I Won’t Be Home For Christmas
The wife and kids got on a plane to our hometown of Baltimore today. They’ll be in Crab Town all week.
I’ll be here. Alone. As one of the new hires around here, getting a week off for Christmas was not in the cards. I’m working all week and will spend time with friends in the evenings.
Which means I’ll probably have it better than the men and women who are serving our country overseas. Or those who can’t afford a day off from work to be with their families. Or the countless other Americans who can’t control the fact that they’re going to be away from their loved ones this week.
Few of those lonely souls have a web site at their disposal. I do. As such, I’m going to tell you what I’m missing – and what I miss – this week. I invite those of you on duty during the holidays to do the same in our comments section.
There was a time when I wouldn’t take – or keep – a job that prevented me from being with my family on Christmas Eve. It’s our most important day of the year. It’s a feast, in the Italian tradition, with a menu that reflects our Spanish, Polish and Italian heritage.
Oven-baked paella with fat shrimp and black mussels. Huge squid rings battered, fried and served with lemon wedges. Sheets of empanada stuffed with cod, green peppers and raisins. Pierogis fried with onions in butter and served with sour cream. Baked Rock Fish (you know it as Striped Bass) stuffed with parsley, lemons and breadcrumbs. Fried smelts. Celery – yes, celery – served with olive oil, salt and pepper.
And the table was replenished with gallons of homemade sangria in glass pitchers.
I remember the year when Santa and Mrs. Claus showed up at our door after their car broke down. (They were coming from a paid gig). They knocked on the door in the hopes of using our phone. They found a party instead.
When I was a kid we’d go to Midnight Mass. If we were good – which meant staying awake in church and singing as best we could – we were allowed to open one gift when we got home. (The best one? A Tyco slot car set.)
My mother cooked most of the dishes. My father and the other men (of which I have allegedly become) fried the fish and the squid. Dinner was at 6 p.m. Cocktails stretched well into the night.
The first time I was allowed to join in a round of Sol y Sombra (Sun and Shade), a layered shot of anisette and brandy that always followed the feast, I was 16. My father served it with strong, black coffee on the side. This gesture is as close as he gets to saying “I Love You’’ despite years of evidence that he does, in fact, love his three sons.
I doubt he’ll give my kids – 5 and 7 – a shot and a coffee. But I’m sure he’ll tell them he loves them. I don’t have to be home for Christmas to know that’s what matters.
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