Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Los Angeles, California


Christmas songs and carols are like Christmas movies. Your favorite one often depends on what kind of a year you've had. I'm all for saying It's a Wonderful Life is the best film invoking the spirit of Christmas. Especially since I'm a heretic who really does not like Miracle on 34th Street. But, truthfully, there are years when The Ref is the film that really meets up with my holiday sense and sensibility. Take a crazy, dysfunctional family and put them in St. Lucia headgear with lit candles . . . well, you get the picture. A good year comes in somewhere in the middle.


As for Christmas music, a sad year always brings to mind the song, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, especially the way I hear it in my head, and on my iPod, sung by Judy Garland. I heard it within me all through the Christmas season after 9/11. And before that, my first Christmas without my dad. The story goes that when it was written for the film Meet Me In St. Louis (one of a few films guaranteed to make Billy leave the room, if not the house when he  sees it's on), the lyric went: Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  It may be your last. Louis B. Mayer was reputed to have said that it was the most depressing song he had ever heard, so he sent Ralph Blaine, the lyricist, back to the composing board to change it. Perhaps the rewritten lyrics helped, as I don't find it depressing. Just wistful, evocative . . . poignant. And, truly there are Christmases when you just feel that way.


Joining the traditions of Christmas songs, carols, and films, is Christmas food, which comes to us, more or less, from our families, the families of our spouses, and those special traditions that we establish ourselves. Case on point, Billy and I get drunk and wrap Christmas presents. OK, I'm kidding. But we do make a party of wrapping the gifts. Billy does the paper, and I do the ribbons and tags. And we do imbibe something special to grease the skids of this process. Usually not eggnog, because while I would be good to go with this, Billy doesn't like milky drinks. So, champagne tends to be the go-to bev, which is fine with both of us.


My mother's grandmother was born in Prague, which makes me one-quarter Czechoslovakian. That is the quarter that gets reinforced at Christmas. I have fragile, beaded ornaments that, reputedly, my great-grandmother brought to this country with her when she emigrated to America in the late 19th century. She also brought with her a tradition that for many years required that my family served fish on Christmas Eve. This probably dates back to the days when there was still Catholicism in the family. And, though the family had long ago left the Church, I grew up with this fish which is prepared in a Slavic style. The recipe's title is translated as Fish in Black Sauce. Real appealing, eh? It consists of a firm white fish (usually bass or halibut) cut into large chunks, poached then combined with a sauce that contains onion, celery root, lemon slices, whole blanched almonds, and prunes. The sauce is tarted up with vinegar, and then sweetened and thickened with gingerbread crumbs. I'm not kidding. And, trust me, this was a huge challenge for all of my boyfriends, and later, for Billy. They all seemed to do alright with the dumplings served under or alongside the fish. In a concession to my grandfather, whose antecedents came from Alsace-Lorraine, my grandmother served spaetzle dumplings, instead of larger Czech-style dumplings. Most of the guys got the dumpling thing. Guys do stodge well, as do I, come to that. We always had the leftover spaetzle browned up in butter the following morning along with eggs, sausage, etc. Lovely. Really.


I haven't had this, which we called Christmas Fish, in a few years. It became daunting for my mom to prepare it. Plus, we were down to so few family members, and most of them the ones who didn't really care for it. So, ham or a pork roast, and even French-Canadian Meat Pies one iconoclastic year, replaced the fish. I do miss it, but what I miss much more is the braided, yeast bread that my grandmother, then my mother made for all holidays. It is called Vanoca (and pronounced by our non-Czech tongues as Vonitchka). It is a firm bread, not like the challah that my friends often buy for their Shabbat dinners. This is a rich bread, more like panettone. It has almonds and golden raisins in it. At Christmastime, my grandmother would add cut up glaceed cherries in red and green. It looked so pretty. But my sister didn't like this. She called the cherries "phony fruit." So they went by the wayside. That was ok. I think I liked the flavor better without them, though the color was festive. When my grandmother could no longer make the bread, my mother took up the mantle. This was slightly diffy, as she never bothered to get a written recipe from my grandmother, whose verbal recipes never had exact measurements. She would say things like, add enough flour to make a stiff dough, but not as stiff as noodle dough. HUH? So, my mom found a recipe in a Czech cookbook and began making the bread, tweaking the recipe as the years passed so that it was more like my grandmother's.


Now, remember the adjective "braided?" Well, therein lies the rub. A decade or two back, in my early married life, I asked my mom to teach me how to make the bread. I wrote down the recipe as she demonstrated it. I have that copy before me now, written in pencil! At the time that we did this, Mom had me try to braid one of the loaves. Quel mess! I could braid my hair, but dough is a different animal altogether. Back at that time, my mom  would make about six loaves at a time in this huge, manual bread mixer with a crank handle on top. Mom would proof the yeast, then measure out the ingredients, and then my dad would mix the dough. With that large of a batch, cranking required a lot of elbow grease. After the dough rested and had risen, my mom would shape and braid the loaves. Today, the bread mixer is long gone. In recent years, my mom made only a few loaves for our holiday celebrations at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, using her Kitchen Aid mixer with the dough hook. And this year, I will do the same as I attempt to make the bread myself, for the very first time. Please wish me luck!


And so with the wistfulness of passing on the baking baton, the song Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas will be much played here at Casa Healy. For when Judy sings, Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow, we understand that the fates are not always that kind. And that within the joyousness of the Christmas season exists the poignancy of holidays past, and the memories of those who once shared the celebration with us.


So, this year, enjoy the season with all those you love, young and old. Rejoice, drink eggnog, drink champagne, break bread, and have yourself a merry little Christmas. Thank you all, once again, for reading my blog.