The first time the phone rings, she doesn’t hear it.
The second time it rings, she picks it up on the third ring and says breathlessly, “What happened?”
His voice comes across the line, deep and happy, and she can picture him smiling as he answers. “It worked! We’re celebrating. If, that is, you’re free.”
She glances out of the window where the snow is falling thick and fast, the flakes so fat and heavy it’s as if they can barely stay aloft. The afternoon is tilting rapidly towards dusk, and the curtain of snow obscuring the city only serves to hasten the departure of daylight.
The second week of December serves as the tipping point, in her mind, between impending holiday and full-fledged holiday. Suddenly, every storefront and restaurant is adorned with wreaths and outfitted with bunches of holly and foil-wrapped buckets of poinsettias. At night, she walks down the most posh streets: up Dartmouth Street and down Clarendon. The prettiest block of all is the tiny rectangle around Louisberg Square, bordered on both sides by Mt. Vernon and Pinckney Streets. The tidy brick brownstones glow from within; her favorite ones have lush green wreaths in every window, each flocked with silver and gold baubles and tied with a fat red ribbon.
You won’t find a blow-up Santa here; there is nary a multicolored light, all white and silver. The atmosphere is one of quiet holiday elegance, as if a group of carolers might glide out from an evergreen singing O Holy Night at any moment. She imagines the inhabitants of the apartments getting ready for holiday cocktail parties: sipping a bourbon while they adjust their plaid bow tie just so, or patting their puffy velvet headband into place, calling out, “Earnest! Have you seen my black houndstooth cardigan?” while clipping on a pair of oversized gold earrings.
Yesterday was a long and tiring day. Adrift with exhaustion at the end of it all, she experienced a melancholy that was both distant yet familiar. The edges and shape of it felt like homesickness, but it wasn’t for her actual home—rather, if she prodded at the sensation, it seemed to be some form of nostalgia brought on by the onrushing of cheer and community around her. The streets were clogged with traffic, which was at a standstill along Cambridge Street. Going home straight from work didn’t appeal to her: She was both restless yet tired, needing an infusion of fresh air and the gentle cacophony of rush hour in order to still her mind.
The long way home looped past the most expensive window shopping: Bottega Veneta and Chanel and Cartier, their glass storefronts shimmering with strands of lights and frosted pine boughs and ornaments in shades of ice and pewter and steel. Half a block later, the doors of a bakery swung open and shut as commuters dashed in to pick up a warm ciabatta loaf and a pint of chicken kale soup or a dozen chocolate hazelnut praline twists for the weekend. The air that whooshed out with each customer was warm and smelled of cinnamon sugar and yeast. Gleaming white subway tiles covered the walls and the glass bakery case was full of colorful pastries: tiny strawberry-topped tarts and layered pistachio cheesecakes and krembos with their jaunty peaks coated in chocolate, hiding a pillowy marshmallow dome within.
Unsurprisingly, the holidays summon up memories of growing up, especially when she’s away from home. (Do adults still think of themselves as away from home? she wonders. Will I stop doing that at some point? She both hopes she will and hopes she won’t in equal measure.)
There were the cocktail parties, exhausting when you were under the age of ten and tired of hanging on your father’s leg while he clinked glasses of eggnog, the room spinning into one shimmering mass of voices and music and women’s dresses swishing.
There was the Christmas Eve pageant, when a hushed and reverent mood would settle over the candlelit church as the choir sang carols, the mood broken abruptly by the arrival of dozens of children noisily toddling down the aisle in their sheep and donkey costumes.
There was snowfall and more snowfall and her dad teaching them to make maple candy and snow ice cream. As soon as the snow started, he’d call out and they’d all run into the kitchen. Everyone selected their own dish; her dad would bring a big metal mixing bowl. Outside they’d troop into the falling snow to find a spot on the back porch (Whit—in typical oldest child fashion—always put his bowl far out near the rhododendron bushes, their coppery branches stripped bare).
Every so often, they’d race out to check on the accumulation, sometimes having to wait overnight. Maple candy was first: On the kitchen table, her dad would place the big mixing bowl, piled high with a drift of snow. Poking one finger into the surface left a deep divot where you could pour a stream of boiling-hot maple syrup, which would harden on impact into a chewy, taffy-like rope.
