For many years we went to our friends the Brynns, who used
to grow Christmas trees on part of their property. But they’ve shifted out of
the business, so we now go to Trout Brook Tree Farm, owned and operated by the
husband of Isabel’s longtime piano teacher. One of the many nice things about
living in a town of roughly 2000 people is that everyone you know is somehow related
to someone else in town.
Aside from the two Christmases that we were in France and
bought our tiny Charlie Brown style tree at a street market,
we’ve been
tromping through the snow every year in search of the ideal tree. It has
often become a competition, with each daughter arguing the merits of her
chosen tree.
But this year it was different. For one, there was no snow.
The
temperature was almost balmy, and we didn’t really need our hats and gloves, usually
essential this time of year if you’re spending any time outside.
These strange
shifts in weather patterns are a less dramatic, but still disturbing, reminder of climate change
than Hurricanes Irene and Sandy. The other difference this
year was that the girls didn’t argue about whose tree was best. I think this
may have something to do with the fact that Isabel will most likely be off at
college at this time next year, so it may be the last year for certain holiday
traditions to remain as they have been for as long as the girls can remember.
Once we pull in the driveway with the tree tied to the roof
of our car, the girls get absorbed in other things until the tree is trimmed
and dry and perfectly balanced in its wobbly tree stand, adorned with colorful, twinkling
lights. Much occurs between these two points in time, though, involving hoisting,
and more sawing, and sweeping, and groaning, and sometimes swearing--often due to the lights. One string is invariably twisted in knots or faulty, necessitating a trip
to the store to buy more. Chris always takes charge of the lights, as I
remember my dad doing also, with similar frustrations.
Then comes the best part, when we pull out all the ornaments
and trim the tree. Out come decorations handmade by the girls when they were
little,
and some made by me and Chris when we were children; the souvenirs from
trips we’ve taken;
and the fragile, antique glass ornaments that trimmed my and
Chris’s parents’ trees when they themselves were young.
As Isabel says, what
makes a Christmas tree special is that it’s really a “memory tree.”
Later, the girls and I make chocolates. They’re nothing
fancy, just a simple pretzel, dried apricot, or nut dipped into melted dark chocolate
and then allowed to cool.
I also make truffles at this time of year, which are
just slightly more complicated, but never fail to impress. (An article I wrote about demystifying
the making of truffles, by the way, will be in the February/March issue of the new food
magazine Whisk.)
If you’ve always wanted to make chocolates, and like me have
fantasized about being a chocolatier ever since you saw the movie Chocolat, then dipped chocolates are
a good place to start. It’s as easy as melting dark chocolate over a double
boiler and then dipping the pretzels, dried apricots, and nuts—we like pecans
and roasted, salted cashews—into the chocolate.
We then lay them on a cookie sheet
covered in waxed paper to cool and harden.
They keep for up to one week in a
cookie tin—if they last that long.
Happy Holidays, everyone!
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