Happy Holidays from Caitlin
By Caitlin Klein in Food on Dec 25, 2010 3:45PM
It will hardly shock you that my holiday traditions to share with the readers of Chicagoist are about… you guessed it… food. And alcohol. Lord, the alcohol. But to me, and many of you out there, the holidays are just that: people you simultaneously love and can’t stand, in one room, eating and drinking until someone can’t take it anymore and bursts into flames. Or until the wine is gone. Same difference.
In my family, there are two major traditions at Christmastime. First, we hide a pickle ornament in the Christmas tree. Anybody else do that? I was raised to believe it was a German tradition, although once I actually had the chance to visit Germany, I discovered that the darling people of Deutschland had no idea what I was talking about. It seems that the tree pickle must be a German-American invention, or at the very least a clever scheme to get us to buy more ornaments. Authentic or no, the damn thing is surprisingly difficult to find, and the first person to spy it gets an extra present and good luck for the rest of the year. At 26, I am the five-time pickle-finding champion, due in no small part to my eagle eyes, pointy elbows, and I’ll-do-absolutely-anything-to-win attitude.
The second tradition is a little more complicated, and a little closer to my heart. During her life, my maternal grandmother, Caroline, was a world-class baker. My mother isn’t anything to sneeze at either. At the Roth house, Christmas brings intense sugar rushes in the form of hideously decorated sugar cookies, red and green Swedish cream wafers, gingersnaps, and pecan tassies. Most of the things my grandmother made we can recreate without too much trouble. But one thing at which I have failed, utterly failed, is making her walnut-laden fudge. As young girls, my sister and I would cup squares of Caroline’s fudge in our sweaty little hands, hiding it from our parents so they didn’t know that we were on our umpteenth piece and likely to barf at any moment from gorging ourselves. I have her recipe, and since her death I have tried each year to make it with no success. I would give my right arm to have her back for one day to help me figure out what I am missing. Each year I continue to try, so one day I can sneak squares of fudge into my own little granddaughter’s hands.
I wish you a happy holiday, readers, and hope you find the pickle and get into the kitchen with the ones you love.