Liam
Daylight glows around the edges of the bedroom blinds. I slowly blink awake. Rolling over, I whisper, “Merry Christmas Eve” to Nick with a kiss and get out of bed. As I traipse to the bathroom, I hear a joyful sigh and Nick says, “it’s snowing!” Glancing through the back window, I see small flakes accumulating into a thin veneer on the ground below. It is a picturesque start to my first ever Christmas Eve away from home.
I put on my bathrobe and walk downstairs to plug in the Christmas tree lights. In a break from both our families’ tradition, we are exchanging gifts this morning. Tomorrow we are traveling to Douglasville and then South Bend, Indiana for Christmas and New Year’s Day, so it makes sense for us to leave our presents at home during the holidays. Our two-family holiday plans are rushed. We expected to celebrate a quiet Christmas with Nick’s family, but my mother’s recent cancer diagnosis has made me eager to spend the holidays with mine. Nick has been gracious in ceding Christmas Day to my family, resulting in a a marathon of parties, packing, and driving between Nick’s hometown (Douglasville) and mine (South Bend) over the next day and a half.
I put on one of my favorite Christmas albums, Harry for the Holidays, as Nick makes coffee. We retire to the couch and hand our stockings to each other. Nick surprised me by purchasing stocking stuffers for us both, which makes me feel bad. I have been caught up in planning Christmas Eve Masses at St. Vincent’s, coordinating holiday travel with my family, and packing, so it slipped my mind to buy Nick anything for our stockings. Their gifts are the perfect balance of thoughtful and practical: a new heating pad, electric toothbrush in a dusty rose hue, deodorant, mints, chocolate—things I will use and appreciate but never thought to request.
“Oh, so you think I smell bad?” I say with a sarcastic smile, pulling out the deodorant. I thank them so they know my accusation is in jest. We clear away the stockings and prepare for the formal gifts.
For Nick, I purchased a new pair of earmuffs (their old ones recently ripped) and a sweater vest made of Irish wool. I would have added one or two additional gifts, but they were adamant that this year I follow the Christmas list they prepared and, out of respect, I agreed to do so. I even made a Christmas list of my own—a first.
Nick’s first gift to me is a Telfar cropped crew neck in forest green, the top item of my list. I smile and already imagine about fifteen different events to which I will wear it. I squeeze their hand as I say, “thank you” and they return to the tree to gather my second gift. It is remarkably heavy, which concerns me as nothing on my list weighs more than a couple pounds. I cut the tape of the cardboard box to reveal a cast iron griddle, something for which I had expressed desire but deigned to add to my Christmas list. I am touched by the perceptiveness of this gift. It makes me feel safe and confident and vulnerable and seen that Nick knew what I wanted without me asking. It is a moment where I feel loved.
***
I put the griddle to use by making pancakes for our Christmas Eve breakfast. The music fades to the background as we discuss the remainder of our day. The odyssey of the holiday sets in as I sip my second coffee. Breakfast aside, I water our plants and pray they will make it through the holidays with minimal attention. We have house-sitters scheduled, but still I worry. I pack my new sweater along with the other clothing I set aside last night and put my suitcase next to our packed presents for family, Christmas cookies, and work supplies. I resist packing my usual library of books, knowing I will likely purchase one or two during my visit home.
I return to the kitchen as Nick departs to obtain the car we will use to reach Douglasville tonight. My family traditionally eats homemade manicotti (manicott’ as my Nonna called it in her Americanized Italian). I committed to providing the veganized version for myself and Nick, which means I have to prepare it this morning and bring it on the drive tomorrow. I improvise a recipe for vegan ricotta cheese (ricott’). I start a simple sauce simmering on the stove and assemble batter for manicott’ shells. With the batter complete, I heat a skillet and pan fry the pasta shells, laying them to cool on a clean towel as my mother’s recipe specifies. By now the sauce is bubbling, so I add my herb mix, pluck fresh basil from my plant and toss it in, stir the sauce down, and reduce the heat. As I fry the last shell, I preheat the oven and pull the ricott’ out of the refrigerator.
Nick returns just in time to help me stuff the shells. As I teach them the way to line each shell with cheese and lay it in the bed of sauce, I am brought back to my Nanny’s kitchen where she taught me, my last Christmas before moving to Philadelphia.
“Nonna always used a baby spoon to stuff her shells,” Nanny told as she pulled a new set of the undersized utensils out of her junk drawer. “It keeps you from over-stuffing them.” She handed me a blue plastic baby spoon and watched as I carefully scooped her ricott’ mixture into manicott’ shells, pinching the comically small spoon between my index finger and thumb. As I set my first completed shell into the prepared pan, she let out a cheer and another chuckle.
Four years later I am handing Nick a small teaspoon (the closest thing we have to a baby spoon) and relaying the process for stuffing manicott’. Together we fill one large and one small dish with stuffed shells. I layer in more sauce, vegan mozzarella and parmesan, and put the dishes in the oven to bake. We retire upstairs for a nap before the festivities of the day commence.
