On the man and my first date, we discovered our mutual love for Christmas.  I spent many of my previous relationships with men who, in the mildest case, were disdainful of the holiday.  It was one of those (plentiful) moments at the beginning of things with John that made me feel as though we were right together in ways I had never felt before.  Less than a year into our relationship, he drove to my parents house on Christmas morning, and arrived on their front porch decked in a full Santa suit.  Maybe not romantic for some, but it made my heart burst with love for a man so secure in the things he loved.

For me, Christmas had always been a truly magical time.  We honored traditions from both sides of the family ~ seven fish on Christmas Eve with the Italian side … smelts, calamari, shrimp cocktail, baccala … aglio olio pasta with raisins and pine nuts, thin strips of fried eggplant, stuffed peppers … (my memory is slightly faded, as the large family Christmas Eve celebrations began to peter out when I was still young, but boy oh boy, the abundance was staggering), and turkey with all the trimmings on Christmas Day, with chipolata sausages, bread sauce, stuffing, brussel sprouts and gravy.

In our house, we hung stockings for Santa to fill, and left out an assortment of Italian Christmas cookies, milk and hot cocoa (in a Santa Claus mug, of course!).  When we got a little older, my brother and I also felt it was necessary to leave food for the reindeer, so there were carrots and apples as well. (These are the things young minds think of when their mother rides horses … which seemed, at the time, remarkably similar to reindeer).  As little tykes, we would bunk in the same room on Christmas Eve (Dave had twin beds).  I’m not sure if this was because we were so excited, or filled with nervous anticipation about a complete stranger sliding down our chimney in the middle of the night, or because it was a clever ploy by mum &  dad to try to keep us in our beds as long as possible in the morning.

Irregardless, morning inevitably came, and while our parents employed some fairly effective delaying tactics, we usually ended up downstairs and around the tree before the sun was up.  Dave and I would wait at the top of the stairs, and when my dad had had a chance to turn the tree lights on, and my mum had put a pot on to boil for coffee and tea, they would summon us, and we would shuffle into the living room with our eyes closed.  My dad would tell us when we could open them (possibly so that both he and my mum could see our joyous expressions at the sight of the booty under the tree).  As would be expected of most children, we dove right in, and ended with our stockings (the toe of which was always stuffed with a tangerine,  a tradition and huge treat in my mum’s stocking as a child).  Usually, there was a sooty boot print on the rug, and multiple footprints in the fireplace.  Sometimes, Santa would leave us messages, written in green calligraphy on crinkly, weathered paper.  He always ate the cookies and drank the milk and cocoa.

As grown people, we now arrive to view Santa’s delivery with the sun in the sky, and take turns opening presents (either Dave, my dad or the man serve as ‘Santa’ and hand out boxes to the family).  We still end with stockings, but we’re usually all sipping steaming mugs of hot chocolate and enjoying the tradition of it more than the magic, which can only really exist in it’s purest form when small people are present, and full of wonder.

Since setting up a home with the man, we have begun establishing our own traditions.  (It has necessitated some negotiation, as we both feel strongly about how we celebrate).  Tonight, we’re venturing into the city for the man’s work holiday party.  And tomorrow we start a new tradition … with our first Annual Holiday Party!  Let the magic of Christmas begin!