Energized by the sugar, they’d turn to their own bowls of snow. One sibling would carry the container of heavy cream from the refrigerator while another would collect the jug of vanilla extract and bag of sugar from the pantry shelves. A drizzle of vanilla, a spoonful of sugar, a glug of cream: Mixed together they turned into a sugary, slushy, spoonable dessert.
Inexplicably though, she imagines none of those things as she trudges down the dark streets tonight. A bicycle passes her, bumping unsteadily on the cobblestones. A group of people are clustered outside a bar, the neon lights mirroring the glow of their lit cigarettes.
Instead, she thinks about walking into the school holiday fair every December flanked by her siblings and her parents, who would wear vaguely festive outfits saved all year for these brief few weeks: red corduroy pants for her dad; a green cable-knit sweater for her mom with a pair of dangly, sparkling reindeer earrings.
It was disconcerting to walk onto the school grounds on a Saturday and drink hot chocolate in the exact same place where you had to run laps on weekday mornings; it was a similarly odd thrill as seeing your teacher in, say, the grocery store.
The entire gym was transformed, although if you looked closely enough, it was still the same old yellow varnished floor with the same blue vinyl curtains that Mr. Collier would pull across to partition the cavernous room into two when one section of the class was allowed to play dodgeball and the other section had to take folk dancing with Ms. Reed: a sturdy-looking woman with frizzy gray hair who wore a starched polo shirt tucked into high-waisted nylon shorts and looked less likely to be a dancer than to grow wings and fly away. Folk dancing as a seventh grader would have been miserable enough without Ms. Reed’s sour expression and acerbic shouts: Turn left! Spin right! Hold her in your arms, now turn her with purpose. I said with purpose Jonathan Davis! On your tiptoes! Her pedagogical approach was less instruction and more beratement which, set to the percussive tune of polka music, did not make for a particularly enjoyable (or athletic) hour.
Walking into the gym was like stepping into a life-sized holiday snow globe: a veritable explosion of wreaths and ribbons and glittered ornaments bedecking every inch of the space. A door at the far back led to a second, smaller gym which was set up as a spillover room—and wisely designated for physical activity only. A few of the middle school teachers were conscripted every year into chaperoning the space, which was padded with plastic floor mats and filled with kickballs, hula hoops, and basketballs to encourage expenditure of excess energy.
Whenever a parent opened the door to the smaller gym, loud whoops and screams could be heard, and a minute later the parent would emerge holding the arm of a sweaty, flushed ten-year-old boy who had clearly eaten his weight in candy canes and spent the next hour flinging beanbags at his classmates while a teacher looked on, halfheartedly admonishing everyone to avoid any major sprains or injuries.
You could easily spot a kindergartener clutching a plastic bag bulging with water, inside of which a single fat goldfish swam dolefully, as if it had already accepted its fate. The goldfish booth had the second longest line in the gymnasium: To win one, you’d have to toss red and green balls at oversized figurines of fat Santas: three balls tossed into Santa’s open toy sack wins you a goldfish. Her older sister and brother had both wheedled and whined until their dad won them each one in successive years, only to have the goldfish meet its watery end less than a week later.
Depressing, she always thought. And sort of lame. Her puzzlement over the goldfish booth when she was younger was genuine: Who wants a fish when there’s chocolate to be had?
Instead, she would wait patiently in the biggest line: the gingerbread house booth. Long tables were set up with flimsy plastic tablecloths over the top; the sides would swish noisily against your legs as you sat and worked. A saccharine scent hung like a cloud over this entire section of the gym—vanilla and sugar and spices mingling with the cloying smell of candy. Bowls of brightly colored gumdrops and jelly beans and M&Ms were placed around the tables, and inevitably handfuls of candy ended up strewn across the work surfaces.
More than a few were consumed on the sly: For every three nonpareils firmly affixed to a gingerbread roof, another four were eaten in quick succession, leaving the entire crowd of children buzzing with a frenzied, sugared-up energy. “Manic,” she’d once heard her mother whisper to her best friend Tillie as they stood off to the side, supervising their charges absentmindedly but really drinking mulled wine and gossiping about Tillie’s cousin Sarah who they were sure had gotten Botox in the past month. “She would never admit to it,” Tillie said, “But it’s either that or she’s having an affair. She’s glowing.”
