Joyeux Noel

**On Saturday, I made a tortiere. A tortiere is the traditional French-Canadian Christmas Eve meat pie. The filling is made with ground beef, onions, water, bread crumbs, oregano, cinnamon (yes!) and allspice. Some make their tortieres with ground pork or half pork/half beef. The tradition of the tortiere originates from Quebec. When I was a child, the family would go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, go home and eat tortieres. (The adults would drink beer with it). After that, we went to bed and opened presents the next morning. I have been making them all my life.
Every single woman in my family knew how to make them. 15 aunts, two grandmothers and a mother!

When I was a kid, if it was a "lean" year, they would add a little mashed potato to stretch the meat. If it was a prosperous year, all meat!
And it MUST be served with ketchup. The smell of the cinnamon, oregano and onions is a comfort smell from childhood Christmases. I don’t even use a recipe anymore. I know by sight and taste when the filling is just right.

 

** I just saw a news story about the gift of “health cards.” It seems that one can now place a medical procedure under the tree. The story featured a woman who is giving each of her parents a colonoscopy for Christmas this year. I don’t even know what to say about that, except to say to my children, “Don’t even think about it.”

 

** I am relieved to report that all Christmas packages sent to Brooklyn, Minneapolis, Woonsocket and Newport, have been received. Every year at this time I experience Postal Anxiety, a condition exacerbated by previous experiences with lost packages and late packages. Last year, my Christmas package to my daughter took only three days to reach Minneapolis…where it then sat on a Minneapolis Post Office shelf for two weeks. She was never notified of its existence. In desperation (and probably in exasperation of hearing, “Did you get it yet? Did you get it yet?”) she went to the post office to check. And there it was. Now, my daughter calls immediately upon receiving notice that her package has arrived. She knows that I have inherited her grandmother’s postal paranoia. It is true though, that I am not as neurotic about it as my mother. She thinks that the post office has it out for her personally. I have to admit that I have never known anyone who has had so many cards, letters and packages lost in the mail. One year, many years ago, she sent banana bread to my son when he was in college. Three weeks later, he received a moldy, inedible thing in the mail. Keep in mind the banana bread had only to travel from Rhode Island to Massachusetts.

 

** Here’s wishing everyone who celebrates it, a Merry Christmas.

And if you’re thinking about giving a loved one a colonoscopy, think again.

 

 

Repeat of entry from 12/24/06

Christmas Time is Near...

Happiness and cheer.

Fun for all that children call,

Their favorite time of year.

 

Snowflakes in the air,

Carols everywhere,

Olden times and ancient rhymes

Of love and dreams to share.

                            

                      “Christmas Time is Here,” (Vince Guaraldi-Lee Mendelson)

 

I suppose everyone expects me to launch into a social analysis of Christmas capitalist consumerism, or to attempt to debunk the myth of a young Jewish virgin girl giving birth to a child, but the truth is… I love Christmas. I always have. 

 

Friends and family back in Rhode Island used to (affectionately) call me “the Christmas slut.” It seems a harsh characterization I know, but all it means is that I have no Christmas morals. I shake packages, eat cookies and candy canes off the tree and open presents as they come in not waiting for the 25th to arrive. There are those who maintain strict Christmas ethics and will not, under any circumstances open presents before Christmas Day, and then there are the rest of us, the Christmas sluts. It’s just too exciting and tempting and we Christmas degenerates simply do not have the strength of will to observe such demanding Christmas commandments. When my children were little, I would be the first to awaken Christmas morning and if I grew too impatient waiting for them to arise, I would go into the kitchen and make noise to wake them. What kind of a mother disturbs her children’s sugarplum slumber to satisfy her unquenchable thirst for Christmas surprise? A Christmas slut of a mother, that’s what kind.

 

When I was a child, there was no separating the holiday from the Holy Day. I knew that Christmas was about Jesus and loving him and welcoming him was an integral part of my childhood Christmas ritual; midnight Mass or Christmas morning Mass after the presents had been opened always began with the processional song, “Veni, Veni Emmanuel” (O Come, O Come Emmanuel). It is still my favorite Christmas song. I learned early that “Emmanuel” means “God with us.”

 

And Christmas is ultimately an ancient celebration of the belief of a god who comes to earth, in spite of and despite the season’s modern bastardization. It is an observance of the universal myth of communion of the human with the divine; of earth and heaven joined. It is echoed in the myths of Olympus and Athens united; of Horus, the child of Isis and Osiris (one of the first divine families of three). Even the ancient rituals associated with Bacchus and Dionysus were exploited as justification for orgy and excessive drink. And the Romans complained in their missives to Saint Paul that when the new Christians arrived for the agape, the “feast of love,” some of them consumed too much wine and approached the table a bit too tipsy. My French-Canadian uncles were simply echoing the traditions of the ancient Christians when they went to midnight Mass after having consumed screwdrivers and a keg of beer amongst themselves, consequently singing “Joy to the World!” with a bit too much joy. There is nothing new under the sun. 

 

I love Christmas trees that sparkle with lights. And Christmas carols that move me in tender remembrance of the child I once was who thought that the baby Jesus was just the sweetest present ever. I love sugar cookies and vintage glass Christmas balls that must be handled carefully lest they crash to the floor and splinter into shards so small one finds traces of them in July. I love wrapping presents while watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” for the umpteenth time. I always, always cry when Donna Reed is on the phone with Sam Wainwright and Jimmy Stewart is so close to her he can smell her hair and he grabs her, the phone crashing to the floor and they hug and kiss in tears and desperation (sigh).

