Over dinner, the conversation didn’t flutter to the meal I’d prepared. Instead, everyone talked about politics, and Ben’s brother’s travels, and Ben’s sister’s studies. Nobody seemed much happier than they’d seemed at last year’s Christmas. Nobody seemed unhappier, either. They just seemed glad to be together. Same as always. I hadn’t had time to bake cookies. For dessert, there was cheesecake. And everyone seemed pretty happy about that, too.
We drove home around midnight in silence. Finally, Ben patted my knee. “You know,” he said, “they really loved it.”
“No, they didn’t,” I said. “It was silly. You were right.”
“Come on,” Ben said. “You gave them the gift of a Grodstein holiday. It was fantastic.”
“You mean it?”
“Sure,” Ben said, then considered. “But it’s not like you have to do it every year.”
So there it was. In the end, all I’d done was apply my family’s approach to Ben’s family’s Christmas dinner. I’d celebrated the holiday the way my mother and grandmother had celebrated the Jewish holidays since before I was born: by themselves, in the kitchen, cooking—and swearing—up a storm. But whom had I done it for? And why?
“Did you have fun?” Ben asked.
“I sort of did,” I admitted.
“There you go,” Ben said. “Merry Christmas.”
Driving up the New Jersey Turnpike with my beloved, my clothing still reeking of gandz, I reached for Ben’s hand. “Thank you,” I said to him. “You’re the best present of all.”
If you’re lucky like I was that Christmas night, you know—or else you learn—that all celebrations are delicious when you’re with the right people. Back in Brooklyn, we put away presents, we toasted each other from a half-empty bottle, we ate scraps of leftover goose. We kissed each other good night. Sometimes it’s not the food that’s important. It’s the feast.
Lauren Grodstein’s most recent novel is A Friend of the Family. You can find her at LaurenGrodstein.com and on Twitter at @laurengrodstein.
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