***
Freshly showered and shaven, with our bags, food, and gifts in tow, we depart for St. Vincent’s in Germantown. We wave to our neighbor and wish him a Merry Christmas as we lock our door. On the drive, we realize we have not eaten since breakfast. Nick is nervous about this and again I feel bad that I did not consider their needs with better intention. They are going above and beyond for me today: I guilted them into singing with my choir even though they are not Catholic, and they have committed to singing for both the 4:00PM and midnight Masses. Not to mention we pivoted our Christmas plans to be much more involved than initially intended. I should have prepared us some food for the long day.
We arrive at the church with a few minutes to prepare before the rest of the choir joins us. I turn on the sound system, place worship aids at the entrances to the church, and warm up my hands on the piano, a six-foot Baldwin grand from the 1970s which, rumor has it, once belonged to André Previn. My choir members trickle in and exchange holiday greetings. The hired violist, my friend Jonny, arrives and we tune his instrument to the piano. When we have quorum, I spot check one or two songs with the group. We adjourn until the start of our half-hour Christmas “concert,” a collection of preludes we have prepared in advance of the 4:00PM Mass.
It is my first Christmas at St. Vincent’s, a proud and passionate parish. As a new face, I worry about disrespecting time-honored traditions by bringing too much change. Especially at a time like Christmas, I do my best to follow the parish’s customs as closely as possible without compromising my own vision as a liturgical music director. It has been an exhausting past few months of preparation, so I am eager to see this work come to fruition. At 4:01PM, I signal my choir to stand in formation and count us in. We open our first piece with the solemn lyrics, “O come, O come, Emmanuel…”
***
The Mass proceeds with minimal hitches, save for a rogue toddler who unplugged the church sound system ten minutes in (luckily a quick fix). My choir sounds as rich and polished ever. The sopranos soar on their descants. The basses and altos bring resonance and depth to each verse. Everyone sings with full hearts and the church scintillates with collective effervescence. As the closing notes of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” echo up through the frescoed dome, applause thunders from the congregation. We transition for the 7:00PM Mass that follows us and depart for the choir Christmas party down the road. Nick has already left to make it to their family Christmas party. I will see them at 11:30PM tonight when we return for the midnight Mass.
I drive with several choir members to our host’s house. On the way we chat about Christmas cookies, holiday plans, and vegan food. They tempt me with offerings of non-vegan pastries and delicacies, half in jest, half in earnest (they are of a generation and upbringing where veganism remains an absurd concept). I laugh with them as I respectfully decline. We arrive at a home tucked away on a side road in East Falls. The scent of a wood-burning fire, English choral music, and the glow of candlelight greet us as we enter. A Christmas feast lays on an exquisite Queen Ann dining table. One of my choir members has made me vegan cookies, which rest proudly among the many non-vegan offerings. Vintage rugs haphazardly cover the wide-slat wooden floor, insulating us from the chilly outdoors. Small groups chat with one another around the living room, drinks in hand, overlooked by dozens of oil paintings cozily hung on every available wall. It is a quintessential old money Philadelphian tableau.
Pleasantries, light chat, and party games ensue. The choir swaps tales of old as they recall their former director, recently deceased. It is a new Christmas for us all: I am away from home for the first time, and my choir is without their former director of forty years for the first time. I eye the Cunningham upright piano in the corner, and our host—a classically trained operatic soprano—encourages me to play. We rattle through many of the classic Christmas songs before she hands me a binder of opera classics. I plunk out Mozart’s “Exsultate, jubilate” before we trundle through Verdi’s “Va, pensiero” from Nabucco. The highlight is Puccini’s “Chi il bel sogno di Doretta” from La Rondine, one of my favorite operas. Our performances are choppy as I am sight-reading, but their merit comes in how happy it makes us to play such inspiring repertoire.
Near 10:30PM the party starts quieting down. Songs from earlier in the night replay as the radio runs out of new music to present. Folks depart for the night while others struggle to stay awake. I collect my coat, hat, and gloves and prepare to leave. The smoke of the fire is beginning to scratch at my throat and I am dehydrated. I call a car and thank my hosts. A quick ride later I am back at St. Vincent’s. I set about preparing for the midnight Mass. Nick returns shortly after with Clif bars. The food is much appreciated as there were few vegan offerings at my party. We sit and chat about our respective parties. I am happy they are here. It makes Christmas a little less lonely.
We move over to the church. A handful of congregants have already taken their seats in the pews. Several choir members return and offer their greetings. Shortly before midnight, I take my seat at the piano. In lieu of the half-hour concert we performed at the earlier Mass, I will be performing a simple arrangement of the traditional “Carol of the Bells” by one of my favorite pianists, George Winston. It is flashy and bright, an ideal way to capture the energy before such a quiet and sleepy liturgy. I have not played this piece publicly since high school, but it returns to me with relative ease. I roll the final chord as the priest nods at me to begin the Mass. I nod in turn to my choir who stands at the ready. In the distance, bells toll the midnight hour as I drone the opening chant of the Christmas Proclamation:
“Today, the twenty-fifth day of December,
unknown ages from the time when God created the heavens and the earth
and then formed man and woman in his own image…”
