine tree essence into the bathtub, my limbs exuding the disturbing Hulk tone, refreshed. I watched "Meet Me in St. Louis" and "In Town" in cycles, trying to lasso the perfect mood when I ended. I am not complaining, it is my honor to do these things. However, mood may be more difficult to determine than cloud. It comes when it wants. Sometimes it doesn't come at all.
I no longer need Christmas to save me—maybe this is the problem. I am no longer a bunch of needs that need to be scooped. The result is that there is a certain degree of alienation between me and Christmas now. We will never treat each other as we did before. Sometimes I feel like a chapter in an enthusiastic (s) self-help volume entitled "Women Who Love Christmas Too Much".
For a few years, I felt that Christmas itself was staring at me and rolling my eyes, embarrassed by the length of my frequent visits. "She won't be told," it shook his head. Maybe the elves at the University of Alaska like to study weird cases: "She needs to dial it down," do they conclude, pointy jaws? "I mean, who did she do it for?" But in my opinion, the charm and charm of Christmas is irresistible. Christmas flickered in the field of vision like a stunt motorcyclist in the 1970s, just flew over 22 buses, walked slowly by with toothy smiles and pleading eyes, shaking its curly hair, I knew I should To resist, my determination is high. All I need to do is turn around and leave politely, because this year I won't let myself go through this again. I will adopt a low-key approach, cut corners, and only pursue warm and soft happiness and calmness. But before I realize it, I have to get up in the wee hours of the morning, melt Fox's glacial fruit in a double pot, and make stained glass windows for the gingerbread house.
Forget all your nonsense, think about kids, people blame me, but I'm not the only one who thinks this season is clumsy. I know six-year-old citizens and they feel sad because Christmas did not make them feel as sad as they did when they were four.
How to make this not affect the Christmas dinner? Of course, Christmas cooking can bring out the worst of us. A friend walked into the kitchen and asked her brother-in-law what she could help. "I will tell you what you can do, you can get out," he said. It is good to keep the emotional cascade in the pan. No one wants their parsnips mash with regret, or sadness in the blanket or mashed potatoes. Of course jokes help, they always do. When Katharine Hepburn talked about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, he said that he taught her and she made him sexy. Sometimes I wonder if the same can be said of chestnuts and bean sprouts. (This is an extension.)
The danger of Christmas cooking is that the stakes are so high. Food and love are inseparable, but this is especially true at Christmas. This is the top-heavy formula that makes people fall. We all know that a good meal has an inestimable power to boost the spirit. Naturally, it is hard not to believe that a spectacular Christmas dinner might reward and compensate the family for all the difficulties of the past year. This is especially true for Christmas this year, because many of us could not be together last time. Christmas as medicine, ointment and a whole set of medals seems more necessary than ever.
We look forward to Christmas to measure our performance to no avail. It marks an assessment of the family’s success and strengths, compassion and compatibility, and basic fitness as an institution. How does it treat its weakest members? How fast can conflicts be resolved? The most painful is how do we endure the fact that not everyone is still with us? Pain of empty chair. It's natural to want to pour a little bit of gravy for everyone Mom, but where is the recipe? Are we seeking deep comfort from bread sauce and red cabbage? In that case, it is better to make exceptions. Before you realize it, you are not cooking, but treating yourself as a victim.
However, it is always a heroic act to provide a sumptuous Christmas dinner during difficult times. When it was cancelled last Christmas, the singles who distributed all the decorations for themselves had every reason to be proud. What does it represent. Hope, I think. Even if it feels like rearranging the Christmas tree on the deck of the Titanic.
In my latest novel "Love and Miss", a loyal mother invited her separated daughter to lunch on December 25, but the daughter only agreed to take a walk. Mom wants a park with swans and bandstands-this is Christmas! – But my daughter suggested that a piece of green space be scattered on the side of the road. Mother was not deterred by the lack of cheers and opened the Christmas dinner package on the park bench. Why not? "I plucked up the courage to spread three red checkered rags on the old bench, and put some gold paper plates into triangles, and opened the turkey sandwich I made. The meat is half white and half brown, still hot, and the butter is sparkling. Shine. I wrapped the chestnut filling in tin foil, pressed it on the meat, and smeared the cranberry sauce from the coffee can with the back of a spoon. I placed a paper cup full of bean sprouts on the bench. My hands were shaking. "Christmas vitamins," I muttered to myself with a wry smile, but they looked a bit fraudulent, as if they might be pretending...I put a box of six biscuits in a carrier with a robin on it, I I placed two next to each plate. I forgot the napkin with holly branches. I put a tall red candle in the egg cup, lit the wick, and covered it with the arc of my hand. The flame on my fingers was very hot Until the fucking wind blows it out."
No one said anything. Eat almost nothing. The meal almost smelled of sacrament.
When I worry that Christmas will ruin me, I sometimes reread James Joyce's short story "The Dead." It captures the power of a meal to solve problems, almost like a large white cloth that can be spread over difficulties, not to hide them, but as a way to maintain harmony, order, and rich values, whether harsh or sad Things may happen after or before. The idea that things can be both strict and luxurious is very attractive to me-a good communication should call for capturing in oil. In Joyce's magnificent story, the brown fat goose sits at one end of the table, and at the other end, "on a crumpled paper bed covered with sprigs of parsley, there is a large ham... topped with bread. Crumbs, neat paper frills around the shank. Next to it is a round of spiced beef. Between these opposite ends is lined up with parallel side dishes: two small red and yellow jellies; a shallow plate filled with White chocolate chunks and red jam..."
I like the seriousness of this table. A dignified banquet like fasting is really rare. After the big pudding, the whole supplementary course of "raisins, almonds, figs, apples, oranges, chocolate and candies" follows. I always think that the holiday dinner should have a series of wrong endings, as if the table itself has been shouting: "Do it again!"
The first Christmas dinner I made was when I was 28 years old. Not long after I got married, the life of an adult has come to my mind. I have 18 foods to cook and new pans that are getting smaller and smaller, but I have been tortured by two kinds of grief all day: one brother is in jail and the other is in the hospital. I feel more and more stressed; anxious calculation flow. I know very well that as long as my baked potatoes are crispy, golden, and fluffy, they will eliminate pain for everyone.
Interestingly, they did a little bit.
Susie Boyt's Love and Miss is published by Little, Brown (£16.99). To support Guardian and Observer, please order your copy on Guardianbookshop.com