My youngest son recently asked if we had any Christmas Eve food traditions.
I was taken aback for a moment as, in my mind, our night before the holiday is steeped in ritual. I think of it as reliable and steadfast, a familiar, whispered preface to the revelry of the next morning. Yet, in cataloging the eve dinners he's known – a stupendous lasagna, braised short ribs more than once, a marmalade-and-beer-bathed lamb leg another year, aromatic brown chicken stew with lardons, a husky pork chile verde – I realize the consistency was not in the food itself, but the type. Our Christmas Eve is built upon a routine of ease and essential fidelity to one-pot, or one-pan, wonders (oftentimes those which allow for, and benefit from, advance preparation).
They are generous meals that graciously take care of themselves for the most part by way of cooking; at meal time, it's simply a case of placing a single dish on the table, spoon alongside, and tucking in. We might ask others to bring salad and a crusty boule, if feeling for extra. It is a moment of simple, soul-soothing sustenance and comfort.
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This year, there will be a burly tumble of bronzed chicken, crisp-skinned and lushly fleshed, sausages plumped up and sizzling, and mushrooms concentrated and earthy. There shall be enough herbs to murmur a reminder of the greenery bedecking our halls, and velvety, honeyed squash for softness. A sprinkling of already cooked grains, an equal mix of rice and barley, are there to soak up the sticky pan juices, while achieving a tanned crust and deeply pleasing interior chew.
While our Christmas Eve may continue to change in the years ahead, I hope my my son will understand that so much of this season is less about the particulars, and more about an overall sense of cheer. While our cheeks flush and twitch as we slip out into the sharp, cold air to take in the Christmas lights, I am certain the warmth of the meal and company will keep spirits bright this year, as always.