BREAKING THE BREAD ... BARRIER

In families as big as the one I come from, hosting a holiday meal - or, as I like to call it, Staging the Feast - is a big deal. The sheer number of people, and where to put them all, especially if it happens to be really cold outside (like Christmas usually is), is a challenge even for the best of us. Scrounging up enough chairs is a quest in itself.

Depending on who all can be there, we have done everything from setting the tables out in a heated garage, to renting a hall. And, we share a traveling table that does the rotation through the hosting houses as the year’s feast days roll around. It’s always “the kids’ table” ; the grown up’s get to sit at the “real” table. There’s no right-of-passage quite like making it to “grown up’s table”.

But there are other stepping stones in the family meal tradition. The whole thing is one huge growing experience, really, when you think about it. And anyone who has just finished putting the last of her fancy dishes away from the latest family banquet, if she has any sense in her head at all, longs for the days when she got to sit at the little folding table in the living room and dodge doing dishes altogether.

I don’t know as any of us every knew what a lot of work Staging the Feast was, because Mom always made it look easy. Did any of us ever know when she stuffed that 25 pound turkey? Were we even out of bed yet when that job was done? I know I had to call her for thawing and stuffing directions the first time I was named “cooker of the bird”. And to be completely honest here, I have two kinds of “done” in my repertoire: not-quite-done, and way-overdone. The learning curve is a work in progress.

Luckily - for all family hostesses - another family tradition is that everyone contributes to the feast. As soon as the invitation is issued a reply of “What can I bring?” is offered back. The hostess usually provides all the hot dishes, and the guests furnish the more portable items. And, there is a hierarchy to this that I had never thought about until this past weekend when I was asked for ... (drum roll here) ... buns.

You see, when you are first considered grown up enough to contribute, your part of the meal is something that you can’t possibly mess up - a jar of pickles (store bought, of course) or a pound of butter (ditto). Once you make it past that first barrier, a jellied salad is suggested. If that makes the grade, maybe you’d like to bring some kind of a chilled dessert slice? By this time, quite possibly you’ve hosted a smaller gathering yourself, and have proven you can cook, so perhaps next time you’re asked for a ham or your own personal trophy salad. But, when my sister - my older sister - asked me ... for ... the ... buns ... last week, I was taken aback. If you think that moving up to the big people’s table is a big step, you haven’t been asked to provide the buns yet.

Is it because “the bread” at a meal is the symbol of the meal itself, as in the breaking of the bread? Is it because good bread is something only experience can provide? I don’t know about other families, but in ours, bread is the offering of only the top cooks. And I was being asked for this all important component! I was in awe of the responsibility.

It’s funny. It’s not that I can’t make buns, I do it all the time - for my own family, and nobody has died yet; that must count for something, but making THE BUNS for Thanksgiving, I tell you - this is big stuff.

It took me two batches, because the first batch was just mediocre, but my offering for Sunday dinner was the best I could do - and still a little steamy from the oven. Not a one survived the afternoon. I feel like I’m all grown up now. I wonder what’s next? Should I try my hand at Christmas Pudding?

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Supper was a quiet affair last night. Just as we were sitting down to eat the phone rang and I knew before I picked it up that this would be the unwelcome news I had been expecting all weekend. A friend and neighbor had given it her all, but cancer is a formidable foe and not everyone wins the battle. The hopes and wishes of so many people had been denied. She was gone.

I came back to the table but our appetites were no longer what they had been. Instead we sat in silence. Thinking. Remembering. Contemplating. Filled with empathy for those who would miss her the most.

Actually, I felt that I had spent most of the past few days with her. For sure, she had never been far from my thoughts. We had been high school classmates together. We had both married young and our first babies were born the same year, and grew up to go to school together too. We had done birthday parties and skating practices and hockey games and grad meetings together. There was a lot of history there. And yet, we had only reached our fifties, there should have been lots more history to come.

Nearly everything I had done over the weekend had brought my thoughts back to her. Our farm is halfway between where they live and land that they farm, so seeing them go around our corner was a common thing. As I worked in my garden I recalled talking about gardening with her. As I mowed my lawn I remembered us both vowing to have a dandelion free lawn some day. I certainly haven’t managed that goal yet, I wondered if she had ...

My thoughts were with her again while I was out doing the chores. She worked hard, and she was proud of this. She wasn’t a farm wife because she married a farmer; she was a farmer herself. She was a full partner on their farm: she knew every inch of land, could run the machinery, work with the cattle, and had a full understanding of the books. I understand completely how good it feels to earn the right to call yourself a farmer. Everyone who knew her knows that she had earned that right.

And yet, the farm would have meant nothing to her if she hadn’t shared it with her husband. In a world where the term “marriage” has become blurred and out of focus, theirs left no doubt, no gray areas. They loved each other, trusted each other, were devoted to each other. They were a team, a package deal. We should all be so lucky. I find myself hoping that having been a part of something so special will help carry him through the dark days ahead.

That, and their children, and grandchildren. And parents. And brothers and sisters. And neighbors and friends.

The only good that comes out of times like these is that we are forced to re-examine the miracle that life really is. If there is anything in this world that we take for granted, it is drawing our next breath: this is a good time to stop and acknowledge just how precious a gift that is. Discover, again, the sweet scent of rain on the wind, experience the bubbling laughter of a baby, witness how every sunset is prettier than the one the day before.

And speaking of sunsets ... our day was coming to an end and since supper wasn’t holding our interest we may as well go out and finish the day’s work ...

We started across the yard in silence, but then my farmer turned to me and held out his hand. I laughed, and teased him, a mushy gesture like that coming from such a macho man, but I took the hand he offered. Even through chore gloves the connection was warm and good.