I spent the first sad Christmas after my husband died attending a festive holiday dinner hosted by a couple I’d recently met and didn’t know well. In the throes of fresh grief, I’d dreaded the thought of holiday travel and facing Christmas Day dinner among sympathetic family members, with every familiar tradition and morsel of food a reminder of my husband’s absence.
I couldn’t face it. I knew I’d weep. With relief and gratitude, I welcomed the unexpected invitation.
I don’t speak Yiddish, but I’m told “haimish” is an excellent word to describe how my Jewish hosts embrace Christmas Day, making it a warm, joyful, inclusive celebration for everyone. While there was no Christmas tree or wreath in sight (and certainly not a crèche or Santa) the true spirit of Christmas imbued their warm holiday gathering.
Instead of spending Christmas Day lost in mournful remembrances, I joined their 20-some guests — all ages and backgrounds, many of us single — around a long makeshift table beautifully set with place cards, a welcome touch since few of us knew each other. With a platter of carved turkey as the centerpiece, the table groaned with heaping bowls of traditional side dishes brought by guests and passed around family style.
Over desserts and coffee, we each took turns talking about what we were looking forward to in the coming year. Then we all drew numbers to select a gift from a pile of wrapped presents we’d each brought — the only stipulation being that the item was a recycled gift we didn’t want. I brought a set of snowmen salt-and-pepper shakers and left with a robot floor cleaner (pink, with batteries, that I gave to a friend to amuse her puppy).
For the next several years, I coveted that Christmas Day dinner invitation and the chance to celebrate the holiday with guests of various ethnicities bringing a taste of their cultural background to the dinner table — Greek Spanakopita (spinach pie), Italian antipasti, Polish pierogi, Danish gravlaks, mince pies, profiterole and Berlinerkranser.