Spirit surges, reimagined rituals, and the threat to the gingerbread dinosaurs

Also, French hunters compete with cancer to make my day

One recent Sunday morning, Theo and I awoke at the same time and met in the bathroom. “Mom!” said Theo. “It’s December 1! And I woke to feel this surge of Christmas spirit through me! An actual surge!” I hugged her. She has always loved everything about the holiday—the music, the decorations, the festive markets, finding things to give her friends, dreams of snow, making cards, the family rituals. She awoke singing holiday songs, and we played more downstairs in the kitchen while we cooked breakfast.

We are not a religious household, so for us Christmas spirit is not easily defined. I was just like Theadora when I was young. I too felt an increased joy in living every December day, a desire to share this feeling, to sing, to embark on creative projects, to find or make a gift that would make someone happy, to host or attend holiday parties. These comforts have always come with reminders, should we need them, of the millions who are starving, persecuted, or murdered. I think we all know charity should not be seasonal, but if holidays remind us to sign up with Save the Children to support a child longterm or peacekeeping efforts, they’ve at least been a useful trigger. (Caution: a bit more virtue signaling ahead).

The season between Halloween and Christmas is my favorite time of year, no matter where I have been living. Cold, crisp mornings. The scent of cloves pushed into the skin of an orange. The tang of mulled wine. The lights of Manhattan, the free concerts of New Orleans, the ubiquitous mince pies of London. Steamed up windows of cozy coffeeshops. Mailing Christmas and Channukah cards (a practice I have unfortunately abandoned these last few years, due to chemo-induced overwhelm; this will be my third consecutive Christmas in chemo). The excuses to be with friends, to drink, to eat, to ice skate. In Yemen and Bolivia and Colombia, where we spent snowless Christmases, the season still felt the same internally. Even swimming outside in Sana’a on Christmas morning I felt that surge Theo talks about. The desire to connect with our communities. To celebrate, to dance.

Also: Gingerbread Dinosaurs.

For most of Theo’s life, we have made wholegrain gingerbread dinosaurs every December. I don’t remember the origin of our tin full of dinosaur cookie cutters—diplodocuses, spinosauruses, tyrannosauruses rex—but I love them so much more than the predictable gingerbread people (never just men!) we used to make (a tradition that began with the dough-spattered recipe in my mother’s Joy of Cooking). Nothing hits like a gingerbread pterodactyl.

When Theo was little, she joined in with gusto. As she grew older, she grew less interested in helping me mix the batter or cut out the dinosaurs, and she also finds my recipe too spicy (I quintiple the ginger). I have never let this dampen my own enthusiasm for the cookies, and last year I made her her own separate batch of milder cookies. Still, she often groans when I mention this particular holiday obsession.

This recent Sunday, as Theo stirred eggs, we were listing all of our favorite holiday rituals. (I can take Kathryn Morgan’s holiday ballet classes!) When you switch countries constantly, rituals are a significant source of continuity in a life that doesn’t have much of it. I said, “you know what else it’s time for?” She looked up from the frying pan. “Gingerbread dinosaurs!”

As soon as I said the words “gingerbread dinosaurs,” tears filled Theo’s eyes. The Christmas elf vanished.

“What is it?” I said. “What happened?” But I knew. “Are you thinking about what will become of the gingerbread dinosaurs if I die?”

She looked at me, surprised I had read her mind. A slight nod. “But you won’t die.”

We didn’t dwell there. We picked up our plates of eggs and tofu and went on to talk about Christmas tree farms.

But the unspoken thought snags us at every turn: Could this be my last Christmas? Or will I defy my oncologist’s pessimism—”You need to tell your daughter time is precious”—and live to bake many more herds of dinosaurs?

Friday afternoon, after bidding a fond farewell to Michi at the train station, Tim and I wandered the Christmas market in Montpellier. While I still love the atmosphere and the smells in the air, there was nothing there I was tempted to buy. The local markets have grown predictable: ceramics, jewelry, honey, candy, ceramics, jewelry, candles, candy, ceramics, jewelry, scarves, candy. Nothing we need.

