And now for something a little different

This is not the kind of post I usually make. It’s certainly not the first post I intended to make after being absent for so long. So, sorry about that. But I think it needs to be said. It feels important. So here goes.

Since I was a child Christmas has been inextricably tied to Ottawa. More specifically it was tied to a house—my grandmother’s house. It’s been quite a few years now since we had Christmas there. She moved to downsize and that last Christmas there feels distant. Yet whenever I think of going to Ottawa for Christmas the first image that comes to my mind is that front hallway, bathed in warm light as my parents, my sister, and I came inside from a snowy night after a long drive from Toronto. For some reason that image is the strongest. That and the scent of fresh cookies or recently prepared dinner, and a smell that was unique to that place—a combination of my grandmother’s soap and perfume, and the mustiness of old books. A smell that still hasn't quite permeated the house she's in now.

When I was young it felt perfect. Christmas morning still held the magic of Santa-filled stockings and reindeer hoof prints in the snow on the deck. After breakfast the house would fill with the scent of roasting turkey, of stuffing, and onions cooking to perfection. The brightly lit tree would gradually shrink behind the growing mountain of gifts as family members arrived—so many of us that the dinner tables stretched from one end of the dining room to the middle of the living room. And we would all concede to wear the silly paper crowns from our Christmas crackers. 

The best part was always after dinner though—after the gifts, after dessert, after the scramble to snatch a brandy snap before they were all eaten. Somehow we would all end up in the living room, on the sofa, the armchair, the floor, the wooden wicker stools. That’s when the music would start. Whoever reached for their guitar first would lead us with Christmas carols, until we bored of those, and then moved on to songs unrelated to the holiday season—songs like ‘Paper Rosie’ and ‘Harvest Moon’ that now bizarrely recall Christmas whenever I hear them.

The last Christmas at that house felt like the end, like that house was the Mecca we arrived at every year and without it we’d ricochet in a hundred different directions, no longer sure of where we were supposed to be. I’d be lying if I said that Christmas has never been disappointing since we left. There were times I would wake up on Boxing Day and feel an aching loss because Christmas had fallen short, and in falling short almost ceased to exist. In the frenzied build up to the day I was holding every previous Christmas as a model for the present one. So if people bickered or snapped at one another, if there was palpable tension between certain family members, if we broke off after dinner into small groups that defied what I saw as our former unit, I felt robbed. 

I used to think it was that house, that being without it had somehow changed us. Until I realized that the changes to every subsequent Christmas were merely the symptoms of growing up; until I realized that it had nothing to do with the house and everything to do with the way we remember things—selfishly, imperfectly, yet with the conviction that our memories are accurate to the last detail. 

So I worry sometimes, about the pedestal we’ve put it on, this near-sacred holiday whose past burns so much more strongly than its present. I worry that we treat it with a reverence that will prevent us from ever being able to truly appreciate it as it happens. I wish we could always be aware that we have achieved something spectacular. So many families are broken and estranged, but here we are, every year, the lot of us. 

It’s not perfect. Some years people are absent, several of whom won’t come back, but I wouldn’t change any of it. Not for anything in the world. Because there’s a miracle there. In spite of it all—the arguments, the petty grudges, the harsh judgements brought against one another—we still gather every Christmas. And every Christmas there’s a moment, a moment when no one is bickering and maybe everyone’s smiling, when everything falls into place and embodies our hazy idealized memories. That is the moment that makes all the other bullshit worth it. Because we remember in that moment that we love each other and are nearly overwhelmed by all the reasons why. It is what drives us back to that place, not a house, but that place where we’re all together, and happy, and family in the truest most intimate sense of the word.

Amandine

The title of this post actually has very little to do with what it will be about. Amandine was the original name I had picked out for this blog. Incidentally it was taken, so I was left to ponder other names. Eventually I fell on Brandy Snap. I love everything about brandy snaps. Their deep caramel flavour, their crisp crunchy texture, mingling with the subtle sweetness of whipped cream. But mostly I love the memories they recall. They are the epitome of everything I want this blog to be. Not just about food, but the traditions, rituals, and memories that go along with it.

For me, and probably for many of my family members, brandy snaps mean Christmas. I do realize it's the middle of June, so Christmas treats aren't exactly in season, but who says they can only be eaten at Christmas? Anyway, every Christmas, without fail, my grandmother makes brandy snaps. She strategically keeps them hidden away in tins until the dinner table has been cleared of the evening meal. There's always a bit of a gap between dinner and dessert at Christmas. We have to digest the turkey and work up our appetites again. Then she places the plate of brandy snaps on the table. They're gone in seconds. I don't think it's possible for them to hang around for more than a minute. My cousins and I tease each other, threatening to eat the others' precious treats.

To really give you an idea of the reverence in which we hold the brandy snap I'll give you a little anecdote. A couple years ago my cousin Natalie and I were bringing the tins of brandy snaps up to my grandmother to be filled with cream. We were, of course, joking around, acting as though we would steal the entire contents of the tins for ourselves, when she dropped one of them. Given the fragile nature of brandy snaps, they shattered. My grandmother took it in stride, but I thought Nat was going to cry. My grown up, adult cousin had a look on her face as though she'd ruined Christmas. Literally. She hadn't of course. Though there was a bit of a silent shock in the room. A momentary panic where we contemplated the horror of no brandy snaps. But the other tin was perfect and whole, so we filled those, took the broken bits and mixed them up with the left over whipped cream and turned it into a kind of caramelly Eton Mess.

Some members of my family will probably consider it base treachery that I'm about to give you this recipe. We have a funny thing about recipes. But upon discovering several other recipes floating around on the wide web that are nearly identical, and all curiously devoid of brandy, I don't feel too badly about it.

Grandma Bull's Brandy Snaps

3 tbsp golden syrup
3 oz butter
1/3 cup brown sugar, lightly packed
2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 cup plain flour
pinch of salt

1. Place syrup, butter, and sugar in a saucepan and stir over low heat until butter melts. Remove from heat and add sifted flour, ginger, and salt. Mix together well.
2. For small brandy snaps use level teaspoonfuls, heaping teaspoonfuls for larger ones.
Drop onto lightly greased tray (or silpat lined if you happen to have one, silpats are a godsend for making these and various tuilles). Make sure to allow room for spread, there will be a lot of it.
3. Bake in moderate oven for 5 minutes, about three at a time, until golden brown. Remove from oven and allow to cool about a minute.
4. Lift them off the tray one at a time and wrap around the handle of a wooden spoon. Allow to cool on the handle.
5. Fill with whipped cream right before serving.

Some notes:
*You can store the brandy snaps, unfilled, in air tight containers for some time (I'm pretty sure my grandmother keeps them around for at least a week).
*Once filled they will go soft and mushy within hours, so don't fill them until you're ready to serve them, otherwise they fall entirely short of their name by neither containing brandy nor having any snap.
*Once out of the oven they will harden quickly so you have to work fairly fast. Don't be discouraged if the first few don't work out. Practice makes perfect and you can always bake only one or two at a time until you get the hang of it. I think my grandmother can do about five or six at a time, but then she's been making them for years. If you find you get through two and the third has hardened up too much, throw it back in the oven just to warm it up and make it malleable again, but be careful not to burn it.