“I don’t want to see you again for the rest of my whole life!”
Every year, without fail, I watch “Home Alone” with my family. We love the film — the paint cans, the tarantula, Joe Pesci’s singed scalp, the whole thing.
That line always gets me — Kevin McCallister, 8 years old, screaming at his mother in a house packed with family, everyone in everyone else’s space. Perhaps because I have my own kids now, I see the look on her face differently. But I also see what he wants so clearly: a bed he doesn’t have to share with a bed-wetting cousin, the TV remote to himself, “a lovely cheese pizza just for me.”
And then, impossibly, Kevin’s wish comes true.
Recipe: Cheesy Cauliflower Nests
The freedom — jumping on beds, ice cream for breakfast, movies his parents would never allow — is intoxicating for about five minutes. But the house gets too quiet. Even the pizza tastes different when there’s no one around to take the last piece.
There’s something of Kevin in all of us. We want the gathering, the bonhomie, the people around the table. We want the traditions we’ve inherited and the new ones we’re building. We’re also exhausted by the negotiation over timings and dietary requirements, and the naked evil of those who take all the crispy bits of a shared dish.
My internal Kevin will probably be triggered around 3 p.m. as some well-meaning person offers to help in the kitchen. “It’s hard enough for one!” I’ll say, channeling my late grandmother, a little too sharply, because the fact is they can’t help me execute the chaotic dance I’ve gotten myself into.
An hour later everyone’s eating and laughing, and I think, This is why we do it. Two hours after that, I’m loading the dishwasher thinking, Never again A week later, I’m already looking forward to next year.
The thing Kevin wanted — what we all want, I think — is our own space within the togetherness.
In Iceland, apparently, they do something on Christmas Eve called jolabokaflod — the “Christmas book flood.” Everyone exchanges books, then retreats: reading alone with hot chocolate, wrapped in blankets, still in the same house but each person absorbed in their own story. You’re together, but you’re also somewhere else entirely. It’s quiet. A place for introverts in the celebrations.
I am not sure how jolabokaflod will go down in my house, but I am still thinking of ways to have some breathing room in all the noise. It’s an attempt to answer the question: How do we take care of people without overwhelming them … and ourselves?
This year, I might be trying something different, when it comes to the meal. My own holiday will probably have its strict guardrails — there will be a turkey, roast potatoes in goose fat, carrots mashed with nutmeg, brussels sprouts that I’m not allowed to mess with. But alongside all that, I’m making my cheesy cauliflower nests. My counterprotest: a special dish, just for yourself, but to be enjoyed alongside others.
Formerly, I would either bake a whole cauliflower and stand it on the table like some kind of offering, or I’d make cauliflower-cheese, a crispy-creamy side that everyone loves. This year I’m going for wedges. Veggie wedgies, if you like. A roasted cauliflower wedge cradled in crisp phyllo, savory custard spooned in before baking, fragrant with nutmeg and cloves. A hybrid of my two traditional options.
I make them the day before — nests assembled in the fridge, custard mixed and ready. When people arrive, I just bake them, adding the custard for the last eight minutes. The phyllo breaks as you cut through, the cheese sauce pools into all the cauliflower’s crevices, all with a golden crust on top.
The turkey will still be there, as will traditional sprouts, mainly because I’m not having that fight. But the cauliflower nests — those are my jolabokaflod. It’s a moment of retreat that doesn’t require me actually retreating.
It’s still the big holiday meal, with all its contradictions and just-in-time logistics. Just with a bit more room to breathe.
A lovely cheesy nest, just for me, or you.
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