I don’t want anything this year, Tim said. I’d prefer that anything you would spend on me go to parts of the world where it is needed. I feel similarly. Neither of us needs anything material. (A cure for ovarian cancer would be nice, but scientists seem more interested in spending money on rockets. I can’t read about the amount spent on massive scientific projects and not think: that would save me, that amount of money would find a cure. For more on how the medical establishment fails women, here’s a little essay I wrote for the Kenyon Review: https://kenyonreview.org/piece/eviscerations/).

How do we preserve the ritual and joy of Christmas morning without gifts? Tim and I mused. For Theadora’s sake? For it’s the ritual we all enjoy more than anything in wrapping. We could fill our stockings with the things we need to buy for Christmas dinner anyway: Oranges, tea, chocolate, potatoes. “Can you get me Brussels sprouts?” said Tim. (No easy task in France this time of year).

When I broached the subject with Theo, she was not to be outdone in the virtue department. She too said there is nothing she needs. Thus we have chosen our charities and are imagining new or altered rituals for the day.

Tell me yours? I love hearing the festive and meaningful rituals of friends from around the world, of any or no religion. And we could use a few more ideas.

A less beloved tradition

One of my least favorite seasonal pastimes here in France is dodging hunters. Just when the hiking weather is perfect, cold and bright, the forests are full of men in orange suits with long rifles seeking wild boar. One year they drove a herd of them straight into me as I walked up the path behind our village. I panicked, but the boar parted like water around me, more frightened than I was.

I wear my orange hat, and try to dress as unlike a boar as possible. Usually, hunters post signs on the trails they are using, saying “route barée” and “chassse en cours.” In fact, local laws require that they post these signs to warn hikers. When I see these signs, I alter my plans accordingly. The last thing I want to do is come between a Frenchman and his Christmas dinner.

Saturday, however, there were no signs at all as I headed up the small mountain behind our house. I was in the final steep ascent of slopes of crumbling stone when I looked up to find myself surrounded by armed orange men. Immediately across from me in the clearings of the nearby slope stood three, rifles at the ready. From the other side of me, I heard shots.

I froze. My body remembered standing on a mountain in Yemen, surrounded by men cradling AK-47s. This was not the same, I reminded myself. These men do not wish me harm.

“Chasse en cours!” One of the hunters finally yelled at me.

“Where are the signs?” I yelled back. “There are no signs!”

They did not reply. “Go down!” they called.

But I couldn’t. There were hunters below me as well. When I said this, they agreed that I could continue up and go down the other side of the mountain, where I usually descend.

Faster than usual, and abandoning my audiobook so as to listen for gunfire, I reached the top and turned down a different trail. Gunfire erupted all around me, close enough to hurt my ears. “Attention!” I cried involuntarily. Please be careful! I moved faster and faster, stumbling over rocks. How ironic it would be if the hunters beat out the cancer. Proving that I am always worrying about the wrong things.

Halfway down, I ran into a hunter standing in the path. “Why have you not barred the route?” I asked. “Why are there no signs saying chasse en cours?”

Friendly and sympathetic, he agreed that there should have been signs. He was part of a separate hunting party from the one I had encountered on my way up, and not from our village. “There were none?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I confirmed. “I would never have come up the mountain had there been signs.”

“We should be finishing soon,” he said.

“Can I continue down? I would like to get home. But I’m afraid.”

“Let me call my friend. Wait here awhile.”

I rang Tim to let him know my situation. The hunter rang a fellow hunter who rang another fellow hunter who rang him back to say they would allow me safe passage down.

And I made it home alive. This year, there will be dinosaurs.

Non-holiday-related, queer Recommendations

Best recent novel: The Safe Keep by Yael Van Der Wouden (shortlisted for the Booker Prize). It digs into significant and less examined aspects of the Holocaust and features unusual protagonists. Reminds me inevitably of Exile Music. Also, hot lesbian sex and lots of it.

Best film in recent memory: Bottoms. Pretty much nothing ever makes me laugh out loud. No matter how funny. But parts of this movie made me laugh until tears ran down my cheeks and Theo was like, “Mom, are you okay?” My idea of a perfect non-holiday holiday film.

Significant upcoming dates:

December 24: Ninth chemo

December 30: Scan to determine if the taxol is working, and conversation with oncologist

Our Christmas elf decorating the little live tree we invite inside each December. (2023)