Holiday perfection is possible–Martha Stewart tells me so.
“Bake the Christmas cookies in 18th Century Tuscan molds,” she commands. “Don’t forget to churn the butter first.”
With that level of expectation, I might as well hibernate for the rest of December. It’s enough of a challenge to meet the minimum holiday responsibilities, let alone pass myself off as a doyenne of domesticity.
For now, I can relax. Mothers and grandmothers still ensure that the whole holiday production comes off smoothly. Plus, I’m still enjoying the holiday grace period–old enough to decline boring family functions or forget gifts, yet young enough to be forgiven for it.
But at some point, a fresh batch of responsibilities will fall in my lap. I’ll have to host family dinners and invite relatives I never speak with all year. I’ll need to hone Iron Chef-like reflexes for frying up latkes at a moment’s notice and stock “backup” Hannukah gifts for the unexpected (uninvited) guest.
Thankfully, there’s a long time before the family matriarchs crown anyone, let alone me, as their successor. I’ve never even cooked a ridiculously large piece of meat.
Anyway, I have to qualify first. “Potential candidates must exhibit proficiency in the art of gifting appropriately and on time. Also, holiday card circulation figures are an excellent judge of character.”
Some of my relatives consider well-organized closets to be the true litmus test–measured by the household total of clearly marked storage boxes.
Is there any way to escape? Others before me forfeited candidacy by flaking out well into their 40s, although they now hold permanent seats at the kids’ table.
The rest we’ll call potential balabustas–a Yiddish term for the woman in your family who’s always pushing more food on to your plate, pushing your face into her bosom or orchestrating the latest dinner table drama.
And just in case you’ve missed a beat, this isn’t meant to be fun. It’s a duty, especially during the holidays. Welcome to the family.
Luckily, there’s a whole industry devoted to whipping you into a balabusta so accomplished your bubbe herself will kvell with joy. Cooking classes, TV shows, books, Web sites–it’s actually a little overwhelming.
Recently I checked out the bookstore magazine rack where hundreds of titles shouted advice for the Perfect Christmas Dinner and the Best Cocktail Party Ever. Better Homes and Gardens even broke it down into five extra titles–apparently “Holiday Baking” doesn’t cover the critical nuances addressed by “Christmas Cookies.”
As a host, I’m expected to groom myself for holiday perfection as well. Another shelf of magazines explained how I should dress for the festivities, apply holiday makeup and not eat all those cakes and cookies I just finished baking.
Too much! When the “Martha Stewart Living” cover fills you with profound self-doubt, it’s time to go. These glossy magazine pages are the unattainable equivalent of our childhood storybooks; no chocolate I ever taste will be as scrumptious as Willy Wonka’s. Can’t we please embrace, just for a moment, the messy, unplanned and un-coifed part of life?
Peeved, and just a little bit envious, I quickly walked down the magazine aisle to escape in the travel section. Trade Snow for Sun in Mexico!
Then I noticed a stack of spare-looking lifestyle magazines on a nearby shelf. One title promised to “Rescue” me with an artificial Christmas tree. Or make everything “Real Simple” with a plate of perfect holiday sweets. Visions of Italian cookies danced in my head …
Um, no thanks. I could do with a little less perfection these days.
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asneumer@tribune.com