 

Doire Christmas tangent: When analyzed theologically of course, the whole premise behind “It’s a Wonderful Life” is false. According to Catholic tradition God only made a  certain amount of angels at  the creation of the universe and that’s all there’s ever going to be. One cannot become an angel. There will never be any more angels, so the whole story line of Clarence and the bell ringing when an angel gets its wings is counter to doctrinal angelology. When one dies one can join the communion of saints, but not the heavenly host of angels.

 

Doire Christmas tangent II: In Catholic angelology there is a hierarchy of angels (of course there is) comprised of seven types of angels on a scale of most illustrious to least. At the top of the list are the Seraphim, those gigantic Amazonian angels with powers we cannot begin to imagine. Second, are the Cherubim who stand at the gates of Eden with "a sword flaming and turning to guard the tree of life." At the bottom of the list are “Ordinary Angels,” which to me frankly, seems an oxymoron.

 

I love Christmas cards and packages; Christmas fudge and candy canes.

I love funny little Santa figurines and golden snow globes.

I love to find surprising presents to give to the people I love.

I enter into the season with joy and good intention.

 

And now, if you'll excuse me, this little Christmas slut has presents to open early…

In a Different Voice

A friend of mine recently purchased a brand new car. A few weeks ago, she walked out to her parking space to find a noticeable scratch and ding on her previously show-room perfect vehicle. There was no one in sight and no note under the windshield. Since I am ever fascinated by the ethical question, I wondered if there exists a fundamental difference between people who would leave a note and those who would not. The difference I suspect is moral maturity.

 

When my brother was in high school he hit a car in a parking lot. He left a brief note on the windshield of the dented car explaining what had happened and included his name and phone number. The owner of the vehicle called our house and reached my father, who wasn’t at all angry. When the phone call ended my father related to me how impressed the caller had been by both my brother’s actions and by how rare it is to find such a sense of right and responsibility in one so young. My father may have told me the story to teach me what to do in this situation, when I began to drive. But I suspect he told me because he was so proud. He was proud that in a moment when my brother could have driven off in secrecy, he chose to do the right thing. It is in these moments I think, when our moral character most reveals itself; in those moments when no one is watching. There is no threat of punishment if discovered. There is no risk of invoking moral judgment by others. These two motivations represent the first two stages of Lawrence Kohlberg’s stages of development in moral reasoning. The most elementary stage (pre-conventional) is represented by those who act according to fear of punishment or hope for reward. One might think of a three year old who will not eat the cookie simply to avoid being sent to the corner but there are many adults who never move past this stage. The second stage (conventional) involves acting rightly in order to win the approval and acceptance of peers exemplified perhaps by the adolescent dynamic of “peer pressure.”  Some adults as well, never move beyond this stage. In the post-conventional stage moral judgments are made through the use of abstract moral reasoning based on universal principles.

 

Doire tangent: The operative word there being “universal.” Many live by moral principles that no one would wish to become universal. Just because a person lives by principles does not mean they are “good” ones. People construct all kinds of little moral precepts in their heads and judge themselves to be virtuous because they live by them. The Mafia code of ethics is a perfect example. The Mafia live principled lives based upon a particular code of morality and yet no one who is not Mafia would wish these to be held universally. Perhaps this is what Immanuel Kant observed (not the Mafia, but the dynamic) when he posited his categorical imperative, “Act only on those maxims that you would desire become universal law.” (Or something like that—I write it from memory).

 

I cannot write of Lawrence Kohlberg’s stages however, without adding that Kohlberg’s research involved only boys and men. Carol Gilligan’s groundbreaking book (published 25 years ago), In a Different Voice, noted that (generally) men and women are socialized to reason through moral problems differently (note: she never suggested that the difference is innate).  In what she described as an “ethic of care” her research showed that women make moral decisions not on the basis of universal principles but on the basis of relationship, or on the basis of empathy for another’s injury. The difference can be illustrated by observing young children at play. Little girls when faced with a playmate’s elimination from a game will alter the rules so that she will not be excluded. Little boys will adhere to the rules and (tough luck) the child is “out.” It is this dynamic through which women have been historically rendered morally inferior. Men have noted that women “cave” in adherence to principle when potential damage to a relationship might be at risk and according to the male standard of moral reasoning, women have been perceived as weak. What you see depends upon where you stand and how you measure moral fortitude depends upon your yardstick. Neither of these modes of moral reasoning is superior to the other. Neither are they exclusively restricted by gender. When I read Gilligan’s book many years ago, so much became clear to me. I began to understand how certain moral acts committed by husbands and male friends, senators and Presidents would elicit incredulity from my women friends and me, “HOW could they ignore the human element of the thing, in deference to some law?” And male friends, “HOW could she abandon the rules because of someone’s feelings?” Strict adherence to one of the two modes may result either in the sacrifice of people to the principle, or conversely the sacrifice of principle in the interest of people. In my opinion, the mark of moral maturity is in the ability to appeal to both and to knowing when the “ethic of care” or the “ethic of principle” is most appropriate. I do not know what dynamic of moral reasoning my brother utilized when he left that note on the windshield years ago. He might have been adhering to a universal moral principle that when one damages another’s property, one fesses up. Or he might have considered how he would feel if someone hit his car and didn’t acknowledge it. Whatever the case, one thing I know: he did the right thing.