The Hostess

December 18, 2019

It wasn’t until too late that I learned how much our Mom loved the holidays. To me, they were stress-laden, and never quite all they should have been. I tended to favor the wistful Christmas music of Vince Guaraldi for driving alone at night to look at Christmas lights.

Our Mom was an introvert with a complicated personal history: she had lost her own mother at age 9, her father at age 13, and had been raised by a rather formal grandmother and a difficult maiden aunt. After marriage to a Californian, relocation and two children, she was never happier than when alone, puttering around the family house after midnight, with everyone safe and tucked-in under one roof.

But once a year, for Christmas dinner, Mom overcame her introversion and became the Hostess.

In our family, Christmas dinner was a formal occasion. We dressed up for dinner (long skirts or silk, ties and vests). There was no TV all day. The dressing was prepared and the fresh turkey stuffed and put in the oven no later than 2 pm. The days leading up had seen a fit of cleaning and inspection: the crystal drops on the chandelier, the silver and cut glass, the crystal stemware, the white linen tablecloths and napkins. The candles were all refreshed and wicks burnt. The dining room table centerpiece was ordered and picked-up. All of the auxiliary tableware was unearthed from multiple sideboards and put in place: the steel carving knife, the crystal knife rest, the silver water pitcher, the bone china salt & peppers, the especial trivets. And I’ve skipped over all of the specialty crystal and Christmas serving ware used to provide guests with cocktails, cheese, crackers and nuts for pre-dinner nibbling.

Dinner always arrived late: aim for 6:30, land at 8 pm. Mom and I got everything on the table, from the watermelon pickle to the big bird itself, often with the assistance of our cousins; then Dad carved and Frank poured the wine. At last, Mom could relax and enjoy her guests.

But her real achievement was not so much the perfectly presented meal as it was the group that had been gathered. Mom, like a hen collecting chicks, brought to her table family and friends who had nowhere to go: the long-widowed aunt by marriage, the cousin in money trouble, the step-grandparent, the elderly childless couple, a fellow-southerner or two. At its height, our table had to split into two to accommodate 18. When Mom and Dad retired to Williamsburg, one of Dad’s first projects was expansion of the dining room – which included construction of additional leaves for the old mahogany family table to ensure we could all sit together.

And Mom was happy to do it, despite the stress of planning, preparation and perfection. Again, she was never so happy as afterwards, when the satisfied guests had departed and the kitchen was heaped with dirty dishes. And her remaining chicks were slipping into their jammies while she had a little coffee in front of the tree.

Postscript:

I wish I could say I had been born with Mom’s gift for hospitality — even her interest and enthusiasm for all of its accoutrements— but I was not. Despite being raised to dine with presidents, I am inclined to prefer jeans and the intimacy of a convivial pizza shared with close friends.

Nonetheless, all of that training has not gone for naught. This past Thanksgiving, I pulled out additional settings of the wedding china (which I use every day), and was glad to have the matching gravy boat, vegetable dishes, covered casserole and turkey platter that had been Christmas gifts during the ‘90’s. I located the sterling flatware that had been my grandmother’s and added some judicious pottery pieces to spice things up. The centerpiece contained no greenery, just a simple oil lamp filled with red oil. No white linen, no candles, no fancy trivets. But cloth napkins. And it worked. The family that came, feasted and visited, as intended.