Baked goods, sock monkeys conjure ghosts of Christmas past

I’ve been in my kitchen making everyone’s favorite holiday treats. Peanut brittle for Lisa, Neil, Jess and Nat. Fudge bars and chocolate mint cookies for my son and daughter. Shortbread and baklava for Kate, who at 99 has a dry wit and likes sweets with her coffee.

For Vera, I’ll make lemon cookies. Christmas Eves past, when Vera and Jack lived across the street, I’d dash over with homemade cinnamon rolls, warm from the oven. But they faithlessly moved to Gig Harbor.

I pull out recipes for spiced nuts, fudge, spritz cookies. Jon, who we hired to do some work in our house, hinted that a loaf of pumpkin bread would not be unwelcome. Perhaps Carole, John and Sophie would like some, too.

Flour, sugar, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg: The house fills with the scent of baking, and I am flooded with memories.

It’s Christmastime in the Minnesota farmhouse of my youth: greenery, ornaments, candles, lights, candy canes. Dad fashions a skating rink on our front lawn each winter. Hockey sticks and seven pairs of skates clutter the entry room. Mom and I make popcorn balls, divinity, pies and cookies, so many cookies.

Dad comes in for coffee, admires the array and chooses apple pie. My brothers take handfuls of cookies as they pass through the kitchen. Friends and neighbors drop by with baskets of fruit or tins of nuts and stay to chat.

The tree is surrounded by packages, a tantalizing few in unfamiliar wrapping paper; one of these is for me, from Leo and June, my godparents. Over the years they give me a baking kit, a blue wicker sewing basket, and a copy of “The Long Winter” by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

I treasure all these gifts, and decades later mourn the loss of the basket, which disappeared during a move. But I still have the book, a note from June slipped inside. Dear, dear people, now gone; they made me feel special and added wonder and joy to my childhood.

The years blur. One year, Stan broke his wrist just before Christmas; another, a calf dubbed Little Drummer was born. Some years I was sick with the flu. And one year, Mom made me a small comforter, perfect for tucking around myself as I read. The top was pieced, in squares of blue and white, and it had a soft, white backing. I loved it so, love it still; it’s on our bed even now.

And there was the year I made sock monkeys, one for each person in my family. I was 12 or 13, and it was probably the first year I was able to give presents to everyone. I labored in secret for weeks, thinking how funny it would be, all those monkeys.

By Christmas I was in a fever of excitement and anticipation. As each of my carefully wrapped packages was opened, and monkey after monkey appeared, the waves of mirth seemed to grow, and I was exultant. But the next day, I overheard some of my siblings talking, making slighting comments about my gifts.

Back in my kitchen, I give a short sigh and push the thought away.

I love this time of year, I do. My children home and laughing together, the warm company of friends, good food, music, candlelight, hearing from loved ones far away.

But the holidays are complicated, filled as they are with a range of vivid memories, with love, loss, expectation, joy and heartache. And I miss my parents. Sometimes as I set out lights or wrap gifts, I remember Dad and Mom doing these same things. I see them so clearly, I feel I could touch them.

At bedtime, I see Mom’s comforter. It needs mending and a new backing, but my hands are bad; I can’t do it myself. Mom would be appalled, but to me it is still beautiful. I tuck it around me.

Barbara Mader of University Place is a specialty bookseller selling collectible children’s books. She’s one of five News Tribune reader columnists in 2019. Email her at bmader6@comcast.net