As a child, I had no direct experience of Christmas, since my parents were Hanukkah-centric and were vigorously opposed to any of the symbolism of other religions. Not that they objected to the idea or religious observance of Christmas, but Christmas was for Christians, Hanukkah was for Jews, and never the twain would meet as long as my parents had anything to say about it.
Having grown up in an observant Jewish home, the family traditions of Christmas were largely unknown to me. I once spotted Santa Claus at Gimbels-Schusters department store in downtown Milwaukee, and after half an hour of begging, my mother relented and allowed me to sit on his lap.
Santa asked, “What would you like for Christmas, little girl?”
Flummoxed, I replied, “I’m Jewish.”
Santa set me down promptly.
Having grown up in the very Catholic city of Milwaukee, I was certainly familiar with the sight of outdoor Christmas decorations. I only had to leave my house to be exposed to the seasonal pageant. I suffered from Christmas envy throughout my childhood. I recall a particular winter when, at the age of six, I put on my snowsuit and trudged through the snowdrifts in our backyard to the alley behind our house. There, I pretended to celebrate Christmas by decorating the sad remnants of our neighbors’ now-discarded Christmas trees with shreds of the wrapping paper previously torn from our Hanukkah presents. It was truly pathetic.
I have mentioned my friend and former employer, Phyllis, not infrequently in this column. While most of my childhood holiday memories feature my mother, most of my adult holiday memories are firmly linked to Phyllis, who employed me as her live-in cook and housekeeper during my mid-20s.
I had never lived in a house with a Christmas tree until I went to work for Phyllis as her major domo. There is no one who relishes a good holiday celebration more than Phyllis, and because I lived with Phyllis for so many years, those memories are absolutely indelible. I had certainly never experienced the sheer enormity of Christmas done Phyllis-style. Phyllis’ motto is, “It’s Christmas—this is no time for self-restraint.”
Southern California certainly has its own ideas about what things should look like during the holidays, and those ideas are nothing if not ostentatious. A stroll through downtown Beverly Hills will bring you into close proximity to 16 massive Baccarat crystal chandeliers strung across Rodeo Drive to celebrate the season. A drive down Sunset Boulevard reveals the only 25-foot-tall outdoor psychedelic electric menorah I have ever seen. Where I came from, no self-respecting Jew would erect such a monstrosity in their front yard. It just seems so… un-Jewish.
Phyllis suffers no such horror. For her, the bigger, the better. A crew materializes at the beginning of December to light and decorate the outside of the property. I am confident that Phyllis’ outdoor holiday décor, like the Great Wall of China, can be seen from outer space. There is nothing subtle about it. Disneyland pales by comparison.
Inside, Phyllis and other helpers do the work of preparing for Phyllis’ annual Christmas party. The hallway chandelier is disassembled crystal-by-crystal, each crystal is polished, and then rehung. I had been one of those helpers in my past life as her domestic employee, and I made such a hash of it that Phyllis told me to get off the ladder so she could do it herself.
The mistletoe is hung, and wreaths festoon the house. My favorite wreath is made entirely from tiny bottles of Tanqueray gin. Fragrant evergreen swags woven with red ribbon droop gracefully from the fireplace mantle.
A week or two before the actual event, Phyllis throws a slightly more subdued tree-decorating party. There are, conservatively, 20,000 ornaments to schlep out, unpack, and hang. There are so many ornaments that one Christmas tree alone would be insufficient, so there are sometimes two, or even three. There are always plenty of sandwiches, hot soup, and booze to nourish and motivate those who have committed to the daunting task. In short order, 5,000 presents accrue beneath and around the tree.
The day of the actual party is complete pandemonium as caterers, bartenders, housekeepers, and whoever else shows up to pitch in shift into high gear. Tables emerge from storage and are laid with holiday tablecloths and more festive holiday artifacts. Towers of croquembouche appear as if by magic, and the unmistakable scent of Phyllis’ famous Mexican lasagna and honey-baked ham permeates the kitchen.
The final activity before the actual party begins is the annual Making of the Eggnog, which Phyllis always does from scratch. No matter how many times anybody assisted with this task, we always goofed it up and Phyllis would have to come scampering out to rescue the operation. The rescue was typically accompanied by plenty of yelling, since Phyllis alone was able to do it properly. Needless to say, we blew it every year. For this reason, the staff started drawing straws to determine who would help Phyllis with the many moving parts that go into making eggnog from scratch. Whoever drew the short straw was “it.” How I routinely drew the short straw is anyone’s guess, but I suspect there was a criminal conspiracy at the bottom of it.
Below, in great detail, is Phyllis’ Recipe for Eggnog.
Ingredients
- Four eggs separated very carefully so there is no yolk in the whites
- A half-cup superfine sugar
- One quart whole milk
- One and a half cups heavy cream
- 12 ounces Crown Royal whiskey
Recipe
- Beat the yolks until light and fluffy and have turned a pale yellow color. Gradually add sugar while beating, a little at a time until the sugar is completely dissolved into the yolks and is no longer grainy. This will take about 15 minutes.
- Add liquor and mix well.
- Pour into a punch bowl and add milk, mixing with a hand mixer or wire whisk.
- Beat egg whites until stiff.
- Whip the heavy cream.
- Fold in gently both the whipped cream and the beaten egg whites.
- Serve with a shaker of nutmeg on the side (since not everyone enjoys the flavor of nutmeg).
This process is not for the fainthearted, but the result is delicious.
For those who cannot contemplate the minutiae of Phyllis’ eggnog recipe without wanting to run for the hills, I offer my own, less complicated version:
Eggnog a la Vickie
- Put on your coat and boots.
- Get into your car and drive to the supermarket.
- Make your way to the dairy aisle.
- Buy a carton of eggnog.
- Bring it home and lace it, liberally, with whiskey.
- Drink until you no longer care that you took the coward’s way out.
It was Phyllis who taught me the joys of Christmas and the agony of eggnog, but having married a WASP, my partner and I have now blended our celebrations—a tree, yes, but also a menorah… made of eight tiny reindeer.
Let us pause while my mother turns in her grave.
Whatever your personal eggnog preference might be, and even if you loathe eggnog of any sort, I wish you a very merry Christmas, happy holidays, and a happy, healthy new year.
