The Feasts of Christmas Past
by Cait Johnson

For someone with a passionate interest in food, you'd think my winter holidays would revolve around the feast — but no. Sure, I've spent my share of hours obsessing over how to create perfect festive memories, but an image that sums up my true feelings about the annual mania is the following Photo from Christmas Past: our table in all its impeccable holiday glory — antique lace tablecloth, red candles, fresh greens and berries, spotless napery, shining plates, gleaming silverware — and the cat sitting in the middle of it all, licking his nether parts.

In fact, my best holiday memories have nothing to do with food at all. Instead, they are hearing the eerie beauty of an Andean flute played by an exchange student as he walked down the snowy suburban streets of my childhood. Cuddling with my partner in our tiny one-room apartment, by the flickering light of a miniscule black and white television tuned to a public station that showed a crackling fire as carols played. Having to encourage our small son to keep opening his gifts because he was so completely enthralled by each one that he forgot there were others waiting to be opened. The fancy meals ended up being beside the point, although they always took an inordinate amount of time and effort.

The holidays can be a difficult time because we're just plain exhausted. As a child, I witnessed how my poor mother would knock herself out every year trying to make it all perfect, which meant that when she finally sat down at the table on Christmas Day she was gaunt, hollow-eyed, and embittered. I swore, upon reaching adulthood, that I would never make the same mistake — but of course I did, which is why I treasure the cat-on-the-table photo so much: wear yourself out getting it all just so, and your cat sees it merely as an opportunity to practice personal hygiene.

If we keep our holiday efforts minimal, the family feast still means the arrival of relatives with enough emotional baggage to keep a Hilton bellboy hopping, and even if your relatives are a tolerably sane and stable bunch, they are a bunch — and that can spell trouble for introverts who just wish they could go to bed, pull the covers over their heads, and emerge after New Year's. (One introvert I know was lauded by his spouse and their assembled friends and relations for smoking the Christmas turkey in his new smoker. The clever man simply put on a down coat, grabbed a six-pack, and spent the day blissfully tending the bird outside, far from the madding crowd indoors. For this he was hailed as a hero and martyr.)

The diverse holiday gathering usually has conflicting dietary needs as well: it's not only the board that will be groaning as you try to figure out a meal that will accommodate your brother the vegan, your father Mr. Meat and Potatoes, your mother who had bypass surgery and eschews fats, your gluten-averse sister with celiac, and your aunt with lactose intolerance. One woman I know said, "Last year I gave 'em all menus from the Chinese takeout place and said, 'Go crazy.' It was one of the most relaxed Christmas dinners we've ever had."

It's true that the best feasts are often the least fancy: I still look back with nostalgia to the year we moved into our new house only to discover that the stove didn't work. We had no money (having just bought the house), so our holiday dinner consisted of microwaved turkey hot dogs and beer drunk from champagne glasses. This somehow reminds me of the fact that the best-tasting pumpkins aren't bright and picturesque; it's the rather unappetizing-looking putty-colored ones that have the most flavor — and it's sometimes the disasters that we remember with the most fondness.

So if you do plan on cooking a holiday feast, do yourself and your guests a favor and make sure you're having fun doing it; if our deepest yearnings are for connection and relaxation, there's no point wearing yourself out being Hostess with the Mostest and then needing a week in a padded cell to recuperate. With this in mind, I offer one of my favorite no-fuss recipes. It makes an appealing main dish for vegetarians, or a picturesque side next to your preferred hunk of meat. The joy of this dish is that you can use whatever appeals to you and whatever you have on hand: it is the soul of forgiveness and will tolerate endless variation and still come out tasting luscious. There are no exact measurements given: just trust your instincts and figure on a cup or two per person. And you can put your favorite introvert to work chopping the vegetables in the kitchen while you have a glass of wine by the fire.

Winter Solstice Pie

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F. In a large heavy-bottomed skillet, sauté a chopped onion and a shallot or maybe a clove or two of garlic, if you like, in a tablespoon of olive oil until softened but not browned. Then add any or all of the following:
   • butternut or other winter squash, peeled and cubed
   • sweet or white potatoes, peeled and cubed rutabaga or turnip, peeled and cubed
   • carrot or parsnip, scrubbed and chopped
   • leeks, well-washed, pale green and white parts only, sliced


2. Stir these vegetables and sauté until coated with oil, then add vegetable broth to barely cover, bring to a simmer, and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender.


3. Add any or all of the following, stirring until wilted, softened, melted, or otherwise incorporated:
   • kale or other winter greens, coarsely chopped
   • mushrooms, chopped
   • grated cheese (if your guests aren't vegan), tofu (if they are), dried cherries or cranberries, toasted pumpkin seeds, chopped walnuts
   • fresh or dried herbs of choice: parsley thyme, marjoram, sage — it's all good


4. Place in a pretty baking dish and top with your choice of mashed potatoes, pie crust dough, or biscuit dough. Bake in preheated oven until topping is golden and sufficiently cooked through, about 30 minutes.