Best wishes on the Winter Solstice

The Passage shutters now for a two-week holiday break and reopens on January 4, 2022, so I am posting my Christmas Wish List on the Passage's shutters, and then enjoying a cup of osmanthus tea.

I wish for three things:

1. More forbearance as friends and family sort out their modus vivendi regarding Covid precautions. Who will come to the house? Who will meet at a restaurant? When to ask for use of a rapid response test? Parties involve more negotiation than a full season of "Sister Wives".

We're in a phase for which there is no one-size solution, and anyway, we saw what happened when they tried that with pantyhose. 

2. Continual attention from friends and neighbours. Over the past year I have been buoyed by a call, a note, or even a greeting from a toddler who beams as he staggers by. When I left a shop recently, the owner called me over to make sure I took a bonbon; civility has never felt so warm. The pandemic is an excuse for stowing one's fancy clothes, but not good manners. 

3. A permanent vacation for the moths that still live in our home, or my acceptance of them as tiny beige butterflies, rather than evil predators. (Hat tip to Dan Reeder's "Born a Worm", unexpurgated version. Listen before playing for a five year old, unlike my girlfriend Dr. A., who learned the hard way.) 

May I have a related extra wish? That I would somehow magically acquire serious visible mending chops.

Le Duc and I discussed gifts and agreed we did not want "stuff". Le Duc will wine-shop with a knowledgeable son, as his gift from me. This pearl may have been mentioned, thanks to the power of just one to lift my spirits. Pearls are not stuff, to me.

Shown, apricot Japan Kasumi pearl from Pacific Pearls. 

Good things on the table

We'll serve the silky, sumptuous "Quick Chicken and Dumplings" soup over the holidays, a recipe originally published in the New York Times. (Le Duc roasts a chicken, but a rotisserie one is just fine.) This is one of those magical recipes that delivers way more delight than effort.  

We're invited to friends' for Sunday lunch early in the new year, and I'm bringing dessert. Though you may think it impossible, the host told me she would be "chocolated out". 

I made this Apple Bundt Cake with Salted Caramel Sauce  (courtesy of I Am Baker) this fall, and will repeat it for that luncheon. The cake is solid enough to transport without worry, and I will warm the sauce on their stove. Suggestion: add one tsp. ground cardamon to the batter and for the sauce, double the quantity because though this cake nicely serves six, some do slather on that sauce. (You could pour it on while warm so it soaks into the cake, but I serve it on the side—the cake is plenty moist as is.) And, for bundty beauty, use a classic bundt pan rather than one of the more spectacular versions, because the apple chunks don't nestle into those teeny crevasses.)

Always, this time of year, I think of those alone, and those trying to put a festive face on difficult circumstances. The heart of the season is caring, not consumption. 

Carols, the twinkly tree, the church with its crêche: these are familiar whether you celebrate December 25 in a service or watching Netflix in snowman-printed pyjamas. This day, the Winter Solstice, follows the Hannukah candles, the Diwali oil lamp: light in the darkest time, ancient rituals.

Due to rising pressure on hospitals and clinics, Montréal invoked, starting yesterday, stricter restrictions on gatherings in private and public, and on permitted numbers in stores, restaurants, cinemas, theatres; cancellations and closures abound. I don't worry about those who planned to fly to Florida, they will make their decision. I think of the man whom I often see at my nearby dépanneur, whose daily three-minute chat with the owner is clearly a support. 

May you find your own light, and cast some into places that need extra tending.