A Week Home for the Holiday (pt. 2)

III. Monday

Jenny had planned this outing at least a month in advance, a date between her, her recently acquired boyfriend Chris, and me.

I sat in the backseat, slurping on the eggnog shake that I ordered, even though I knew I wouldn’t finish the whole thing by myself. We had eaten dinner at an Italian restaurant, and now Chris was driving with Jenny in the passenger seat; I watched them interact.

It was easy enough to see that Chris adored Jenny. He deferred to her in almost everything, an attribute I’m sure my bossy friend didn’t mind. He seemed aware of her, picking up on the fact that she doesn’t really like PDA, or that she hates having her face touched; the small things that matter, things that I know only because we have been friends for so long.

I considered my position in the car, and laughed inwardly. It was somewhat appropriate. Over the years, as boys had come and go for both Jenny and me, it was consistently the case that when Jenny had a boyfriend, I took backseat.

I dragged on the straw, feeling bored. Chris and Jenny were chatting, bantering within the dynamics already created in their relationship, a dynamic I couldn’t quite match. The spiced sweetness of the cold shake felt too heavy, too thick as my esophagus constricted the liquid downward.

“That was at the same time that you were dating Jamie, right?” Jenny addressed me. I hadn’t been listening; I had no idea what she would be referring to.

“Uuuh, yea, I’m pretty sure,” I replied in a bright voice. Facts satisfactorily verified, she carried on with her story.

IV. Tuesday

At the grocery store, I called my mother. She relayed to me the list of what she’d sent me there to pick up:

“–8 bags of lemons—you know, the ones that come with 3 lemons in a little mesh bag.

–6 bags of oranges, I’m pretty sure these come in a red bag. . . .

–A loaf of bread, whatever looks good will be fine, and

–a gallon of milk. Pretty sure that’s it.”

I snagged the groceries, the citrus fruits weighing down the shopping basket on my right arm. By the time I checked out and make it to the car, my biceps were shaky from holding the burden up.

I piled the groceries onto the corner of the counter at home; Mom stood by the sink and looked as if she had been at this for to long. She was in the midst of the annual season tradition in my family, one that has been so central to my life that I couldn’t imagine a holiday season without it: making cranberry ice.

On the stove sat a large steaming stockpot. I knew what would be in it even before walking over, but I did anyway. I peered inside and breathed in deeply. It smelled tangy and thick. Cranberries winked in the bubbling water; some had already burst open, others were still firm and bright.

My mom ordered me to add sugar to the bowl sitting next to the stove. It held a soupy goop, a runny mush that was a deep burgundy pink, a magenta perhaps. I measured out the sugar, counting to eight aloud to ensure I got the amount correct. I followed Mom’s further directions to add water. Then she got busy, slicing oranges and lemons in half and juicing them with quick, deft movements.

As we worked, Taryn wandered into the kitchen. Two years old, she has an inquisitive, round face, and large eyes that sit under fast, dark eyebrows. She has often reminded me of baby pictures of myself, with the cherub face that still manages to look determined and focused. And in many ways, I am told, she acts like I might have as a young child. We share intense, curious dispositions.

And just then, Taryn was curious to know what Mom was up to.

“Nonni, want see,” she demanded, reaching her arm up to point at the juicer on the counter. My mother obliged her and set her on the counter to observe and assist in the process. Taryn swung her legs, clunking them against the wooden cupboards. The boiled cranberries and juiced citrus produced a heady mix of rich and fresh.

As I watched my mother instructing her granddaughter on the art of juicing, I felt certain she had once spoken to me in the same, affectionate way. I can’t quite conjure up the frame of time, or memory, but she must have once swung me up, seated me on the counter, and let me watch her work.

Somewhere in my memory I am studying her hands; one holds a sieve with boiled cranberries in it, the other works to mash them against the metal mesh. I am a young girl, perhaps four, or maybe an overlay of several ages. But I watch the innards of the cranberries, in consistency somewhere between goopy and syrupy. It creates a ghastly drip into a large metal bowl, looking like so much vivid blood. After a while, I am given a turn. I mash with inefficient vigor. When the cranberries in the sieve are sufficiently turned to a pulp, I turn the spoon around and scrape the velvet-rich cranberry pulp from rounded underside of the sieve and into the bowl.

In the present with her granddaughter, my mother poured the juice into the bowl. Taryn let out an awed, “Ooooh!” These were the last few ingredients.

Soon, the liquids would be mixed together and then separated into Tupperware containers and old cottage cheese tubs saved especially for this purpose. They would be sent to the freezer to sit, then retrieved again, hardened, to be added to lemon-lime soda. And on some future night, the family would gather and eat, talk, visit, laugh, and drink this treat--carrying on in the same vein of tradition it was made.