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I spent the first sad Christmas after my husband died attending a festive holiday dinner hosted by a couple I’d recently met and didn’t know well. In the throes of fresh grief, I’d dreaded the thought of holiday travel and facing Christmas Day dinner among sympathetic family members, with every familiar tradition and morsel of food a reminder of my husband’s absence.
I couldn’t face it. I knew I’d weep. With relief and gratitude, I welcomed the unexpected invitation.
I don’t speak Yiddish, but I’m told “haimish” is an excellent word to describe how my Jewish hosts embrace Christmas Day, making it a warm, joyful, inclusive celebration for everyone. While there was no Christmas tree or wreath in sight (and certainly not a crèche or Santa) the true spirit of Christmas imbued their warm holiday gathering.
Instead of spending Christmas Day lost in mournful remembrances, I joined their 20-some guests — all ages and backgrounds, many of us single — around a long makeshift table beautifully set with place cards, a welcome touch since few of us knew each other. With a platter of carved turkey as the centerpiece, the table groaned with heaping bowls of traditional side dishes brought by guests and passed around family style.
Over desserts and coffee, we each took turns talking about what we were looking forward to in the coming year. Then we all drew numbers to select a gift from a pile of wrapped presents we’d each brought — the only stipulation being that the item was a recycled gift we didn’t want. I brought a set of snowmen salt-and-pepper shakers and left with a robot floor cleaner (pink, with batteries, that I gave to a friend to amuse her puppy).
For the next several years, I coveted that Christmas Day dinner invitation and the chance to celebrate the holiday with guests of various ethnicities bringing a taste of their cultural background to the dinner table — Greek Spanakopita (spinach pie), Italian antipasti, Polish pierogi, Danish gravlaks, mince pies, profiterole and Berlinerkranser.
Then, eight years after my husband died, I met the man who became my life partner. Patrick, a widower and terrific cook, hosts his own annual Christmas Day dinner for neighbors, a tradition he and his deceased wife began over 25 years ago. Our guests are representative of our Hudson Valley, New York, village, including Japanese, Pakistani, Tunisian, Ecuadoran, German and Scottish neighbors, with Quaker, Catholic, Muslim, Buddhist and Jewish friends among us.
The essential holiday decor includes a tall, fully decorated fir tree, a parade of intricately carved nutcrackers on the mantel, poinsettias in the foyer and baskets of Christmas crackers to pop. With the dining room reserved for the buffet, we round up small tables and mismatched chairs, to set up eating areas throughout the living room. We even retrieve a high chair and play mat from the attic to accommodate the younger crowd settling themselves in the den with toddlers and babies.
Good food is the all-important ingredient, with a buffet dinner sufficient to feed a flock of some 30 or more neighbors — we never know quite how many to expect! Patrick prepares turkey, honey-glazed ham and vegetarian dishes, and bakes sourdough bread and flourless chocolate cake. I make cookies, most from Norwegian recipes (krumkake, rosettes, fatigmand) handed down from my mother. I also make Norwegian meatballs with lingonberries, but refrain from serving lutefisk, a family favorite of dried cod reconstituted in lye that some would describe as fish-flavored Jell-O.
Our guests bring breads, cookies and various dishes, many of ethnic and regional origin. Our Texas neighbor brings a Tex-Mex enchilada casserole, and another friend brings Ziti. Others arrive with cheese platters, pickled herring and deviled eggs.
A Tunisian neighbor makes his prized Tajine, a delicious frittata-like egg dish. Our Japanese neighbor brings a platter of sushi, usually smoked salmon or tuna, and shukurimu, soft puffs with a whipped cream and custard filling. A Southern neighbor makes a delectable bourbon pecan pie, and another brings a homemade buche de Noel. Always welcome are the plates of German stollen, and various Swedish, Polish and Italian cookies and cakes.
The point is that no one leaves hungry, whatever their preferences and dietary restrictions. Everyone is made to feel welcome, including kids, house guests and anyone new to the neighborhood. We reinvite a core group each year, telling them to bring some pals along if they want.
The leftovers go next door to our friends, who host a Boxing Day party, a longstanding neighborhood tradition. Our neighbors, who are Quaker, lived in England while attending university, and adopted what began as a Victorian tradition of giving boxes with gifts in appreciation to servants the day after Christmas. These days, it’s an opportunity to gather up items to donate to charity.
Recalling that long-ago Christmas when, newly widowed, I dreaded attending a holiday dinner, I also remember how comforting it was to be welcomed and embraced by new friends — and not be alone that day.
I recognized how emotionally unhealthy it was to isolate myself, but would have done so had it not been for the thoughtfulness of virtual strangers reaching out to me. I’m grateful for that gesture, and mindful of connecting to others in need of a bit of holiday cheer.
What is your holiday meal like? How many people usually attend? Let us know in the comments below.
Sonia Pulido
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
