There’s a reason Germans are oft considered the butterballs of the world, and what better date to be reminded of that than Christmas day. I have seldom understood the appeal of Christmas morning. White trashcans like myself wait a whole god damn month for what ultimately boils down to an hour's worth of enjoyment. But I digress. Food is the name of the game for my family during the holidays. How original, you say as you recall Mommy dressing the Thanksgiving Turkey for what feels like the eleventh time. But cooking is never something we do on thanksgiving. We rest on our laurels and let someone else do it for us, be it close friends or restaurants nice enough to stay open. Christmas is a different beast though. Something from each side of the family is brought to the table. My father’s Semmelknödel, or bread dumplings; my mother’s Rotkohl, or red cabbage; and finally, the result of their joint efforts, the goose. Not the wretched Canada Geese that shit all along the Charles, I’m talking about the pump, juicy articles, hatched and bred to serve man (and women).
Dressing the goose starts at noon. It has to, since it takes four hours for the succulent waterfowl to cook. I have the privilege to partake in the practice of seasoning. The rub of salt and pepper pains the exposed flesh of my thumbs, but the endeavor is worthwhile. I love this shit. I recall the polish butchers we used to order this beast from back when we were New Yorkers. Nowadays, it’s Mckinnons in Summerville, but you’re not gonna hear me complaining.
The juicy birb is kept snugly in our Cambridge freezer. Packed next to our presents like sardines in a can. But the bird is infinitely more precious, although it will take us a few days until that becomes apparent.
Snap back to the present and the seasoning is finished. Now it’s on to the stuffing. Mommy stirs up some genuine fear in me when she stuffs the bird with three store-bought Granny Smiths. I can only imagine how many times she’s humored this method as a way to discipline me. I never understood the juxtaposition of meat and fruit, but I suppose my stubborn palate is to blame.
The four-five hours that the bird takes to cook are punctuated with the occasional baste. Meaty jux melts off the fowl and into the cooking tray, only to be repurposed as a way to ensure a nice crispy exterior.
In the interim, my parents set out on their individual culinary endeavors. Another begins to work on her contributions to the feast as well. A sweet Scottish lady named Fiona who is, for all intents and purposes, an honorary aunt. She recounts her latest ventures with Duolingo whilst working intensively on the gravy made from discarded giblets. A salty but delectable affair that pairs wonderfully with the edible pillows that are dad’s semmelknoedel.
Speaking of semmelknoedel, my father is now dicing some store-bought bread from Stop n’ Shop. This cheap shit from the bread aisle will now be applied to something of value. The bread is steamed, liquified, and repurposed into edible softballs. Eating wet bread never sounds appealing, but with the aid of parsley and pancetta cubes, it's a delight. And as mentioned previously, it will be the Coronado-tier pillow on which Fiona’s gravy will rest its head.
Now for my mother’s contribution. The Rotkohl. This was admittedly the thing that took me the longest to try. Now I openly regret every day that I didn’t. It’s a mesmerizing affair of sour and sweet courtesy of some stealthily inserted apple pieces. The vegetable is made tender by the fat of our previous Christmas goose, preserved for the most arduous of our culinary endeavors, and an enduring example of how one Christmas dinner naturally contributes to the next.
Everything is eventually assembled and each piece of our holiday holy trinity naturally falls into place on the table. Father quarters the now cooked beast. Masterfully knifing his way around stubborn sinews and cartilage. The dim light of the dining room gives the delicate slabs of goose meat a beautiful brown hue, and everything else follows. The Knödels are loaded onto an oval-shaped plate, the gravy is ladled into a delicately painted boat, as is the Rotkohl, and now the recipients of this endeavor sit down to taste the fruits of their labors.
First though, are the crackers. Candy shaped contraptions that are pulled on both ends before giving way with a satisfying pop. These are cheap, usually containing some plastic toy that a three-year-old would choke on, as well as a slip of paper telling a 40 year old dad joke.
Then we eat. And man alive, I have never been happier to put on a few extra pounds. First the goose. And the 240 minutes put toward cooking the thing were worth every cent. The meat is a succulent affair. The texture made wonderous by my father’s tactful art of cutting with the grain (does that apply to bird meat? I honestly don’t know). Next the Semmelknödel. These edible cricket balls taste delectable in a vacuum make no mistake, but when paired alongside the gravy and rotkohl, they are almost unrivaled. The soft texture of the bread is sometimes interrupted by the crunch of the bacon (pancetta), and I have never experienced such a gleeful interjection. The Rotkohl makes its debut in my mouth now, and again, I am regretful of every occasion in which my nose turned up at it. The strings of cabbage are tenderized to perfection, and the blend of tart and sweets pairs nicely with the saltiness of the goose and gravy. It’s a wonderful blend of colors as well. The velvet of the Rotkohl, the brown ochre of the goose, the white of the Knödel and gravy with green and brown dots peppered in courtesy of the parsley and bacon. These are the true gifts, not the stuff we spend the better part of the morning tearing apart wrapping paper for.
As we eat, I can’t help but ponder on how much there remains for me to learn. I am a devotee of the culinary arts, but all of this magic my parents partake in is committed to memory. They dice bread on instinct, as is also the case with the goose and cabbage. And yet I still cannot adequately prepare something without glancing partway at a pdf. Are they truly heirs to something I can only steal? I hope not, but I can only let these doubts be washed away with my second flute of cava.
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