A feast is only a feast if both effort and bounty are shared.
Unfortunately, a communal approach can be at odds with those of us trying to achieve the still-life-grade spreads of Christmas lore. You may look at the photos printed with this article and scoff: “There’s no way that table was laid in real life.” And you’d be right. There wasn’t a child hanging off my leg or a hovering helper tasting the kale as I pulled it out of the pot.
Real life is messy, and Christmas morning is chaos. But with the right preparation and forethought, you can walk into the stocking opening with coffee and two assurances: (1) that 90 percent of the meal is already aced and (2) that you have the right tricks to move swarming nibblers away from your kitchen island when it’s time to pull it all together.
Over the past five years, since having the torch of hosting Christmas passed to me, I’ve learned to share the right work, so that family and guests get involved and everyone’s dinner becomes more satisfying. In the days leading up to Christmas — perhaps during a lull on the 23rd, while the chaos is contained — I get my crew to do basic jobs. We pull out the Bananagrams, and I place bowls of garlic, herbs and chestnuts on the table to peel, pick and score. It’s actually useful, especially if there’s someone auditioning for a permanent place in the family: They’ll pick every thyme leaf off every branch. Practiced cooks (and my brother) wouldn’t bother!
Recipes: Spiced Orange Duck | Rice and Squash Bombe | Leafy Winter Salad | Simple Boiled Greens | Big Crème Brûlée
This year, I’ll braise duck legs with ginger, anise and orange until they barely hold their shape. In the quiet, I’ll be able to hear the duck spit when its fat is rendered and its skin begins to brown — my cue to pay attention. A honeyed salad dressing will take leaf dips, tastes and tweaks until I’m certain it’ll charm chicory-phobes. I’ll bake a family-size custard that’ll become crème brûlée tomorrow — it’s just cream, sugar, vanilla and eggs cooked to a wobble — but I don’t want anyone around to give second opinions as I perform my dish-shimmying checks to catch it when it’s just set. If your Christmas Eve is already called for, find some time to be at one with the more detailed cooking before the house fills.
I like to send out a well-timed bowl of chestnuts and skewered cocktail sausages for everyone to roast their own over the coals in our fire. I’m lucky to have a wood-burning fireplace, but, if I didn’t, I’d set up a little grill outside or simply poach them for the same draw. Chestnuts have stubborn peels but taste sweeter when you’ve calloused your fingertips to retrieve the meats. As for the sausages, you’ll have earned the right to call out for samples — dunked in mustard, please. Let someone else cook for the cook.
In our house, when appetites are lit and pyrotechnics sated, it’s time to take food from the kitchen to the table. I’ll make a “who-me” performance of flipping out the bombe. No one will quite expect the butter-splattering moment of enchantment as I lift a baking bowl to reveal our glistening pita-crusted dome. We’ll probably forget the crème brûlée. By this point, dessert is extra. So it may as well be over-the-top. Tradition calls for flaming puddings, and this year, I’ll take out the torch for the giant, sugar-sprinkled custard. My sons will fight for their turn brûléeing the top. A perfectionist among us will fix their work, someone else will drop a handful of spoons on the table, and we’ll all gather around to crack caramel and double-dip.
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