Graded Blog #1

There is a distinct smell to my grandparents’ house. That smell wraps me up like a friendly, warm blanket, and it reminds me of family and peace. Nothing bad ever happened there, it seemed. No one fought, no one got sick, and nothing broke. There was always an excessive amount of incredible food. As a child, that house was the only place I wanted to be during the holidays. My grandparents lived in the hills of Texas, so it never got very cold. Needless to say, there were no snowball fights or sledding adventures. But our traditions were a part of Christmas that I never questioned – they were ours. Our family, our holiday, and our food.

I used to sit in one of 4 matching mini-chairs in front of the television with my sister, Katie, and two cousins, Brice and Marshall, who were practically my brothers. There were other cousins around too, younger and older, but we were special. The adults called us the “pack”, because we were all born within 18 months of each other, and more importantly, we did everything together. We used to spend hours constructing elaborate forts under the dining room table, creating our own epic adventures. We had to be dragged inside at bedtime after spending all evening at the creek capturing frogs as our very own “prisoners of war”. And no matter how tired we were, we woke up at 6:00 am every morning with our grandfather to feed the deer that gathered around their back porch. We would throw corn for the quiet deer from a giant can of feed that would shake and rattle as our small bones took turns carrying it. The sun would rise, and we would tip-toe inside and quietly entertain ourselves until the rest of the house woke up.

Then, the big day would come. On Christmas Eve, excitement filled the house just as quickly as the smell of Christmas food. The rest of the pack and I would immediately rush to kitchen to “help” the women. My grandmother and her three daughters, including my mother, would all be vigorously attending to multiple recipes at once, while a handful of the younger cousins dangled at their feet. Occasionally, a toddler would be handed off to one of us to look after when the women began to get annoyed and crowded. The pack spent most of the afternoon sitting on the bar stools across the counter nibbling on the pile of pecans my grandparents always kept around. Though we were usually starving by then, we knew better than to spoil our appetite for what was to come.

My family waits for everything to be ready in its unique ceramic Christmas dish until the food is served. It all comes out at once – each person carrying a warm plate to the table. We even set the desserts out, because it distresses my grandfather when people get up from the table just to fetch more food from the kitchen. The desserts go in the middle, and the dinner dishes surround them on the table. After the family prayer has been recited in unison, the feasting begins. The centerpiece of the meal is a golden ham, with an orange-flavored honey sauce drizzling down the skin. Of course, the cliché Christmas foods are present. The flavorful homemade stuffing, the sweet potato soufflé, crispy green bean casserole…they all make an appearance. I would fill my plate with small heaps of everything. I looked like an event planner, sampling food for an upcoming cocktail party. Once I had encountered and absorbed all the flavors, I would decide on my favorites and go back for second helpings. These would be slightly larger piles that I shoveled into my mouth. The children barely talked, because our mouths were too busy chewing , swallowing, and smiling.

When everyone was starting to finish up dinner, my grandmother would start to pass the dessert trays around, commanding where each should go on the table. Before we started eating them, everyone had their favorite dessert in front of their plate – that’s how my grandmother had planned it. Standing in a crystal bowl painted with white snowflakes, was my favorite part of the whole day: my grandmother’s marshmallow salad. This salad had been served on that table for as long as I can remember, and I had always adored it. It was a simple salad – mini marshmallows, chopped banana and pineapples, and pecans all mixed together in a sour cream whip, so that everything stuck together in gooey clusters. The key to the salad, however, was not the foods themselves, but the temperature of the masterpiece. It had to be chilled for at least 24 hours, so that the consistency was that of a light, fluffy pudding. I loved this salad, and I usually consumed at least a third of it by myself. This was one of the few dishes that were completely gone at the end of the meal, which was always a slight disappointment to me. On the other hand, it secretly pleased me to know that everyone else enjoyed my dessert.



For the next couple hours, my mother, grandmother, and aunts would begin cleaning the kitchen, while the men drank coffee in tacky Christmas mugs at the table. The rest of the pack and I had begun counting presents under the tree, competing over whose name was written on the most tags. There was never a clear winner. My grandfather would eventually build a fire in the fireplace, not for warmth, but rather for the feel-good atmosphere. We would snuggle around it, trying to forget that we were wearing t-shirts. Left-over food would start to appear as our hunger began creeping back. Everyone would start making plates and warming up room-temperature dishes. But if I went into the kitchen when there were no other children around, my grandmother would pull out a special surprise – a personal helping of marshmallow salad, just for me. My own perfect pile of love.

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