The Customs of Christmas

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Waffles, the Cookies, Then Santa Claus

Though my mother never prepared a Christmas dinner on her own until after my grandmother died, she did stake out Christmas Eve as her personal culinary domain. I don't recall where she came up with the idea of a waffle supper on Christmas Eve, but she was determined to create her own tradition and put on quite a show for our family and whatever invited guests might happen to join us. Batter was whisked up and ready to pour while lean peppered bacon crisped in the skillet. Little silver pitchers were filled with warm melted butter, and there was always an assortment of fancy fruit syrups from Knott's Berry Farm in addition to the standard maple and pancake choices. Once the waffle iron was fired up, warm, fragrant buttermilk waffles emerged piled on a platter, ready to be doused with butter and some exotic flavor like boysenberry. There was coffee for the grownups and frosty glasses of milk or unspiked eggnog for the kids. That Christmas Eve meal was always Mother's triumph.

Dinner was over far too early for excited, syrup-stoked children to consider bedtime, so the post-waffle Christmas Eve ritual of driving around to look at Christmas lights came next. In retrospect, I realize this little interlude gave the parent who stayed home the opportunity for last-minute bicycle assembly or the chance to locate batteries not included. But for me as a kid, it provided a welcome respite from failing at two hours of good dinner party behavior and a chance to burn up some nervous energy so I could feign sleep before the arrival of Santa Claus. And besides, the drive invariably included joining a line of cars making a quick stop in front of the Youngers' brightly lit house, where all the trees in their yard were festooned with little bags of decorated Christmas cookies.

The cookie trees in the Youngers' yard were a delightful tradition. Charlene Younger must have worked for weeks, baking and decorating all those cookies and putting them in bags tied with ribbons. Looking back, I don't recall if the trees were full of cookies on nights other than Christmas Eve, but it was an annual stop on our ritural drive. We'd pull into the line of cars moving slowly past their house, each car stopping just long enough for kids to run and grab a cookie off the trees. Once my sisters and I were too old to be grabbing cookies, we'd take the children of family friends who often shared Christmas Eve with us, and when those children outgrew it, we took my nephews Matt and Todd. For years, it was waffles, then cookies, then Santa Claus.

We haven't been to Midland for Christmas in a long time. The town has grown and changed and I don't think Mrs. Younger makes her cookies anymore. Somewhere along the way, the waffle supper disappeared as well and was eventually replaced with a dinner of tamales made by Mother's housekeeper, Lucy Villarreal. The waffle iron sits forlornly in the highest shelf in my kitchen, no longer a participant in holiday feasts. Now that Mother is gone and we celebrate Christmas at my sister's house in Houston, the tamale tradition continues even though they are usually some gourmet brand instead of Lucy's lovingly handmade variety. We sometimes pile in the car and drive through the Memorial to look at Christmas lights on the way to late-night church services but we've yet to find any trees filled with cookies.