Merry (Clashing) Christmas (Traditions)

By Patti Thomas

When do you open your Christmas gifts? Christmas morning? Or on Christmas eve? When do you have your big holiday meal? On Christmas eve? Or on Christmas day? And what do you eat? Families all do things so differently and we all think "our way" is the best. So, what happens when two people come together under one ball of mistletoe and try to merge traditions? You guessed it — that dreaded word — compromise!

Take, for example, my husband and me. I grew up in a quiet family with a Swedish mom in a predominantly Scandinavian community. We ate lutefisk on Christmas eve. (Wait? Is it possible you aren't familiar with lutefisk? More on that in a bit.) My husband grew up with an Italian mother and about a million brothers and sisters. His mom made homemade ravioli on Christmas eve.           

Before I go any further, let me ask you, what would you rather eat? Italian food or Swedish food? Maybe you haven't had much Swedish cuisine, so you're not quite sure. Well, harken upon this and see what you think: There are many Italian restaurants everywhere, right? Pasta, pizza, lasagna, risotto, focaccia, cannoli, tiramisu — those are even fun to say! OK, now, quick think of how many Swedish restaurants you can think of! And IKEA doesn't count! See? Not so many, right? I mean, most people like a Swedish meatball, but what else is Sweden known for food-wise? I'd bet the average Johann couldn't name much.            

Let's get back to lutefisk, shall we? Lutefisk is cod that has been pickled in lye. It is sickly white and has a gelatinous texture. Mmm, want some? I don't either. And I grew up with it.       

We always hosted Christmas eve dinner at our house. My cousins would all come over and we'd exchange gifts and, of course, eat! The adults would always look forward in earnest to the lutefisk my mom would prepare. One year, earlier on Christmas eve day, my mom asked me to go to the refrigerator and take out the lutefisk. It seemed like a simple enough task. As I opened the door and saw the platter full of white "blobular" matter, I was taken aback by its alien-like appearance, and I quickly slammed the door.

Turns out I'm not a very good Swede.

Fast forward to the first year my husband and I were married and we spent Christmas with my family. It was Christmas eve and time for dinner. I gave my hubby the much-needed warning about the lutefisk that he'd see coming his way, but did he listen to me? Nope. Instead, he followed along with what the other adults (except for me) were doing. First, one heaps boiled white potatoes on one's plate and smashes them down. Atop that goes the lutefisk, in all its gelatinous glory. And then, a white sauce is poured over the whole pile. I tried to elbow him as he spooned more and more onto his plate, being the polite son-in-law that he was.

I could only watch out of the corner of my eye as he put that first overloaded forkful into his mouth. That is when he stopped all movement. His jaw didn't move, he didn't blink and I'm pretty sure his heart may have stopped beating for a minute or so. Eventually, I saw his jaw snap back to attention as he began to chew the lutefisk so he could swallow it. I could see him look down at his plate and rue his decision to take such an ample portion. Yet, he graciously took another bite. And another. My mother was so pleased that my new husband, despite his obvious flaw of being non-Scandinavian, seemed to be gobbling up her beloved lutefisk.

That was the last time my dear non-Scandinavian husband ate lutefisk.

We have since chosen to celebrate his Italian heritage. Every Christmas eve (since that first one), he makes homemade ravioli. He uses a recipe his mom used. In fact, we have a handwritten recipe card from her in a frame on the wall. In the frame is a photo of my husband and our daughter elbow-deep in ravioli dough. He takes that recipe out of its frame every year and makes those delicious meaty morsels. The entire kitchen and all those in it are covered with flour at the end of the process, but no one seems to mind.

I guess for us, it was easy to blend our two traditions. Since neither one of us loved lutefisk, it was an easy choice. And, if I do say so, I make a pretty mean Swedish meatball from my mom's recipe and we enjoy those from time to time. I suppose one way to combine the two traditions equally would be to make lutefisk-stuffed ravioli.

Never. No way! Mai. Non c'è modo! Aldrig. Aldrig!

So, if you happen to find the clashing of traditions in your household, fear not! You have options! As I see it, there are three routes to take:

  • Go full-on with your traditions or your partner’s! Perhaps you could do “every other year” with whose you celebrate. Or maybe reserve another day (New Year’s?) to observe the traditions that got skipped that year.

  • Have a “combo meal!” A little something from both of your traditions might be in order. A Christmas turkey with a side of potato latkes! Merry Christmas & Mazel Tov!

  • Start from scratch! Make up your own, brand new traditions. The sky is the limit!

 The most important thing about celebrating a holiday isn’t a thing ­— it’s a who. (Not the ones down in Whoville.) We may have different backgrounds, different ethnicities, different upbringings, but we can still appreciate and celebrate each other under the same roof.

Merry Christmas!


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