Holiday preparation

Holiday preparation -- Copyright © 2004 By Koty Lapid. It is about a special secret between mother and daughter -- told from a child's point of view. It is also about the joy of having our guests think the holiday dinner was something we just whipped up quickly while keeping to us the secret of the number of hours we slaved in the kitchen.

 

On the eve of a major winter holiday, my mother woke up around four a.m. The kindergarten was closed that day, so she had to take me with her. My father was never there on those mornings, he was somewhere getting merchandise for the shop. It still was cold and dark outside, and my mother dressed me in layers of clothing. After she dressed me, she asked me to sit in the car, and wait until she had packed all her baggage into it, before we drove to our little shop.

After we arrived at the shop, I sat in the car and watched while my mother unloaded the packages.

On those special days, there was nothing that was supposed to be added to the stock of our little shop. On those days, all the ingredients were supposed to be for that special day's holiday dinner.

First, my mother would turn the shop's stove on, and by the time she finished unpacking all her baggage, the place was warm and cozy. With that done, she would let me come in from the car, and remove some of my layers of clothing, so that I could run around more easily. I don't remember running around too often. Most of the time, when there wasn't a customer I could talk to, I used to play with the dolls my father had brought me from the places he had visited.

While I played, my mother would be cooking, preparing the holiday dinner on the stove. The aromas filled me with anticipation. When a dish was ready, she'd set it next to me on the floor. I would playfully bend over it and sniff as deeply as a truffle-hound. Then, straightening up, turning my head from left to right with eyes fixed to the ceiling, I would say, "Wow, mom, this smells great. "

Then I asked:
"Can I taste it?" and looked at her expectantly.

And her answer was always no.

When all the dishes were ready, my mother would put them into a medium-sized wooden box, which contained a lot of insulation to keep the food warm until later that evening. And with the dishes put aside, my mother started to dress me up. First she put on me my favorite yellow sweater with the duck on it. Then it had to be my bright blue vest that grandma gave me, after that was the striped scarf that mom really didn't approve of because it was so old, but I loved it and it was warm.

Then she opened the windows and doors, and we would walk in front of the shop until the cooking odors had gone from the shop. When we returned to the shop, my mother undressed me, and we waited for the customers to arrive.

On the holiday eve, while we were eating those special delicious dishes with our invited guests, one would always make a remark to my mother, "You know Ilona, I just don't know where you can find the time to make all these delicious fresh dishes!"

My mother wouldn't answer, and just smiled quietly, while looking at me to make sure that I wouldn't share our secret — that those dishes were pre-cooked.