Boxing Day

Thumbelinna, which was what we named this years turkey, came wrapped with a big red ribbon from our butcher. Strangely she took longer to cook than the turkey at Thanksgiving which was almost double the size. In frustration we shoved her into the microwave at the end or maybe she would still be roasting.

Boxing Day conjures up thoughts of English drawing rooms, sherry and mince pies. Ours was a little more mundane involving a meal with English neighbours just back from Romania where they are advising for a new business school. But then again the lively conversation when people automatically know the significance of the Treaty of Westphalia, history backwards/forwards/sideways, the politics behind the politics of many different countries, was anything but mundane.

It has been a wonderful holiday as will be the rest of the week. None of the after Christmas shopping frenzy when many stores, restaurants and shops shut for the week. Some companies totally close down as well. Not all, but some. I plan to go to Zurich to see an old friend, her St. Bernard, husband and new baby.

This Christmas like all carry the ghosts of Christmases past. I can still feel my father’s arms as he lifted me up to see Dancer’s and Prancer’s, et.al. foot prints on the sloping roof outside my window.

It’s Sam singing rum te tum tum to the “Little Drummer Boy.” Or the tree not being decorated until a 1957 Styrofoam Sputnik was added to the decorations.

As an adult each year my Dad and Step Mom, whom I call Jim and Norma, sent oranges, the size of grapefruits from Florida to my office where it was guaranteed someone would be there to receive them. The year after my Dad died, the box arrived with a note. My assistant asked me why I paled when I read the note. I handed it to him to read the message “Love Jim and Norma.” In a way I felt my Dad reached beyond the grave one more time to bring me love at Christmas.

And there were Cousin Christmases in Garmish, and our "forced hikes" that left my Japanese chins leg feathers covered with tiny snow balls while the meal cooked slowly back at their flat that ovefr looked the Olympic Ski Hill. Once we started with Apfelkuchen on a sun filled terrace before walking back down the mountain for the main meal.

There were the formal Swiss Christmases in Payerne, and the less formal in Geneva with my Syrian, Swiss, Czech and Indian friends. There was the year that we had Llara, Yara, Tara and Sara, or the year we belly danced through the holiday as storms raged outside.

This year was quieter, housemate, Sons no. 1 and 2 and Italian friends for dinner. The food from fois gras with figs to homemade cranberry sauce was appreciated. The fire in the fireplace burned warming our bodies on the outside as the champagne and food warmed our insides.

I missed having my daughter near, but Inshallah, I will be with her next week at this time not just for a few days, but for the month of January.

Happy Holidays