Every New Year is a new opportunity to house our confused souls and wounded hearts.
01, Christmas is my happy time
For me, having a big meal with friends is a particularly wonderful part of the Christmas season, so I've documented here some recipes that are linked to my personal experiences. I have no concept of weighing at all, and I cook with my eyes, the texture and taste of the food. If the dough is too dry, add some water or eggs. The dough is too wet, so add some flour – that's pretty much my approach.
Stories are my life – they are real three-dimensional worlds for me. When I was a child, locked up in a coal kiln for making all sorts of mistakes, I had two choices: either count the briquettes— a very limited activity, or tell myself a story— an infinite world of countless reverie.
I write for pleasure. Sit down in front of the keyboard and the game begins. And Christmas has a special joy – as if the festive season is cheering you on. Christmas is time for storytelling, presided over by the King of Disorder. Because he was to be loyal to the old twelve-day Christmas festival, he had to act as the patron saint of the imagination.
Oddly enough, I grew up in a family that wasn't happy, but Christmas was my happy time growing up. We never lose that connection; the past has always been with us, and we can be lucky enough to recreate it, which is what I think should be done at Christmas. Everything can be told as a story.
The story of Christmas can be told around the fire, or you can breathe in the frosted air outside in winter and say that it takes a little magic and mystery to fit the atmosphere.
Writing itself is also a realization, sometimes revealing something unexpected. The familiar and even somewhat clichéd Christmas is always celebrated by the unexpected.
Here are the little stories I've written over the years, twelve stories for the twelve days of the Christmas season. There are ghost stories, magical powers, seemingly ordinary but extraordinary encounters, small miracles, and homages to the coming light.
02, Christmas wishes from the author
Time is not like an arrow, but like a dart. My adoptive parents were Pentecostal church believers and postmarked missionaries. Christmas is important on the missionary calendar.
Since the beginning of November, we have either been preparing packages for sending to a foreign country or for those returning to the rear from the heat.
Probably because my parents lived through World War II. It may also be because this era is nearing the end of the world, waiting for the great armageddon between good and evil. In short, we have a Christmas routine, from making the fleshy filling of the baguette pie, to chanting carols to the unsaved people in Ackerington, or rather, standing in front of them and chanting carols.
Mrs. Winterson, though, loves Christmas. Only this time of year, she will participate in the outside life, as if the world is no longer just a valley of tears.
She is a sullen woman, so this happy time in our family is especially precious. I'm sure I like Christmas because she loves it.
On December 21 of each year, my mother went out in a hat and coat, while my father and I hung the chain of colored paper I had made, from the foot of the living room to the bulb of the main lamp.
Finally my mother came home, as if she had just experienced a bad hailstorm, although it might have been her personal weather. She carried a goose, half inside the shopping bag and half outside, her hanging head hunched aside, like a dream that no one could remember.
She handed it to me—the goose and the dream—and then I pulled the goose feathers out and threw them into the bucket. We kept goose feathers to fill in all sorts of things that needed to be refilled, and we kept thick goose oil that drained from the big bird's body for baking potatoes throughout the winter. Except for Mrs. Winterson, who has thyroid problems, everyone we know is as thin as a ferret. We need goose oil.
03, this Christmas, do you go home?
I left home and went to Oxford for my undergraduate studies, and on the first Christmas holiday, I went back to my old house. My mother had already given me an ultimatum to leave home, when I was in love with a girl, and in a family so religious, I might as well marry a goat. We haven't spoken since. I first stayed in a mini car for a short time, then boarded with a teacher, and finally left the town.
My first semester at Oxford received a postcard – a postcard with a blue "postcard" printed on top. Below, written in her neat printed form: Are you going home this Christmas? Love your mother.
When I arrived at our little house with a terrace at the end of the street, I could hear the most melodious music, and the most apt expression of that sound was Bassa Nova's version of "The Depression of Midwinter." My mother had thrown away the old upright piano and bought an electronic keyboard with a double-row keyboard, solo, drums and bass.
She hadn't seen me in two years. Not a word was said. For the next hour we all enjoyed the effects of the solo drums and trumpets in Angel's Letters.
It was an act of courage for a friend I knew in Oxford from Saint Lucia to come to see me at home, but when I tried to explain my family, she thought I was making a big deal out of it.
At first, the visit was a success. Mrs. Winterson took it upon herself to make the black friend her missionary mission. One by one, she visited the retired missionaries in the church and asked, "What do they eat?" "The answer was pineapple.
When Vicki arrived, my mother gave her a wool blanket she had knitted herself so that Vicki wouldn't get cold. "They're afraid of the cold." She told me.
Mrs. Winterson had obsessive-compulsive disorder and spent all year weaving for Jesus. There are woven ornaments on the Christmas tree, while the puppy is trapped in a red wool Christmas coat with a white snowflake pattern. There is a woven Nativity scene in the house, and the shepherd wears a small scarf, because this is a place in Bethlehem where Aklington can be reached by bus.
My father opened the door wearing a woven vest and a matching woven tie. The whole house has been re-woven.