“More power to her,” her mother said emphatically. “Those two would give anyone early wrinkles.” She gesticulated with her glass towards Sarah’s twin boys who were, at the moment, tearing madly around the gym and screaming until Mr. Peterson, the seventh grade science teacher, collared one (she thought it was Tate but couldn’t tell) and made them come help unload poinsettias out front.
Her mother’s cheeks were flushed red: a sure sign that the mulled cider was spiked with something more than cinnamon and cloves. Gossiping like this (within earshot of her children) was something she only did after a glass of wine or two, when she forgot how loudly a mother’s voice carries to her offspring.
The ritual of building a gingerbread house was more about the candy than the final result: the Yuletide version of trick-or-treating, as it were. But her house always stood out from the rest: She would sit, her legs warm in the white woolen tights her mother made her wear under her smocked tartan dress, and studiously secure each candy onto the smooth canvas of white icing. With great focus, she would consider color and pattern. Candy canes against each corner gave the house the swirly, jaunty look of an old-fashioned barber shop. Miniature green and red M&Ms formed a wreath above the door.
One year, she shingled Necco wafers in perfect lines down the roof, giving it the effect of a pastel dream of a dollhouse. Bored by sitting too long, most kids would start sticking candy pieces at random onto the frosted lawn of the house. She never did this: Hers had a carefully constructed fence made of pretzel sticks, and a walkway paved in crushed peppermints.
Her dad would come sit next to her, admiring the handiwork and asking questions about her method while he ate fistfuls of Teddy Grahams. As one of the volunteers packaged her house up in cellophane and a cardboard box, he’d pocket a few Twizzlers and wink at her, “In case I feel faint on the ride home.”
If pressed, she would say she doesn’t particularly like gingerbread. The word conjures up stale cookies brittle enough to break your teeth, or dark and homely-looking squares of cake with too much spice and not enough sugar.
The gingerbread houses were always an exception: That was art, and she never ate the walls and roof anyway, preferring to let hers sit untouched until the day her dad dragged the Christmas tree out to the curb, shedding needles across the rugs and down the flagstone steps. Then she would carefully deposit the house in the trash, refusing to dismantle it the way her brother did (Whit was savage with his, and the candy wouldn’t last more than a day or two).
What changed her mind was Aspen, last winter, with him. He skis exceptionally well; she is mediocre at best, but learning, and the trip was a long-planned early holiday getaway for them. The suite at The Little Nell was more luxurious that she could have imagined, but in truth she preferred the cabin they borrowed from one of Alfie’s cousins for three days after The Little Nell: a spruce log building with forest green trim perched high on the edge of town with ski in access to Aspen Mountain.
The relatively rustic exterior belied the sleek design within: A massive fireplace anchored the main room, around which cozy, squashy-looking couches and armchairs were situated. Off to the side, a kitchen gleaming with marble countertops and Gaggenau appliances fronted a pair of sliding doors which opened to a long porch with a sunken hot tub and a set of cushioned deck chairs, where they sat at night and drank hot apple cider with a splash of bourbon.
Her muscles ached after two days of skiing, unused to the strains and demands of an unfamiliar sport. Hobbling from the shower, her cheeks pink from steam, he told her one night to dress up. “I literally can’t even pull on a pair of jeans,” she said with a groan. “So, a dress?” he grinned back.
He took her to Betula, an airy restaurant with a view of the darkened mountains and lit-up village below. After silky braised artichoke soup and slow-grilled lamb smothered with caramelized onions (plus two glasses of very nice red wine), she finally began to feel her body relax.
The dessert menu was holiday-themed, each line more alluring than the next. He leaned back in his chair, glancing at the tables around them to see if anyone was on the final course yet to help them decide. A group of women to their right were sharing what looked like the “London Fog”: a square of fluffy cake somewhere between angel food and brioche oozing with an Earl Grey tea pastry cream filling and showered with vanilla sugar, a smooth quenelle of lemon gelato on the side.
