We have entered the second week of Advent. A time of waiting, anticipation, contemplation.
The nights grow ever longer, the cold ever stronger.
And we wait.
When I was a child, I always knew Christmas was drawing near when both my parents disappeared into the kitchen and the pots and pans started clanking and the smells started wafting throughout our home.
Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Allspice. Cloves.
These are the smells of Christmas.
Flaky crusted tourtiere. Mince tarts and lemon squares.
Christmas cakes soaking in a bath of rum.
Buttertarts and sugar cookies. Lemon loaves and fresh baked bread.
These are the tastes.
Both my parents loved to cook, and at Christmas they always outdid themselves.
Sometimes, they even competed.
One Christmas, when I was in my twenties, I flew from my home in Alberta to my parent’s home in Germany. I arrived at Frankfurt airport to be greeted by both my parents. Before the hugs and kisses were barely finished my father and mother handed me a plate with two buttertarts. Looking at them, they seemed identical. Light flaky pastry cooked to golden brown. Edges perfectly crimped.
“What’s this?” I asked. I had no idea the hellstorm I was about to unleash.
“We want you to decide,” my mother told me. “Which one is better? Your dad doesn’t put walnuts in. I do.”
I still don’t know what caused that year to become, The Great ButterTart Bake-off, but no matter how vehemently I insisted I thought they both looked perfect, and with or without walnuts was always a personal preference, they were adamant that I make a judgement.
I copped out.
I don’t like buttertarts I told them.
Yes you do my mother insisted.
And the war was on.
Me insisting I didn’t.
She insisting I did.
My father, quickly recognizing the state of affairs was close to bubbling over into a boiling mess of angry words and hurt feelings, bundled us up into the car for the 2 hour drive home. As we sped south on the Autobahn, my mother kept asking me to try the buttertarts. I kept refusing with a petulant, I don’t like them.
No matter the distance nor time between us, my mother and I still knew how to engage in our most dysfunctional patterns without even taking a bite out of the possibility of something different.
It was our way. From childhood to adulthood, my mother would ask me to do something ‘her way’. I would insist on doing it mine, regardless of where I was or whether I thought her way was a good idea, or not.
Neither my father nor my mother make buttertarts anymore. My father passed away 20 years ago and my mother no longer has a kitchen. She lives in a lodge where meals are served and cooking by residents is not on the menu. Plus, at 94, her arthritic fingers cannot hold a rolling pin nor take the pain of cutting out the little pastry shells for the tarts.
I miss the smells of Christmas that permeated our home when I was growing up. The busyness in the kitchen. My father rattling pans, my mother cleaning up after him. I miss the lemon loaves and cherry cakes, the gingerbread men and shortbread cookies. And most of all, I miss my mother’s buttertarts. Because, even though my father’s were good, I prefer my buttertarts with walnuts.
Namaste.
Dare Boldly 
Such a great post! I wish children were smart enough to read these messages! We never really understand what we have until it’s gone, do we? I think you may have inspired my post today!
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If you’re like me Di, we didn’t really understand when we were children either — which is what makes the treasuring of the memories so much sweeter today! Hugs my friend. ❤
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Right. I wrote about it after I left here yesterday. 👍😊
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As Mom still says, “those were the good old days” and they were. I think that Mom would love to hear that you liked her butter tarts with the walnuts. I was asked the same question many times and being the diplomat I always said that they were both delicious and that I really couldn’t say that one was better than the other….and the debate would go on without my definitive answer. It is wonderful that we all love to cook and bake and I have no doubt that it is due to the love of cooking while growing up. Dad rarely paid a compliment about baking but once, just once, he said to me, “you make a fine buttertart Jack”. Those words will stay with me always. Loved your blog this morning Louise. Enjoy your Christmas baking along with its memories. Love you little sis, Jackie
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Thank you big sis! Your baking (including your buttertarts) are pretty spectacular too! YOu learned from the best.
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Your relationship with your mother is so similar to what mine is. It is only now at past 60 that I begin to understand her and the dynamics between us and forgive us both. The love was there, and how I miss the boxes of her Christmas baking she sent me every year until she passed.
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Oh Josie! HOw lovely to see you. And me too — my father used to send boxes. All my friends would come to visit when they heard there was a box from my dad! 🙂 PS — forgiveness is key isn’t it. I am so grateful for time’s passing so I can be here in forgiveness today. Hugs.
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There is only one thing better than a butter tart – and that is a stolen butter tart; from the freezer, there is so much butter in the filling and the pastry that biting into a frozen one is an exercise in melting … with or without walnuts, nothing better. This year my daughter asked what I want for Christmas. I answered with a book I want and butter tarts (she learned how from her mother) and while I’m visiting her home I will also steal some, one delicious one at a time, from her stash in her freezer. I’m 50/50 on the walnut or not things.
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Ahha! Now we know who stole the buttertart from the freezer drawer! Enjoy your daughter’s gift Mark — and the stealing of those special treats. 🙂
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What a lovely evocative post…. I know these aromas, because I married a German. No one bakes like the Germans do. For my take on your topic, go to http://jadicampbell.com/2015/06/16/my-mother-in-laws-cookies/ Merry Christmas. — Jadi
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I shall go and visit Jadi — thanks for sharing the link — and for dropping by! Merry Christmas to you too. Enjoy — Christmas in Germany was about my favourite place to be in the world at this time of year!
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This took me back to my nan’s house and the way it smelt at Christmas for that I thank you
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I hope in taking you back you found joy and comfort in your memories Joanne. Hugs and love. ❤
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