I’m excited to be spending the holidays with my husband in our own apartment this year, but I’m nervous as well. Some things are familiar: we have the menorah next to the Christmas tree because of our jumbled-up religious backgrounds. Though, while the scent of pine needles and frying latkes are appropriately nostalgic, everything else will be new.
I’m so used to the tradition of being at my grandmother’s Christmas morning. She cooks and bakes with the power of 10,000 golden Martha Stewarts. So, before the big day comes, there are already tins and tins stuffed with fudge, peanut brittle, cookies, and pies to make the heart melt and cholesterol clog. My aunts and uncles come home with their children, and their children bring their children — it’s so many people, the house literally warms up. Then someone brings up Rush Limbaugh and the rhetorical heat is on as well.
Christmas morning brings with it the best eggs that have ever existed in the universe, cooked in a pot I used to think could feed the world. Eggs Goldenrod and homemade hot cocoa have always meant it is Christmas. Even after years of being tasked with peeling the endless hard-boiled eggs in preparation, I still don’t know how the dish is actually made. It’s a fragrant, eggy cream served over toast, and so delicious. The next day, the entire family jockeys over the leftovers; each of us tries to be the one up early enough to score the feast.
This year, I’m out. The husband and I will be creating a new morning memory, alone with our two cats. He’s awesome, and already planning a fancy french toast concoction, a Christmas stocking (my first), Chinese for lunch and a trip to the movies to see “Sherlock Holmes.” It’s gonna be a fantastic day, but I know I’m going to miss my family as they celebrate hundreds of miles away. Growing up, balancing nostalgia for my old single life with the anticipation for the thrills of my new married one, is a strange and daily adventure. But, I’m still going to miss Grandma’s eggs.