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Christmas Eve at the McFarlands
Waiting for the last spoonful
We’d sit watching the color wheel rotate, illuminating the aluminum tree — green, orange, blue, red. In retrospect, it seems silly in comparison to today’s technology. Yet hearing the whir of the motor, anticipating the upcoming color brought comfort. Likewise, expectations for the unremarkable McFarland Christmas Eve, may appear disproportional. Still, to change one mundane moment would be like skipping a page of your favorite bedtime story, the one you know by heart.
Is knowing what’s next what brings comfort in a tradition? Four presents under the tree, for Candy, Nancy, Debbie (that’s me) and Danny. A day promising bites of divinity, fingers donning olives, and card games like quadruple-deck Canasta. Mom wearing high heels and a crinoline apron at the kitchen sink peeling spuds for our traditional Christmas Eve potato soup. The aroma of bacon, onion, and spuds spurning tummy growls. Wondrous expectation for something as plain-Jane as potato soup. I was well into adulthood when I learned the soup tradition was necessary to offset the cost of the next day’s holiday feast. I thought it was because we’re Irish and liked potatoes.
Of course, the most memorable part of the meal is dad’s immutable rule:
