Pruning the holiday traditions

Canadian Thanksgiving was yesterday, and even after nearly 55 years in Canada, it still sneaks up on me, because the USA, my native country, celebrates theirs just over a month later. It's been that long since I experienced a full-on American Thanksgiving dinner, the table laden with more food than those assembled would eat over a typical long weekend.

Our family's Thanksgiving dinner is a non-event,  and always has been. Le Duc told me when we met that French Canadians do not really celebrate this holiday. An avid and expert cook, he was still daunted by producing six side dishes and three desserts. He would, if begged, accompany us to a neighbourhood family-run restaurant for the turkey-and-trimmings, but order a cheeseburger. 

On this past Thanksgiving weekend, one son was cooking in the country for his wife's family of fourteen, while we received another son for dinner in the city, nary a bird nor pumpkin pie in sight.

This has me thinking about bucking tradition. I am seeing, among women in the Passage, a gradual resignation from the duties of holiday extravaganzas. Some have tossed the drumstick to the next generation, others have relaxed their menus. A commenter on Frances Ray's blog, "Beautiful Strangers" said, "The expectations I place on myself based on what I accomplished in years gone by is the problem. I need to get current."  

A few examples of that: Instead of rising at 5 a.m. to serve a panoramic spread before the football game, Marilyn told everyone to meet at a Chinese buffet at 2 p.m.; at some point in the evening, she served nachos and set out a couple of bakery pies. 

Three years ago, Laurie picked up on the soup-party idea, after her partner, famed for his turducken, had foot surgery and could not man the BBQ. She said they are not going back.

Maryann, whose household is two dogs and two cats ("The trick is to not let them outnumber one another") volunteers for her church's communal dinner, which is at least a six-day job because she begins with coordinating with the publicity, kitchen team and food donation committees—and then cooks.

Keep, Quit or Change?

Other friends eye the upcoming Thanksgiving-Hallowe'en-Holiday rat-a-tat, determined to ease labour-intensive traditions. No cookie exchanges for one, no against-the-clock knitting for another. A neighbour asked to be excused from his family's Secret Santa project because the stealth delivery of an array of small gifts (they SS'd early and often) had become onerous and, he said, "I don't want another box of tea from anyone." Instead, he's making a luscious contribution to their New Year's dinner.

Photo: Westmount Florist

We have pruned our own traditions: no Christmas tree (a bushel-basket sized poinsettia stands in). I still make a collage of family photos to send by e-mail, though the actuarial tables have trimmed the list. We retain the pleasurable task of choosing books for children and grands, but otherwise are guided by their requests, often for money towards a high-ticket item.

There is downsizing on the social side, too. 

A friend has visited for an annual Montréal craft show for the past fifteen years. Several years ago, I noticed that I'd ended the day staggering with fatigue (and bought nothing) while she and her rolling suitcase full of gifts stayed upright. The new plan: she'll go solo; we'll meet for dinner. I will cook and nap, she can shop at her own pace. She accepted this alteration graciously, there are benefits for both of us.

I've learned it's about substitution: a leisurely gallery visit to admire a friend's photography exhibit, instead of the crush of his opening night; a quiet afternoon stroll to the epicerie fin Le Petit Dep with Antoinette instead of waiting in line to buy the same comestibles at a craft show; making one really good cake on repeat instead of meeting the old standard of a new confection for each event.  

Sometimes, though, resistance is mounted. Rachel's sister was so alarmed when she learned that the honey cake Rachel would serve on Rosh Hashanah was from a bakery—not their mother's recipe—that she, age 91, made it herself. Rachel froze the bakery cake and will enjoy it with her husband. In private.

When those around me vent about the demands, stress, and workload, I recall one of our family's sayings: Why is My Tail Wet? Our hefty tabby would jump on the counter, stick his tail in his water bowl, then shake it with evident irritation, and scowl at us as if to say... that. 

Are you making changes, or do your traditions endure?