He lobbied hard for the eggnog creme brulee, which was described poetically (and awfully minimally, she quipped) as: rum, sugar tuile, cranberry sorbet. “But, there’s a teeny miniature bûche de noël!” she protested.
“Okay, how about I just order it without you,” she offered. “Don’t you crave more of an element of surprise in your day-to-day life?” He raised his eyebrows at her suggestively, which made her laugh, and agreed. “We’ll switch off then: new tradition. Every dinner date, one of us gets to pick.” He got up and walked to the restroom while she motioned to the waiter.
“Sleeper choice!” he exclaimed happily when the plate arrived: a thick, dense wedge of gingerbread cake rich with cocoa and stout beer. The plush crumb was dotted with crunchy pearls of caramelized white chocolate; before he left, the waiter poured a stream of spiced bourbon creme anglaise over the top which pooled thickly around the plate.
Now, surrounded by holiday cheer, she wants the same night. The same cake. The same hours stretching out ahead in the cabin with a huge bed, the duvet covers and pillows as luscious and soft as whipped cream. The same sense of nothing before and nothing after, just right then in that moment.
She’s still standing looking at the snow, listening to his voice practically vibrate with happiness over the phone.
“Will you be able to make it? How’s the snow up there?” she asks.
“Horrible!” he says cheerfully, “but I’m leaving now and this is why they invented Subarus! And four wheel drive. But mostly Subarus.”
It is virtually impossible to drive a mile in New England without seeing a Subaru. When they first met, she wasn’t entirely familiar with the landscape of Maine—certain sights still caught her by surprise with their novelty: roadside signs for fresh firewood, the jagged crest of a hillside covered in evergreens, lobster traps casually slung here and there and everywhere. If a dark green Subaru passed her, her heart would skip a beat briefly, thinking it was him, not realizing that hundreds of thousands of people in the same zip code own the exact same car.
Were someone to ask her to describe her mood, knowing that within the space of two hours she’d be standing here watching the snow fall even faster onto a city already blanketed in white, but with him next to her— the night spread out before them ready to be filled with a cold walk to a warm restaurant, a fizzy cocktail at a neon-lit bar, the heat of him beside her—she would say: like an beautifully wrapped present, the red satin ribbon in my hand, the first moment of tugging it open.
In the back of his car, he’ll have packed two sets of snowshoes. He’s going to take her for a darkened evening walk through the empty park nearby. It isn’t skiing, but it’s close, so she closes her eyes and thinks ginger, white chocolate, red wine, him. And with a different, new, snowy night ahead, she bakes.
Chewy Ginger Cookies with Caramelized White Chocolate
Makes about 2 dozen large cookies
226g (1 cup) unsalted butter, room temperature
198g (1 cup) granulated sugar
170g (1/2 cup) molasses
1 teaspoon vanilla extract or rum
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger
3/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 eggs, room temperature
113g (1 cup) whole wheat flour
300g (2 1/2 cups) all-purpose flour
300g (1 3/4 cups) roughly chopped caramelized white chocolate**
92g (1/2 cup) crystallized ginger, diced
**You can either buy caramelized white chocolate which Valrhona makes and calls “Dulcey'“ (Whole Foods sells it, or you can find it online) or you can make your own by spreading chopped white chocolate on a baking sheet and baking it at 250 degrees F until light golden in color, which should take about 30 to 60 minutes (it really depends on your oven), making sure to stir it with a spatula every 15 minutes or so.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
Cream together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy, about 3 minutes on medium speed in a stand mixer.
Add the molasses, vanilla (or rum), cinnamon, ginger, cloves, salt, and baking soda and mix until smooth, scraping down the bowl as needed.
Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well between each.
Add the flour and mix until just combined. Fold in the white chocolate and crystallized ginger (if using).
Using wet hands, scoop out balls of dough, rolling them around a bit to smooth them out, and place them on the prepared baking sheets, leaving a few inches between each. You’ll need more than 2 baking sheets, so if you have more (and the oven space), you can bake them all at once. I usually do them in batches—if you don’t want to bake it all at once, you can refrigerate the extra dough, or shape it into balls and freeze it for up to 3 months.
Bake the cookies for just about 10 minutes—they’ll look quite soft in the middle, but take them out! They’ll firm up as they cool.