The holidays at my house are an international affair. I plan my shopping, baking, decorating, and gifts with the kind of precision that went into the Yalta Conference. I, of course, represent President Roosevelt, the American contingent. I replace Stalin with stollen—sweeter, nicer, and far more palatable—and my husband is Sir Winston Churchill, cigar and all!
The Brit is also Jewish and a very matzoh man, as is Mini-Brit, our grandson, so we celebrate Hanukkah. I am Italian-American, raised in a Roman-Catholic tradition, so we also celebrate Christmas. You want to talk about a festival of lights? Between the candles on the menorah, the myriad fairy lights festooning our mantle and porch, and the colorful spotlight illuminating my aluminum tree, we’ve got more glitter going on than a Lady GaGa concert!
The holiday season, for me, always kicks off with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I revel in the holiday spirit at the end as the New York Rockettes high-kick Santa’s sleigh into Harold Square. Time to deck the halls! That is, until the Brit became part of the equation, thus putting a new perspective on things.
“Bloody hell! Is that holly?” he inquires incredulously.
“It’s not poison ivy, dear, and if you’re good I’ll put some mistletoe in the mix,” I promise enticingly.
“It’s only November,” he exclaims.
“So? Santa Claus just entered Harold Square. Time to hang out the holly!” I explain.
“Santa who?” he asks.
What he doesn’t understand is that the Christmas tradition runs deep in my DNA. My mother is the original Snow Queen, putting up decorations on the day before Thanksgiving so that the house is done up for Turkey Day guests. She starts gift shopping in January, fruitcake baking (and basting) in August, cookies and fudge making in October, and all the rest of the candy is done by the first week of December.
When my brother Mike was serving on an aircraft carrier, she went into full holiday overdrive. Every week she sent a box filled with cocoa mix, peanut butter, cookies, chocolate, popcorn, and anything else she could think of. My stepdad shook his head as she filled yet another box for Mikey and said, “Donna Maria, you’re going to sink that damned ship!”
The Brit and I became a family of three with the arrival of Mini-Brit. Then only 3 years old, he believed in all the magic of the holidays, and I relived my childhood through his awestruck eyes. Now 10, he still believes that it’s a magical time of year, but his knowing expression reminds me that he’s become hip to the fact that Santa has a “mole” in the house.
I love to make the holidays special for all of us, so I put a menorah out with a small gift for each day of Hanukkah around it, as well as a tree (or Hanukkah bush, as the boys fondly call it) with presents beneath. Then I sit back and watch the guys squirm! Like obsessed gamblers, they shake, rattle, and roll each gift while trying to ascertain its contents.
“Sherlock Waterman is on the trail,” shouts my husband. Of course, I wrap their gifts in such a way that they never see what’s coming. Layers of tissue disguise a book as a potential sweater; large shoe boxes give no clue to the Pokémon cards inside!
Along with Christmas cookies, I buy chocolate geld for the dreidel game and make latkes. These are a fried potato pancake and, while I have mastered the Jewish art of matzoh ball soup and Hamentaschen prune filling, my latkes still need work. Frankly, you need to eat the Hamentaschen to clear out the latkes!
Raising a child also means holiday events at school, and that means the annual Luminaria festival of Lights at Mini-Brit’s grade school, which I organize each year. As several parents gallantly provide cookies, cocoa, spiced cider, and other munchies, I fill bags with sand and tea-lights and pray for good weather. Just before dusk we create pathways around the school and light the candles. The teachers decorate theme rooms for Hanukkah and a Victorian Christmas, where children are greeted by Father Christmas, the English version of Santa Claus. That’s where being married to a Brit becomes useful.
“Honey, I need you to be Father Christmas,” I cooed sweetly into his ear the first year of the festival.
“What do I have to do?” he inquired innocently.
“Oh, just greet children, hand them a candy cane and small gift, and pose for a photo,” I explained.
My husband adores children and swiftly agreed to play the part—until he found out what he had to wear. I dolled him up in a red robe, white wig, and beard, a holly-wreath on his head, and bells jingling on his belt.
“I look done up like a bleedin’ fever cart!” he bellowed. Mini-Brit chuckled and called him Hanukklaus. Oy, oy, vey! But then the magic happened as a tiny girl spotted him, clung to his hand, and smiled beatifically up at him, sweetening his mood and winning his heart. Hey, it’s how I snagged him.
Ariel Waterman loves Mini-Brit’s holiday hugs and kisses and sitting on Father Christmas’ lap. Send latke recipes via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@satamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 15-22, 2011.