Most everything in my family is fairly new, at least on my father's side –– including being American –– and has sprung up with inconstant grip on this generation. Although, we are, as my mother reminds me, fourth-generation Methodists –– her grandfather built the church in his little town in Jones County, Mississippi, but that's not so far back and it's really all I know. And we're not really creatures of habit, anyway. So things have ebbed and flowed depending more on circumstance than anything else. The past few years we've celebrated Christmas here in New York. On Christmas Eve, my mother comes up from Maryland, and my siblings come down from the Upper East Side, and we convene at mine for dinner, so early it's supper, and then the candlelit service at exquisitely historic John Street Church.
"Have you seen Chocolat?" "No, but we make fun of it [on the trading desk] all the time." Then, forks met cake, and there were no more words.
This year's delight was a cake from Julia Child's repertoire, Le Marquis, which I modified to my own desires, naturally, using whole wheat flour, and, inspired by the best hot chocolate I ever had, at Cacao et Chocolat on the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris, added vanilla, cinnamon and a dash of cayenne to the icing. Warm, velvety, a tiny nip at the end –– when I tasted it, I thought I'd pass out. The loveliest aspect of having a grand celebration on Christmas Eve is that you wake the next day thinking, "there's more?" Welcome, superfluous, playful, and deeply cherished. Yesterday we convened at my brother's place for brunch and to open presents. My father doesn't come into town; having been born in the Bronx, Old Jay considers escaping the clutches of New York (looming much larger in his memory as it was at the end of the Depression than the way it does in ours) once daring enough.
Black vintage dress, vintage Grecian pleated shell, Monica Vinader bracelet. If you like the Kostas Murkudis fur collar, you'd have loved the one that went over it. Can't recall the shoes. Did I wear any?
Today my mother has summoned us to the Ritz for tea, blizzard or no. Which, if it sticks like the snow outside, may be our next tradition. Tonight I'm having friends in town from the West Coast over for a cozy dinner. Of course, the gifts've been nice. From the luxurious promise of the box slid across the bar with a solemn, "I know it's not the one you wanted..." [grin (much more tasteful)] and Thursday's visits from Santa's workmen, doing double duty at FedEx & UPS, to yesterday's bounty, a day spent with my truest loves –– the pile of lacy unmentionables, the potted reverie of Erno Laszlo and Acqua di Parma, the old bits of sparkle I could string from here to Samarkand to fool the Milky Way, the bottle of shimmering pink Veuve Clicquot, all glacé, and the seven kinds of salt, mysterious serendipity gathered from all parties and the ends of the Earth, evoking one historian's observation of the route at its height: Spain did no more than dream of this.
At an uncharacteristic loss for words, I had no fripperies to offer. Good thing I'd thought to invite them to Europe next month.