Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Tuesday, December 10, 2019

Over-Baked

Husby and me
The very early days of marriage, of most marriages, in fact, are days of exploration and discovery.
Of the combination of ideas and ideals. 
Of the solidifying of the ties binding the couple together.
So it was in our house. The happiness that goes with simply being together. 
Peace. 
Love.
 Joy. 
One imagines that it will last forever. And it does. 
Until . . . The First Conflict.
I use this term lightly because it really wasn’t a conflict, but more of a steady pull in two different directions. 
He wanted us to spend Christmas with his family. I wanted to spend it with mine.
I won.
Mostly, I admit because he's nicer than me and I painted a rosier picture than he did. I snared him with magical words like . . . food, fresh baking, treats, candy, chocolate, sugar, sugar, sugar. 
And games.
Okay, I probably exaggerated. 
But my family really did have fun on Christmas Eve. I wasn’t ready, yet, to miss it.
And my Mom was a really good cook.
He gave in. And so, Christmas Eve found us nestled snugly in the bosom of my family, preparing to enjoy. 
Unfortunately, the preparing part went on a little too long.
My eldest sister was home for the holiday and she and Mom, demon bakers both, were lost in their own fragrant world. 
Admittedly a pleasant place to be, albeit potentially ‘calorific’. 
The rest of us floated by periodically, sniffing, staring hungrily at the stacks . . . and stacks . . . of pies, cookies, cakes, butter horns, brownies, fudge, lemon squares, butter tarts.
Dinner was forgotten as more and more goodies emerged from the cavernous depths of the great ovens. 
Cries from hungry tummies grew more and more insistent. 
Also, the younger set was getting impatient. It was time for that games of games, anticipated for a whole year. 
The annual Stringam bloodbath. 
The Christmas game of Rummoli.
With real poker chips.
Okay, so it wasn’t a bloodbath. Not even particularly violent. But it was as close to gambling as the Stringam gang ever got. 
And we really did anticipate it feverishly. 
By 10:30 pm, many had given up the thought of getting ‘Christmas Eve’ started. 
Baking was still being pulled from the ovens, dinner still hadn’t materialized and even the faint hope of a Rummoli game had long since vanished. 
Husby looked at me. 
He was too kind to put it into words, but I was getting fairly good at reading him, and his expression said, “For this, we gave up an eight-course meal with my family?” I shrugged my shoulders and tried to laugh.
It was a weak attempt.
He decided to take matters into his own hands. 
He got up and wandered nonchalantly past the stack of baking which completely covered the counter and nearly filled the space between the upper and lower cupboards.
Seriously, we’re talking an area eight feet long and somewhere between 18 and 24 inches deep. Covered. With. Fresh. Baking.
His hand snaked out, nabbing a butter tart. 
Quicker than the eye can blink, it was in his mouth. All of it. 
The heavenly combination of flavours poured through his soul like celestial honey. His knees grew weak. He brought his teeth together to begin chewing this small slice of perfection. 
Mom straightened from pulling yet another pan out of the oven, her face flushed with heat and effort.
He was caught. 
He suspended all chewing movements and tried to look innocent, but Mom could spot sneaky at 1000 paces. 
Certainly, she could recognize it standing across the counter.
She set the hot pan on the cupboard, placed both hands on her hips and leveled a glare at him. “Don’t eat that!” she said. “It’s for Christmas!”
He stared at her. 
Then at the mounds of baking that couldn’t possibly be eaten in the next 24 hours. 
In the next 24 days. 
He put up one hand to cover his mouth. And the precious contraband that now had a home there. No way was he removing it from his mouth. All sorts of places in his body would have rebelled if he had tried. “Sorry,” he mumbled, slowly backing away, his hands spread apologetically.
We never did get our Rummoli game.
Or supper.
After that, my husband and I saved Christmas Eve for his family. And Christmas morning for mine. 
It was easier on our relationship.
Oh, and the statement, “Don’t eat that, it’s for Christmas!”
Quoted every time someone pops something into their mouth. 
Year-round.

20 comments:

  1. I know that expression, “Don’t eat that, it’s for Christmas”, very well. The thrill of popping something sweet it in one’s mouth is too big a temptation and so satisfying.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Sounds like you could propose a new unit of measurement to Système Internationale: Christmas-tonne.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Hmmm . . . I think you're right. It certainly would be in use in our hemisphere! ;)

      Delete
  3. Oh, that's funny! "Don't eat that. It's for Christmas." I'm glad that y'all settled into a holiday routine that works out for everyone.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I can see a whole new diet built around Don't eat that. Its for Christmas. It might even work.

    ReplyDelete
  5. If Husby could have eaten irony, he'd have been full to bursting! lol

    I love that sentence and have told my husband this story several times now, just in case he forgot it the first time :D

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Heehee! A good story never goes forgotten. Or a good lesson.
      Or a bad one, for that matter...

      Delete
  6. Wow! Your mom and sister must have been incredible bakers! I agree though to keep them for Christmas morning.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. They sure are! We ate that baking Christmas morning.
      And every morning for about three months! :)

      Delete
  7. This made me laugh :) Keeping the husband fed is definitely important for the relationship! The emotional/symbolic value of the food tradition was out of balance with the physical hunger.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Your family's house or mine? Sadly, this causes such conflict in many couples, especially when it never comes out anywhere near even. Having said that, your husband was a saint for resisting for so long.

    ReplyDelete
  9. In our house, we would have been gone for the nearest restaurant about 3 hours earlier!

    ReplyDelete
  10. I appreciate home baking as much as anyone, but that much and more to come while people are still waiting for dinner?? That's just completely inexplicable to me. Take a break and feed the family, please.
    P.S. In my house I would have run out of ingredients before lunchtime.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That was usually how Mom did things. Feed the family first.
      It was totally a strange day.
      But makes for a good story! :)

      Delete

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