It has been more than 15 years now that I’ve been fortunate enough to celebrate Christmas in Quebec. I’m quite sure those celebrations aren’t like anywhere else in North America (though I wonder if some folklorist could identify similarities with traditions in the French cultures of Louisiana).
It begins Christmas eve with a small meal. The table is set with small plates of homemade lightly salted, roasted almonds. A wonderful, spicy chicken broth leads in to some foie gras served with lightly toasted, thin slices of baguette (shown here with those anglo triangles called sliced toast). My late mother-in-law, who was a superb French cook, would work for days preparing the foie gras, cleaning and cooking it, coating it in a delicious layer of gelatin. I had never had foie gras before my first Christmas with my in-laws, but I quickly understood why the French had been torturing those baby ducks for years and seem unlikely to give up the practice. The foie gras (meaning fattened liver) is always served with a deliciously cold French Sauterne, a sweet white wine that adds to the delight.
Following the foie gras, the main course, if it can be called that, is served. Small crescent-shaped pouches of ground pork are served; the pork is cooked with onion and spices and then placed individually on dough that will becomes the lovely, lightly-browned pouches. Technically they are patè a la viande, though they are more typically called tortière (though technically tortières, I have been told, require potato), and these pouches are petite tortière. The tortières are meant to be eaten with tomato aspic, something jello-like which I think of as the French contribution to advancing beyond mere ketchup. Of course, the main dish is served with wine from France. My late father-in-law, a serious afficianado of French wines, would serve as sommelier during the meal. Now that both in-laws are gone, their children will allow wines from Australia or South American to find their way to the table, a mildly heretical act if for no other reason that French wines have been losing ground as of late and need all the friends they can get. If Quebecers don’t remain loyal, who will?
Dessert is the tipping point, where one can choose to keep the dining experience an exercise in light eating or descend into gluttony. Truffles, mocha, croquignoles, white cake, pudding de noel (a molasses and spice cake that serves as an excuse to pour on a addictive sauce made of sherry, sugar and eggs) are all available. Croquignoles are essentially donut balls coated in icing sugar, though they do take different shapes. The truffles are balls of ultra-rich chocolate. The mocha are lovely yellow cake-squares lightly sprinkled, if you're lucky, with coconut. I generally make a quick decision to choose gluttony rather than waste agonizing minutes trying to convince myself to eat lightly. It is after all—I tell myself—only once a year. My goal has always been to focus on the mocha and the Pudding de Noel, trying to scarf as much as the sauce as others will let me get away with. Of course what would dessert be without a dessert wine? Hardly worth eating, I’d say. Yes, I’ll have another glass.
All of this precedes the short walk to the church for Midnight Mass. The kids have long ago been put to bed and I would then accompany my mother-in-law to the church. Though not of the faith, I have a soft spot for Christmas carols and singing them out into the lofty architecture of the cathedral is a treat, as well as a means to alleviate the possibility of falling asleep from too much wine.
We come back from Mass to quickly put all the presents under the trees. My in-laws had six children, each of whom has children, so that’s a lot of presents. We’d wake the sleeping children and bring them downstairs to open the presents. It wouldn’t take long before the sleepiness left them and they would become as wired as fireworks. Then we’d all sit down to a little snack, put the kids back to bed and nod off to sleep sometime towards 4 a.m.
We all wake sometime late in the morning in various states of consciousness, wonder aimlessly about the house, nibble on left-overs from the previous evening for lunch, knowing the big Christmas feast was still to come. Wine was still available for lunch and oftentimes my father-in-law would take out a plate of cheeses, mostly disgusting ones from my point of view. Then again, my reaction to these foul-smelling oozing gobs of pus called cheeses would result in someone reminding me that I grew up in the states on individually wrapped slices of Kraft crap, er, I
mean cheese. My father-in-law would spend a wee bit of time each Christmas day suggesting I try a stinky cheese. It was a waste of breath. I’ve always thought that calling those cheeses a delicacy is like someone leaving used athletic socks in a locker for a year and then, upon pulling them out, declaring them Haute Couture. Stinky cheese is the one area in which the French took a wrong turn and, somehow or other, never saw the error of their ways.
The Christmas feast starts at six or so and—here I think it takes on the typical cuisine of any Christmas dinner—after the almonds and the broth, out would come the turkey and cranberry sauce and potatoes. More French wines, desserts, dessert wines, conversation until we were all talked-out, then amble off to sleep. The remaining day was for recovery primarily: wake to Boxing Day, move about the house as slowly as a snail, consider the snow on the slate rooftops and trees, open the door to feel the cold air, sit down in some comfy chair with a book, have some tea, get dressed to go outside and walk to the local park so the kids can sled, push the sled, watch them fall off, get on the sled, feel the cold air on my face, gather the kids to walk back home, have a modest meal, decline the wine (thank god), appreciate all that you have, watch your kids run around the dining room table as the grandmother chases them (where does she get her energy), read more of the book, crawl off to sleep knowing it will all happen again next Christmas
to be Prime Minister. Whereas a new U.S. President is introduced to the button that controls the nuclear arsenal, a new Prime Minster of Canada is introduced to the national cottage, the national canoe and, of course, the national paddle (wouldn’t want the Prime Minister “up shit’s creek without a paddle” as they say, an expression I’m assuming has to be Canadian in origin). I’m also quite sure the Prime Minister is introduced to the National Donut, a French Cruller originally ordered by Laurier in 1898 and now preserved in a secret room at the National Archives(“and this, Mr. Prime Minister, is the French Cruller, lightly glazed and still bearing the teeth marks of Sir Wilfred”). Ah, but I digress.