Mrs. Winterson was in a good mood. "Would you like to have some bacon and pineapple, Vicky?" Cheese toast with pineapple? Creamy pineapple? Flip the pineapple cake? Fried pineapple pie? ”
This meal lasted for a few days, and eventually Vicky said, "I don't like pineapples." ”
Mrs. Winterson's mood took a sharp turn. She didn't say a word to us for the rest of the day and crushed a robin paper sculpture. The next morning, at breakfast, a pyramid stacked with unopened pineapple cans was placed on the table, and a Victorian-style postcard depicting two cats standing on their hind legs, dressed like a couple. The accompanying text is – no one loves us.
That night, when Vicki went to bed, she found that her pillow core had been taken out of the pillowcase, and the pillowcase was filled with warning pamphlets about the end of the world. She was thinking about whether she should go home, but I've seen worse situations and I think things might take a turn for the better.
On Christmas Eve, our family received a group of people who came from the church to sing the praises. Mrs. Winterson did seem a little happier. She forced Vicki and I to wrap some halved cabbage in aluminum foil and skewer it with various sliced cheese strips, topped with discarded pineapple pieces.
She called this Sputnik. It has to do with the Cold War. Aluminum foil? antenna? Could this be a horrific hint about the KGB hiding a bugging device in the cheese?
it doesn't matter. The troublesome pineapple had found its place, and we were all singing the carols with great joy when there was a knock at the door. It turned out that the Salvation Army was also singing carols. fair and reasonable.
It's Christmas. But Mrs. Winterson did not accept it at all. She opened the front door and shouted, "Jesus is here." scram! ”
bang.
After leaving after Christmas, I never went back. I never saw Mrs. Winterson again. Soon after, she was furious with my debut novel, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit (1985). To quote her: "This is the first time I've had to order a book under a fake name. ”
She died in 1990.
04, Memories of Christmas
As you get older, you think of people who have passed away at Christmas. The Celts anticipate the death joining the living during their winter festival of Savin. Many cultures resonate with this, but we don't.
This is a pity and a loss. If time is a dart, not an arrow, then the past will always return and repeat. Memory as a creative activity allows us to awaken or, in some cases, to rest in peace, because we will eventually understand the past.
Last Christmas, I was alone in the kitchen, making a fire – I love making fires in the kitchen. I was pouring myself a drink when Judy Garland sang "Have a Merry Little Christmas yourself" on the radio. I remember how Mrs. Winterson played that song on the piano.
It was a time we all know, mixed with sadness and sweetness. Regrets? Yes, I regret everything we disagree about. But there is also recognition because she is a wonderful woman. A miracle should have happened to free her from a cage of hopelessness, no money, no possibility of change.
Luckily, she got the miracle. Unfortunately, the miracle was me. I'm that lucky gold card. I could have taken her anywhere. She could have been set free...
05, stories about miracles
The Christmas story about the Holy Child is intricate. Here's what it tells us about miracles.
Miracles are never within reach (babies are born whether a hotel has rooms or not, but there are no rooms).
Miracles are different from our expectations (humble men and women find themselves the parents of the Savior).
Miracles detonate the status quo, and explosions and shocks mean that someone will be injured.
What is a miracle? The miracle is a disturbance — it breaks the continuity of space-time. Miracles are a disturbance that cannot be explained purely by reason. Chance and fate are mixed in. Miracles are beneficial distractions, yes, but miracles are like elves in a bottle – let them out and then there will be riots. You will fulfill three wishes, but there are many other things that follow.
Mrs. Winterson wanted a little child. She couldn't have it. Then I came, but as she often said, "The devil led us to the wrong crib." "Satan is an unreliable star.
This is the fairytale part of the story.
Sometimes, what we expect, what we need, the miracle we want, is right in front of us and we turn a blind eye, or we run in other directions, or the saddest thing is that we don't know what to do in the face of it. Think about how many people get the success they want, the partners they want, the money they want, and so on, and turn them into dust and dirt – like gold coins in fairy tales, no one can use them.
So at Christmas, I think of the birth story of the Holy Child, and all the Christmas stories that have followed. As a writer, I know that if there is no room for imagination and reflection in life, we will have a terrible life. Religious festivals are designed to be a time outside of time. Normal time gives way to important time. We remember something. What we created.
So, light a candle for the deceased.
Light a candle for a miracle, no matter how unlikely, and pray that you will discover your own miracle.
Lighting a candle for the living, the world of friendship and family is of great significance.
Light a candle for the future because it can happen and is not swallowed up by darkness.
Light a candle for love.
Lucky love.
Attached: Twelve Christmas Stories: "Christmas Spirit", "Snow Mama", "Dark Christmas", "Christmas in New York", "Mistletoe Bride", "O'Brien's First Christmas", "Second Best Bed", "Christmas Firecracker", "A Ghost Story", "Silver Baby", "Lion, Unicorn and Me", "Fire Peach Heart"
About the author:
Contemporary British writer. Born in August 1959, he was adopted by a Christian family, ran away at the age of 16, and then completed his studies at Oxford University by working part-time in funeral parlors and psychiatric hospitals. In 1985, his debut novel "Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit" was published, which won the British Whitblade Novel Debut Award and won an international reputation. In 2016, Winterson was named to the 'BBC 100 Women of Excellence' list. Representative works include "I want to be happy, I don't have to be normal", "Written on the body", "Give cherries gender" and so on.
Source: Twelve Christmas Stories by Janet Winterson
Editor of this article: Time Jun
Image source: CC0