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Dive into the pot, it was always on the Christmas table, Grandma’s Christmas table, the only thing that counted, the only thing that counts. And it was mostly Grandpa who dipped slices of bread with must in the pork soup, but sometimes I too to show that I dared.
In the living room, the laundry basket was filled with tightly wrapped and lacquered Christmas presents, each provided with a verse, usually in hexameters, usually written only by the grandfather. For several days he had barricaded himself in his study and the grandchildren had been forced to go through his closed door so as not to disturb.
Writing Christmas rhymes was a high male occupation, the rest was feminizing.
It was the grandmother who bought the Christmas food at Östermalmshallen or Arvid Nordqvist’s. It was Helga in the kitchen who cooked it. And it was the grandchildren who were falling apart because Christmas dinner was so long. Because everyone had been pinching the packages in the laundry basket and could barely move forward.
Christmas Eve was by far the most wonderful day of the year and there were tears among the adults, we did not realize it and nobody got drunk so it bothered us and all the next day we told which of us managed to get more caresses. At least twenty were.
She is still an adorable little variety. And they take some risks.
Of course, now everything is different, even if the place is the same. Tonight there will be no dip in the pot, there will be no verses, at least not in hexameters, there will be no Helga in the kitchen, not even some grandchildren excited to the breaking point around the Christmas tree. Tonight there will be three at most and if I’m lucky. Three adults. And sparse with packages under the Christmas tree. Which, furthermore, by pure chance, is much less than it usually is.
But I have been to Östermalmshallen and bought ham and some herring and some slices of salmon. And yes, of course he was wearing a mouth guard. He was not alone in that, but almost. And it felt too crowded there, especially for us over 70s who have barely been inside a store since March.
If the little prick had been with me, I would have carried her. So that’s what Grandma used to do to me. We had held hands, but she is not too big for that.
It may come in the middle of the day, if everything hasn’t gotten worse, it probably will. She won’t be living with me, but we can eat buttered gingerbread together and play and cuddle. She is still an adorable little variety. And they take some risks.
Many of my friends have their grandchildren on the other side of the ocean. They have never been able to hug them and are not sure they will be recognized by their little ones when they finally meet for real. It hurts to think about that.
But right now it’s the way it is, most of us who are a little older will celebrate a pretty lonely Christmas and it can even be quite nice to do so.
Many of us are anxious and struggling, but most of us have very little to complain about. And it will get better, I promise. Very soon time has run again, very soon we are vaccinated and we can meet and hug each other as much as we want.
Until then: wish a Christmas as beautiful as possible and try to persevere until the misery passes!
