A belated but honest holiday post

I think it’s fair to say the U.S. Jewish community (probably the world Jewish community) is reeling in reaction to the incident last night in Monsey, New Jersey. In general the bad news seems to be accelerating lately. I had a hard time bringing myself to light the last Chanukkah candle tonight.

As far as I go with the holiday: on the 24th I was in such a mood of rage that I was almost afraid to write — and decided that any holiday post I wrote that wouldn’t spoil the general mood would be dishonest. (Hence the title of this post.) I did draft a post called “what part of crying do you hate the most” but I’ll save that for some other occasion.

[below I link to password protected material — short reminder that the passwords are in the subject lines of the posts]

Quick summary of events: on the 20th, I finally got HL to agree that he and his family would come over for a Christmas meal (on the 26th). Longer-term readers may remember the non-negotiation of last year. We also negotiated the menu as neither of us really likes to eat poultry on these occasions, as mom was so good at it. And I wasn’t even thinking about Flower, with whom I have not exchanged one word since our screaming match last Christmas.

Perry warned me that she would reappear, but I hadn’t heard from her all year and so I assumed the issue was dead. I prompted dad to get a gift for her, and then when he didn’t have any ideas of what to give her, I purchased a chocolate assortment for her at our local luxury chocolatier that really should have pleased anyone who doesn’t despise chocolate. I mentally checked that box and didn’t think any more about it.

So on the evening of the 23rd, I was frantically trying finish my fall 2019 grades. I had two hours and eight grades left to finish, when dad raised the subject of Flower’s Christmas. Now: time doesn’t really have meaning to him anymore, so although he’d been told several times that that was what I was doing, he wasn’t intentionally trying to mess up my grades. But I’m trying to be on extra good behavior at the moment, and turning in late grades necessitates a signature from the dean and a concession from the registrar and it was just going to be much less stressful to finish on time. I tried to postpone the discussion but dad was not having it.

So you can guess that dad wanted Flower included in our Christmas on the 26th. I stated in no uncertain terms that she was not invited. Dad immediately began pushing the usual buttons (he installed them after all): she was going to be all by herself on Christmas being the main one, but also about charity, good behavior, kindness, what mom would have said about the situation. I stuck with my position: she is mean to me, she has never apologized for how she behaved last year, she is not a member of my family, and she barely knows HL and his family and is a shy person to boot, she has her own son, and if anyone feels guilty about her being alone on Christmas, it should be him and not me. I was already livid when I texted HL about it — he said he didn’t care either way but his reply was “the food will be bad and everyone will be pissed off but at least we’ll be together.” That sent me another few degrees into combustion — as I actually was looking forward to a pleasant time with them. He may have been joking, or not sober, but I guess I’d anticipated his support and didn’t get it.

Anyway, I was angry enough that it was hard to finish my grades, but I did it (and then filled Christine’s DMs with my emotions — the only person I was reasonably sure might be up at the time. Thanks Christine!).

Dad tried again the morning of the 24th but I refused again. I said I would make a restaurant reservation for them (all the same restrictions as last year around availability and accessibility are still in force), or I would make the meal I’d planned for us on the 25th and transport it to Flower’s house. He said, “wouldn’t it be easier for her to just come here?” and I said, “I still don’t think she could make it up the stairs, but you’re welcome to have her here — in which case I will cook the food and leave.” “You’re being such a bitch,” was his response.

The 24th was a senior helper day and as I had errands to run (as in: collecting a lot of the food), I left a few hours earlier as I did not know what to do with that statement. Was it true?

Generally speaking, I have a certain number of negative messages about myself that run through my mind fairly consistently. When things are going well I can discount them, but grading usually amplifies them (“You’re not working hard enough,” “You’re not teaching well enough,” “If you were a better instructor these assignments would be better,” “If you had designed the course better they’d have done better on these essays”). So I had that, and then the tape loop started including the chorus of “You’re a bad person,” “You’re behaving sinfully,” “You’re unkind,” “It’s your responsibility to be the better person,” “You’re hurting your father,” “You’re hurting Flower,” and of course the kicker, “Your mother would disapprove of the way you’re acting right now.”

I had a lot of time to think and try not to cry while I was running errands, and I came to two firm and one provisional conclusions about the situation: the first was that no one was ever going to reward me for telling them “no,” no matter the rational reasons for the boundary I was setting. The second was that dad was probably becoming upset that his frantic button-pushing was not achieving the desired result, and that was the reason for his cruelty. The provisional conclusion was that I still couldn’t believe that Flower actually wanted to leave her house, either to come to a meal at our house or to eat one in a restaurant.

I got home with all the stuff, picked dad up from Flower’s house, made dinner (it was potato latke night, but my attention was not great so they got really crispy), didn’t publish the post I wrote, and went to bed.

On the 25th, dad tried yet again to get me to invite Flower for the 26th, and I repeated the options: I could still try to find them an appropriate restaurant reservation for the same day; I would cook them the Christmas meal I had on hand and bring it to her; I would cook them the meal, she could come to our house, and I would leave. Dad finally settled for us bringing the meal to her. So I made it and boxed it: this pork tenderloin; these scalloped potatoes; these brussels sprouts, and a mince pie. It all went to her house steaming warm. I carried it up to her doorstep, helped dad into the house and gave him the box and left.

