It's Christmas Eve, and we're up to cooking a decently big meal here tonight.
When I was growing up, the big meal was at Christmas Eve, because it was a potluck at Grandma's house. I got to see all my cousins and open up packages from relatives and Santa. It was a near-perfect late 60's/early 70's Christmas. I felt pretty spoiled, and we would leave late in the evening so that the stars were bright in the crystalline cold.
Christmas day was my celebration with my immediate family, and we ate more relaxed food -- in fact I remember cheese, crackers, and summer sausage for brunch.
Things changed as I got older, as all of us children in our own particular baby boom got too old for Santa, and Grandma got too old to host Christmas at her house.
This year, in isolation, we're reverting to my family's schedule. The big meal is tonight: Rib roast with horseradish and my orange/golden raisin/cranberry relish; rice and broccoli casserole, homemade bread, oil and vinegar slaw, and mini mincemeat pies for dessert.
Tomorrow we have a veggie/relish tray, crackers, cheeses, herring nibble over Christmas presents. I already know everything I'm getting except for what Richard managed to smuggle in my stocking.
We don't have children, and sometimes I think that's because we both had traumatic childhoods. But we still have a childlike wonder for the holiday season.
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