memories of Christmas

Marcel Proust, somewhere in his accumulated ramblings that go by the name of À la recherche du temps perdu and stretch a nick over 3000 pages in paperback, conjures up the madeleine as a symbol, universally recognized by now, of the association of involuntary memories with smells, of the power of smells to evoke long-forgotten memories that couldn't possibly be retrieved in any other way.

Christmas is a feast of smells and I wouldn't want to do without my little smoking man burning incense cones inside its wooden body, but my strongest association to the holiday is not olfactory. My Christmas is always audio-visual. For as long as I can remember, Christmas always started with the playing, first from vinyl and later from a CD, of Bach's Christmas oratorio, and there's nothing that puts me in Christmas mood more than hearing the first bars of the first part. It works like a switch.

I've described Christmases before, but the audio-visual aspect has never been told. Back from church, mom retires to the living room and gets busy while my sister and I grab the gifts we wrapped more (her) or less (me) artfully and reassemble in the hallway. My grandmother used to stand there beside her bulging black-and-red leatherette duffel, enjoying the excitement growing in us. After long minutes, fuzzy lights would start flickering beyond the frosted glass-door into the living room, the candles on the tree being lit one by one. Then the Dresden Philharmonic would launch into Jauchzet, Frohlocket and moments later a bright bell would sound the go-ahead. We would barge through the door and start the giving and opening of gifts. It was Christmas. (Not even in the deep recesses of memory untapped for decades is there any hint of Santa Claus.)

As I write this post, it's the thirteenth day of Christmas. The candles should be blown out, the decoration put away, but I'm a day late. I'm having tea and the last few marrons glacés. The Räuchermann has its last smoke and from the stereo hails the Christmas Oratorio in the same glorious 1974 Eterna recording that I remember, but whose musical value I never appreciated until today. The 3-CD-box was a gift from my mom to help me survive my absence from comfortable traditions this year, to give me a strong foundation on which to build future traditions, reinterpretations of what I know.

With Flucha and me celebrating together, Christmas henceforth will be a mix of things. To launch the future off into the right direction, I contributed the music, the church (Church of England midnight mass rather than Protestant afternoon service) and the incense; Flucha the insistence on having the big dinner on Christmas Eve and santons she made herself. I had unfortunately no time for practicing, and the recorder performance had to be canceled, but that's something for the years to come.

Santons

Some astute last-minute shopping provided me with a slotted spoon and a big heavy skillet that ensured I was well placed for the cooking. Magret de canard with creamed Savoy cabbage and homemade gnocchi sounds sophisticated but was a (rather long) snap to cook once I had sourced the duck breast in a local butcher's shop. We sat down to eat, smells in our noses before we dug in that will anchor in all infinity the memory of this Christmas.