My stolen family tradition

Never are our traditions and rituals more evident than in December.  Family traditions are the most obvious reminder of where we come from, who we are, what is important to us, as individuals, families, communities.  That "every year, we........" is what bonds a family beyond the walls they inhabit together.  These are the benefits you take with you, the moments that make you yearn for home when you are 20-something, the pull of repetition you recreate when you build your own nest.

My parents gave me plenty.  I'm so thankful for that.  Silly songs to sing every day:  a wake-up song, a coffee song, a night-night song, even a song to sing everytime we saw the water tower against the horizon in our town.  (my mother.............)  We absolutely decorated Christmas cookies.  We  absolutely sang carols around our sparkly tree.  We absolutely unwrapped just one present after Midnight Mass every 24th of December.  We absolutely sang Happy Birthday to Jesus and enjoyed his birthday cake, even though we were all eyeing the unopened  presents.

I carry most of these with me, a torch of sorts.  I keep my heritage in the flame of these actions, these silly songs, those cookies.

My French man brought his own.  We go for a walk on Christmas Day.  Sometimes we drag our friends along.  We have a nice meal in the late afternoon.  There is Champagne all day long.  We go easy on the presents.  We go heavy on Family.

I respect this joining.  These symbolic traditions are powerful, molding our children to show them what is important, what is valued between Us:  two individuals, two cultures, who joined together with love.

I've looked around in my French man's cultural backyard, partly because I love my French man, and the more I add of his heritage, the more he participates in his American experience, but also because I not only love this man, but his country and culture as well.  I have, over the years, picked up French holidays, French values, French traditions.  I borrow, and then, if it works for Us, I steal.   

I found one in particular that thrills me:  a Christmas tradition that is specifically from Provence, in the South of France.  It is, like many things French, centered around a meal.  It is entirely symbolic, which the poet in me thrives on.  The Thirteen Desserts, in Provence, show up after Midnight Mass.  (France is predominantly Catholic...) The Thirteen Desserts is  a meal at 1:00 in the morning, a series of fruits, nuts, dried fruits and bread that represents the thirteen seats at the Last Supper.

This meal begins with "the four beggars", representing the four monastic orders of the Catholic Church:  raisins stand in for the Dominicans, dried figs are the Franciscans, the Carmelites transform into almonds, and hazelnuts symbolize the Augustinians.  Trail mix, a la Monk!

This wintery  platter may have apples, pears, oranges, grapes, or tangerines.  What it must have, representing Good and Evil, is nougat.  This not your 3 Muskateers nougat.  This is French Nougat, a confection (either White or Black) that contains nuts, candied fruit, and honey.  Dates are always there, as is quince paste (yum!), and a special bread made with olive oil called "Fougasse." 

I'm not Catholic, although my father is. I grew up attending his church weekly, rising, kneeling, sitting, singing. Catholicism is rife with ritual, an indirect influence, perhaps, on this young girl. As a recently-married woman, I found this Thirteen Desserts (in a French movie, no less!) and couldn't get it out of my head. I researched (no internet back then!) and came upon the lessons behind this smorgasbord that is, in fact, supposed to stay on the table for 3 days! 

My French man didn't know about this one.  It is obscure, regional, and old.  I stole it and wrapped it in my American Christmas.  The Thirteen Desserts  has become our Christmas morning breakfast: a platter of nature's candy that lasts all day, a foil for all that chocolate falling out of the stockings, a something-something to munch on before our little hike.

I've replaced that fougasse with a gingerbread, or sometimes, a Stolen, my father's German sweet bread that appeared on Christmas mornings.  The oranges may appear in a tarte.  The apples may show as a Tarte Tatin.  It doesn't matter.  My Thirteen Desserts is alive!  Transformation!  I wonder what my children will do with this one in 30 years....