The Christmas Dinner By Deanna Gail Shlee

I looked forward eagerly to the yearly ritual held at my parents' home - the Christmas dinner. Norman Rockwell would have wanted to capture this on canvas, and I wish I could have bottled each fragrance.

It actually started three days before December 25th each year when Mom would dissect and set out the bread to dry for the dressing. Two days before D-Day, Dad would bring home the biggest turkey he could find in case we may be visited by the National Guard. On the eve of The Day, Mom put on her official apron and assaulted the dressing. This marvelous concoction was chopped and cut and seasoned and mixed and tasted and mixed some more.

Finally on this glorious eve, she baked her pies - golden and perfectly round. Mouth-watering aromas of apple, cherry, and the ever popular pumpkin would fill the house. Then everything was wrapped and placed in the "ice-box" - Mom and Dad's word indicating refrigerator - for the next day.

At precisely 5 a.m. on Christmas morning, Mom arose and again put on her apron to stuff the "bird." After the dressing was in the turkey, Mom would bring forth THE NEEDLE  from whatever sanctified place where it was kept for the rest of the year; and, with the accuracy of a surgeon, place each stitch to close the cavity. Basted with lots of butter and seasoning, in the warm oven it went.

Dad would putter in the yard to stay out of Mom's hair, and I was entrusted with setting the table. Each year there was a new tablecloth masterpiece made of paper from the local grocers with big smiling faces of Santa or giant wreaths or such with, of course, the matching napkins.

At noon, as if from some great signal on high, all the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would arrive simultaneously, gifts in hand. What a din would occur with all the kissing and hugging and talking all at once! The men would stand outside in the yard with Dad, and the women would all troop into the kitchen with Mom.

Then, the whole fresh produce department of the grocery store appeared on the kitchen counter. Spuds were peeled for everyone's favorite - Mom's creamy, delicious mashed potatoes; the salad and dressings were made; soft, buttered rolls were placed on baking sheets; and never a lull in the conversation.

It was chiseled in stone somewhere that Dad carved and Mom made the gravy. The turkey was dismantled into a mound of juicy, tender slices, drumsticks, and wings as Mom stirred and mixed her secrets on the stove. The potatoes were mashed, rolls baked, and drinks poured.

Finally, we all descended upon the heavy-laden dining table. Always first was the blessing. Next was the ever passing of bowls and platters and clicking of silverware accompanied by the sound of "umms" and "aahs" like the communication of some primitive culture. Mom was showered with accolades, and all faces beamed contentedly as they ate the most delicious flavors ever.

At last, we all reluctantly left the table to enter the living room for the opening of the gifts that had been brought for us and ours to them. After all the compliments and thank yous, we proceeded with the cleanup. The table was cleared, food put away, and gift wrappings disposed of with the precision of a drill team.

With all this accomplished, every adult seemed to melt away onto some couch or bed throughout the house for a well-earned rest after the exhausting events of the day, while the children and younger adults played games outside or found something to amuse themselves.

Late in the afternoon, when everyone had awakened, we got to that part of the ritual called dessert. This time the aroma of fresh coffee brewing filled the house. The pies were cut; and, depending on the recipient's wishes, were either served cold, heated, with ice cream, plain, or with billows of Ready Whip. Again the primitive language would rise with praises for Mom. The rest of the day was spent solving all the ills of the world and swapping cure-alls.

The last part of the ritual was the good-bye. My understanding of that word was "to leave." But, after an hour on the front lawn with everyone talking and inching toward their cars, I would always wonder why they just didn't come back inside. At last the cars were started, put in gear, and moved about......six inches--then more talking. Finally, after several of these "attempts," the caravan drove off into the night with heads and arms stuck out of windows waving frantically as if for the last time.

Mom, Dad, and I would go back into the suddenly-quiet house. I would feel content and happy; it had been a good day. Mom would give her sigh of completion, and Dad just looked proud. They would start talking about going to bed; I would stick my finger in a pile of Ready Whip.

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Epilog

Although Mom has passed on, this vivid memory will never leave my mind. My own children had a chance to experience the holidays at her home, too. To them, she was Nana. Now I am both Mom and Nana, and my children and their families look forward to the dinners with me. This closeness, love, and fellowship keeps the family strong and tradition going. I still have Mom's needle stuck securely in my purse, with me at all times.