So then I had this feeling of chagrin — I didn’t eat pork for about twenty five years, but I did want to know how it tasted, and I had tasted the sauce for the potatoes just before baking them and my tastebuds were sort of set on that meal. I also frankly resented that Flower got homemade crust for a two crust pie out of me. However. I was alone! So I went to a Hmong restaurant and had stuffed chicken wings and pad thai. Thank the universe that not everyone in our small town is a Christian. Extra Christmas love on Christmas from me to animists, especially if they operate a restaurant.

And then I went home and cooked and baked — HL’s comment about the likelihood of the food sucking playing in the back of my mind along with “You’re a clumsy baker” and “You’re too extravagant with fats” and “Dad is made at you” and “No one wants to come to this meal anyway.” I made galettes of blueberries and blackberries and mince and homemade dinner rolls. (Uch, yeast. Piecrust is one thing but if I bake something for you with yeast, you know I really love you.) I made horseradish sauce and herbed butter and California dip and dried beef rollups with horseradish cream cheese filling and deviled eggs and cold poached salmon and dill sauce for that and broccoli raisin salad.

I picked dad up and he said not a word either about the meal or about Flower, although he did give me a note from her, which I have not opened. I didn’t ask. I didn’t need any more negative messages.

I had to make space for a short near-heart attack near midnight, when I could not get the dishwasher moving. There’s some issue with the control board — I had to flip the breaker twice so I had to wait till dad was asleep — but I got it to wash. Thankfully as it was crammed full by that point.

So most of the work was done by the 26th. I got up, set the table, reloaded the dishwasher, and started clearing away clutter. I put the drinks on the porch to cool. I peeled the potatoes and put them in the slow cooker (I had never tried it this way before, but I now recommend it), cleaned the asparagus, and then finally put the meat in the oven — a seven-pound standing (beef) rib roast. (Apologies to my vegan readers.) It was my first time and it’s insanely expensive, so I was worried. By now the tape in my mind was proclaiming that the method I chose was not going to work and that I was going to ruin an expensive cut of meat and everyone would hate the meal anyway and also that the table didn’t look sufficiently festive. It didn’t help that the beef roasted a lot faster than I thought it should (possibly because I left it out at room temperature quite a long time).

By the time HL and his family got here, I was fervently hoping for it to be over soon, just so the negative messages in my head would recede.

These are the beef horseradish cream cheese rollups, with deviled eggs lurking on the side. Classic late 70s/early 80s appetizer. Please ignore our early 1970s kitchen decor — it’s honestly museum quality at this point. Also, for some reason this was the ONLY picture we took of the entire meal or event. I’m not sure why.

And then, somehow, everything turned. They weren’t unhappy to be here. The pace of my negative thoughts slowed down. We opened a bottle of Martinelli’s sparkling cider and toasted the day. We had a short discussion about the meat being ahead of schedule and made a plan to respond. We watched a youtube vid about how to carve the meat when it was done. I brought out the appetizers (adding to the list above a sausage plate and an assortment of cheeses we like: an alpine-style gran cru for me, five-year aged cheddar for HL, brie with the rind removed for my SIL, and Limburger for my dad and a jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a bowl with fresh raspberries and watermelon, and some shrimp cocktail for dad). HL was moved by the appetizer choices — there was some memory associated with each of them, on purpose from my side, and he sent the photograph above to our first cousins. I kept my eye on the clock and moved dishes through the oven, stovetop and microwave so all the sides (plus a hastily contrived dish of frozen sweet corn for the nieces, who apparently despise asparagus) came on to the table at the right time.

The only wrinkle in the whole meal was that the beef didn’t produce enough juices to make an au jus — but my SIL looked at the table and said, “we definitely don’t need it.” So I didn’t make any gravy, and we ate. The beef was perfect, the asparagus was al dente, the rolls were warm, the butter was soft, the sauces were well received, we loved the potatoes. Plates were emptied. Repeatedly. As both nieces are picky eaters I felt quite positive about that.

We reminisced extensively about mom (which we haven’t done much of and which would have been hard if Flower had been there, especially given that she told my dad once that he was obsessed with the memory of his dead wife). B loved her Christmas gift from her grandfather, a .30-06 (yes, I know. And I bought it. Urgh). A was even more ecstatic about hers (a Fitbit Versa 2). I was happy and I felt like the people were not in a bad mood and the food had (demonstrably) not sucked.

Of course, in the middle of the afternoon Flower called and dad chose to go over there. I took him and came back and spent a few more hours with HL, SIL and A and B. On the way over, dad did thank me, although it wasn’t clear from what he said if he realized exactly what year it is. And he thanked me again the next day, when I think he was somewhat clearer. HL et al. were also effusive in their thanks for both the meal and the pleasant afternoon.

But I in particular loved that all the negative voices in my head stopped. I was exhausted. Although this is not the most strenuous meal I’ve ever made, or the most putsy, I am getting older and I don’t have the boundless energy I would have had for cooking and baking when I started doing this sort of thing. But I think the emotional relief was the real reason why I wanted to take a nap in the middle of dinner. Thinking about it now, I realize that in addition to my own negative loops, I was playing my father’s and my brother’s narratives about me in my mind for over two days straight. And that’s simply exhausting.

There are more (in the regular parlance of Armitage) mountains to climb in the next few weeks. But all that remains of Christmas is Flower’s note. I think I’m going to get a friend to read it first and decide if I need to see it or not.

~ by Servetus on December 30, 2019.