Dear Santa . . .

I want one of these! Imagine, a candle

that can do alllllll that work!

The Ritual of the Sacred China Christmas Mug

My Mom and I made the first of probably two eventual trips to do some Christmas shopping today.  It’s positively balmy out which is great for traveling around, but makes the crowded stores steamy.  This is government cheque day for pensioners, the unemployed, those who receive child care benefits, etc., so we might have been wiser to choose another day, but given the fickle weather this time of year, we decided to strike while the iron was hot.

To say that I don’t like crowds of any kind is an understatement, and with H1N1 floating around (I was sooo impressed by the young male cashier at one department store who kept wiping his nose on the back of his hand while we both checked our items…eewww!) and the unusually warm temperature, well, the shopping trip soon lost its festive appeal and quickly became a game of ‘how-fast-can-we-get-in-and-out-of-here’.

However, we both did well, crossing most of the items off our lists.  I, who am free to go shopping any weekend on my own, usually put my list aside and help my Mom concentrate on getting as many things as she can, advising on sizes for the kids, and her great-grandson, etc.  But I did well myself, and was especially pleased to snag one item that had previously been out of stock for weeks.  Blah, blah.  So, it was a GOOD day overall.

By the time I came home, I was ready for two Extra Strength Tylenol and a steaming cup of coffee as a chaser.  (Hey, it works for me.)  And that’s when I spied the Sacred China Christmas mugs.  Of course, I had to use one.  (You were wondering when I was going to get to this, weren’t you?)

Many moons ago, my dear friend Heather — who has since abandoned me with her new husband and a job at MacGill University in Ontario…the nerve! — gave me two of these china mugs as Christmas gifts, two years in a row.  I was so taken with the pattern:  “Christmas Magic”, a holiday embellishment of Royal Albert’s Old Country Roses pattern.  They were two of the very few things I brought with me when I divorced and I cherish them…partly because Heather gave them to me, and partly because I simply adore the design.  I’d sell my soul for an entire set.  (Well, maybe give up my eye teeth?)

Heather and I always shared a coffee at Christmas, always used these mugs for years and years.  It’s a small memory, perhaps, but they still make me smile every time I look at them.  Sigh.  I’m not exactly sure where I was going with all of this, except to ponder that don’t we all have a favourite plate that reminds us of holiday gatherings, or a cup and saucer that some beloved relative or friend always used to drink from?  Or a decoration, an ornament, that’s been handed down from parents to child that can sweep us back to childhood with a glance?

So, the ritual of the Sacred China Christmas mug has begun for another year, and whether it’s holding coffee or tea, it will always bring back a rush of lovely reminiscences of Christmases past.  And…my headache is gone. :)

Do YOU have a “Scared China Christmas mug”?

The Fruited Cake

Some will smile with delightful anticipation…some will screw up their faces in distaste.  Such is the essence of fruitcake, it seems — you either love it or hate it.

I am of the camp that loves it.  The rich, buttery aroma of those heavily fruited cakes is as much a Christmas tradition to me as the tree itself.  Of course, it wasn’t always that way.

When I was a little girl, my mother always made two fruitcakes every year — one light, and one dark.  On a day that was deemed “just right” for the long, slow bake — perhaps one of those days when the air smelled like snow — she would get up extra early in the morning, cut and flour the huge mixing bowls of nuts, raisins, and candied fruit and set out the rest of the ingredients to come to room temperature.  Pounds of rich butter (margarine or shortening won’t do for fruitcakes!) and a dozen eggs warmed on the counter.  And then came the arduous task of mixing it all together and putting it into the prepared pans.  The kitchen would soon be filled with the wonderful aroma of spices and butter, molasses and dark sugar.  I would be shooed into another room to play lest my jumping around would make the cakes “fall”.

When the cakes were finally ready to come out of the oven, there was such excitement and nervous anticipation as they cooled a few minutes in their pans.  Then they would be turned out onto racks to cool with proud exclamations of how “perfectly golden” and “wonderfully moist” the cakes were.  When fully cooled, they were wrapped in a layer of brandy soaked cheesecloth, then plastic wrap, and then stored in cake tins from the 1950’s that were just the right size for the cakes.  They were left to “season” in a cool, dark place until the ceremonious first taste.

Then one day in December, my Mom and her best friend, Florence (my godmother), would share the ritual of the first cut over several cups of tea in china cups, always pronouncing that, indeed, that year’s cake outshone all those that had gone before.

It took me a while to warm up to fruitcake, and I never did develop a close relationship with the dark cakes, but I eventually came to look forward to the fudgy, golden goodness of the light ones.  My Mom hasn’t made fruitcakes, light or dark, for a few years now.  Manipulating the heavy batter bothers her arthritic hands and arms and, though I completely understand why she gave up the ritual, I must say that the lead up to Christmas doesn’t seem quite the same without this long-standing tradition.

So, I’ve taken over the baking of the fruit cakes.  Rather than make one large cake, I usually bake three smaller ones and share them with my parents, Charlie’s folks, and keep one for us me.  Charlie and none of our daughters can stand fruitcake — which leaves all the more for me. :)  The fruit, nuts, and raisins are chopped and floured and waiting to be baked tomorrow morning.  I’ll post a photo of this year’s cake — it’s a recipe I’ve never made before.

How about you?  Love it, or hate it?