Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer, and more beautiful. Norman Vincent Peale
Plum Pudding
Each year, after the stockings, the presents, the squeals of delight,
after the carols, the playtime, the fancy salted nuts,
after the purple grapes with the chewy seeds
and the olives I never liked,
after the celery and carrot sticks,
the sautéed onions and the bright green peas,
after the rolls you could break into three equal parts
and the roast beef with its gravy in the fancy silver boat,
after the wee sips of Cold Duck in the red-stemmed glasses,
after the candles had melted and the china plates were scraped clean,
after all that, our father dimmed the lights
and our mother stood there above us holding the giant white platter
and she poured the brandy or the whiskey
or whatever you pour over an SS Pierce canned plum pudding
and suddenly, with the flick of a match,
she stood there on fire
or so it seemed to our Christmas-filled eyes,
our mother on fire with the flaming plum pudding
and then she spooned the fire-filled brandy
over that fire-filled pudding until the flames turned blue
and melted away and that’s when we ate it,
the pudding covered in our mothers homemade hard sauce,
that’s when we swallowed it, the mouthfuls of Christmas magic.
