This weekend I went over to my parents’ house and baked
cookies with my mom. This was my first time
learning two secret family recipes,
so I’m sorry but there’s no recipe to accompany this post. This was a symbolic
passing of the torch: I now possess the precious knowledge necessary to
continue the tradition of the world’s best shortbreads and ‘bird’s nest’
cookies.
On my way over, Alan asked me what my favourite
Christmastime memory was, and my first thought was of my mom, making gifts by
hand for all our relatives. She never seemed to run out of ideas, nor did she
ever seem to come up against a material or medium she couldn’t work. Salt-dough
candle holders festooned with perfect miniature fruit? Done. Tole-painted
wooden signs? Done. Crepe paper angel tree toppers? Done! Macaroni angels,
fabric angels, cellophane sparkly blue translucent angels? Done. (I’m noticing
an angel trend, are you?) One Christmas, Mom and Dad decided to make my brother
and I a pair of hobby horses from scratch. I remember hours of cursing after
our bedtime, but in the end, two incredible horses were found under the tree
that year.
I think that watching my mother’s meticulous persistence in
tackling any and all crafting media has made me the fearless artisan I am
today.
In recent years her confidence seems to have slipped a
little—we took a tole painting course together and created a pair of really
hideous Christmas balls—but I think that’s ridiculous. That same year she asked
for canvasses and paint for Christmas, and just on a whim she painted two deep
and expressive paintings of poppies. On a
whim.
I have to give a nod to my dad, too; he was the one who got
me into drawing, because I’d try to stump him with demands like, “Draw a
giraffe! Now draw a tiger!” when I was a kid; and somehow Dad could always draw
what I asked for. Yesterday I showed him Sculpey (a bakeable polymer clay), and
set him to work on a chicken statuette he wanted to make. Two hours later there
stood on the table one of the finest, if weirdest, chickens you’ll ever see. It
was holding a syringe and a strip of clay bacon. It’s an inside joke.
But my mom: all those years watching her work—laying out the
supplies, choosing the glue, cutting the perfect tiny pieces, mastering the
paints—that was (and still is) my favourite Christmas memory. It’s not
Christmas til there’s glitter stuck to your face, third-degree glue gun burns
on your fingers, and paint on your jeans.
Christmas for me has always been made by hand, with love and
meticulous care. It’s much the same anytime we’re expressing love to one
another: lay out all your goodies, proceed with conscientious care, and be
entirely fearless. Sometimes it’ll work out, and sometimes it won’t. But
anything you put your heart into, no matter how much of a fail it is, was worth
the effort and is worth remembering.
This Christmas, remember it’s the thought that counts…and
also the effort, the care, and the blood/sweat/tears. This transcends any price
tag.
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