There are some pretty interesting holiday customs out there; a pickle ornament in a tree; door-to-door Christmas caroling, or perhaps an advent calendar. Earlier today someone’s post popped up on my Facebook feed, she was looking for an Eastern European recipe that her mother used to make. A simple recipe can tell us so much about our past.
Earlier today my husband and I were discussing what we would be making for Christmas dinner. I consider; do we have any holiday traditions? I am going to make a trifle for dessert. I’ve been serving it for two decades or longer but it doesn’t really qualify as a tradition. We review the dietary requirements of our guests, making decisions on dishes that can meet the many needs. Did my great grandmother from Ireland worry if there were enough vegan choices? Not likely! I have some old recipes that have been handed down, none of which have made it to the holiday table. Honestly, “Walt’s krautburgers” might be tasty to some, but would probably remain untouched if I served them. I guess the pressure is on my kids to carry on one of our activities…
This evening I was decorating my grandmother’s purple cows, giving them some more festive attire, and I smiled. Those cows survived her many moves. They were present for one of my earliest memories of my grandmother, in her home in Connecticut. It then occurred I do have a tradition. My grandmother always set a beautiful holiday table. She hated to cook, but you would never have known it. I myself hate to cook, but do my best to set a beautiful table, and serve our guests a wonderful dinner. I know it’s a stretch, but I am claiming it….
It’s been a while….
My last blog post was penned before my grandmother’s death in 2012. I posted it shortly thereafter, hoping to get back to writing in a month. Although I know she never understood my desire to research my family history, she would certainly have been very unimpressed I had allowed her passing to slow me down. Her death pretty much made it impossible for me to look at a vital record for at least 6 months. You see, my grandmother was a rock star in the world of grannies, and her passing was tough. So no more excuses!
