Here comes Christmas and long-ago much-loved memories. My favorite Christmas tradition was Christmas morning brunch at my grandfather’s house.
When my grandmother died, my grandfather married a family friend whom we loved very much. Her name was Elin, known to us all as Auntie Elin. She was Swedish and made the greatest ginger cookies, exquisitely decorated and placed in boxes for all the grandchildren.
After each family had Christmas, we would gather for brunch at Granddad and Auntie Elin’s. We kids ate in a bedroom off the kitchen and could be as rowdy as we wanted, eating breakfast and cookies. Then would come presents and late afternoon hugs and goodbyes.
Our childhoods were amazing—full of love and precious memories. Of course, there was the occasional “not perfect” Christmas when all I wanted was a hamster and what I got was a Pendleton jacket. Auntie Elin’s ginger cookies went a long way to ease that pain.
When I became an adult, I made sure that I had the ginger cookie recipe, but I added a twist. I bake the cookies, and friends come to decorate and eat them. I call it the “Cookie Shine.” Everyone gets to take their cookies home, and we usually fill in the gap with pizza.
When I was a youngster, it seemed as though we were blessed with snow every December. Out came the sleds. On weekends and after school, we kids did the hill. After we went to bed, our parents had waffle suppers and sledding parties into the wee hours.
One year, however, our Portland City Commissioner, thinking he was doing us a favor, had the hill cleared of snow. Irate neighbors, spurred on by my mom, bombarded the phones. Before that night, a truck returned our snow and firmly tamped it down.
In those days, it seemed as we had yearly white Christmases. We built snow forts and snow men. School closures were welcome, while parents secured babysitters or stayed home. In those days and that neighborhood, it was the norm for both parents to work. The sun shone frequently, and Bing Crosby sang White Christmas.
Each year I try to bring some of that same wonder to my family. I haven’t any grandchildren, and white Christmases seem to be few and far between. I depend on Auntie Elin’s cookies, breakfast loving hugs, the tree, and maybe the perfect gift.
This year we will cut out and bake ginger cookies—Auntie Elin’s recipe—and decorate them. Friends are invited for a festive time and cookies to take home. I have added a special “something,” however. As I write this, I take another look at “him.” “He” is a gnome. Any moment I expect him to give me a hug.
I took a friend to the hospital this week. While I waited across from the gift shop, I fixated on this four foot tall gnome in the doorway. He wears long red tights and gray boots trimmed in fur. His hat is green; his beard is white and gray. I love his cute round nose. Apparently the attraction is mutual, as he came home with me. He is now my gnome at home!
Curious about gnomes, I did some research and found a bit of information about my new friend. Gnomes came to England in 1847. They lived in gardens and were quite cheery. The oldest known garden gnome is named “Lampy,” according to Elisa Parhad.
It is thought that the seven dwarfs, a la Walt Disney, are indeed gnome-like. Based on historic patterns, gnomes can disappear, however, becoming relevant every four decades. This being said, I grow fonder of my little gnome friend daily, finding his company a sweet comfort.
Merry Christmas and may you also enjoy a “home gnome.”
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