Christmas was another one of those things I missed out growing up with. Like most other things in India, Christmas too was identified only with religion, and my family not being Christian, it wasn’t something we celebrated. After our move here, however, I found that it was possible to observe the day and celebrate the season without getting tangled in any religious nets. (I suppose that is a sacrilege of sorts, but as an atheist, I am strongly disinclined towards any sort of religious affiliation. The how and why, we shall save for a rainy day.) There are those that argue that there is no Christmas without Christianity, and yet others who bow down to the gods of commercialism. I like to think I don’t fall under either category; although there is something to be said about waking up on Christmas morning and opening presents and all that sort of thing.

Most of all, I like the idea of festive seasons, twinkling lights at night, the earthy fragrance of pine and fir in the air, and the warm comforting scents of cinnamon, chocolate and sugar in kitchens. People seem considerably more cheerful and inclined to be more civilized; generous and kind, even. Yes, I am aware that it is rather absurd to think that it takes Christmas to bring out all this, but I say, if it works, it is still something. What I do draw the line at, however, is children, and sadly, many adults, thinking that love comes in the form of expensive gifts during Christmas. It is the equivalent to women who are slaves to the retail market expecting their husbands/boyfriends to bring them the moon for Valentine’s Day as tokens of their love. Somehow, if a balance can be achieved, I think Christmas could very well be the most memorable time of the year (of course, we are thinking of a Utopia with no mobs stampeding at the department stores and singles not having to deal with solitude suddenly morphing into loneliness.).

In the beginning, Christmas celebrations for me were limited to Eggnog and Gingerbread lattes at Starbucks and little gifts from my students and coworkers at the school I worked in. As the years passed, however, I found myself longing for a chance to spend the holiday entertaining and giving thoughtful, planned gifts myself; and most of all, putting up a tree and decorating it. Oh, I would like to take a sanctimonious moment here and say I would never patronize the chopping of live trees; however much I love the fresh fragrance of coniferous trees, it would always only be fake. (I did say sanctimonious.)

To return to the story, I wanted to celebrate Christmas the Disney way, but I somehow never could manage it-I was either drained from final exams or too broke at the end of the year. And oddly, that time of the year always found me pining over a lost love. Yes, boo hoo. And then, there was Japan, where Christmas amounted to a cake with either peppermint or other white frosting on it, and a trip to either one of those ubiquitous symbols of the U.S-KFC and McDonald’s; and nothing more. And no, I do not kid.

I craved cheesy scenarios for Christmas Eve where I’d be baking Madeleines and cookies to dispatch to my family and friends, taking a pause every now and then to admire the twinkling spots of red, green, gold and silver against a green pine, while Bing Crosby crooned in the background, and a doting love would kindle a crackling fire. And then, on actual Christmas, we’d exchange presents and drink mulled wine, and have a festive brunch and a spontaneous tea picnic.

This year, at long last, that scenario did come true. Well, for the most part. I had to give the tree a miss, but I did have the choice of having one this time; and I had overestimated my counter top oven’s capacity to bake several cookies; and of course, there was no fire for any loved one to be kindling. But I did have a loved one, S., we did exchange presents and tear into them in accompaniment to Crosby’s White Christmas Dream; we did enjoy a rich breakfast; drank mulled wine, and packed a late lunch picnic that we savored over the last rays of sunlight at GG Park.

I squealed like a preteen girl when I saw all the presents S. had gotten for me. There are women who will complain about receiving kitchen appliances as presents; but I’m not one of them. There is nothing like opening a gift box and peering into a hand blender or mandoline you had been wishing for for almost a year.

(Yes, I am a huge fan of the Golden Girls, and could watch every episode of theirs an infinite number of times. I am more of a foodie devil than a fashion one, so that end of it was restricted to a pair of sunglasses and a designer scarf, but it was the hand blender, the Wusthof knife, and the artisan salts that really made S. Santa Claus for me.)

On Christmas day, we had a hearty breakfast of Pugliese slices slathered in peppered goat cheese and black olive tapenade, accompanied by a mushroom and herb omelette,

and a fruit, cheese and olive plate.

We had the proverbial cup of tea to start with, and finished off with almond bark

and mulled wine.

All in all, the best Christmas I’ve ever had. As I write this in a haze of contentment, I feel the festivity of the occasion, and confident that the cheesy scenario I had dreamed of would come true to the last detail in the years to come (which is saying something, considering how disappointed I tend to get when my plans don’t materialize to their fullest.).