What Makes a Meal a Celebration?
Oysters and Champaign don't hurt even when everything else does.
Welcome to Tomato House. Here, I explore my love of food, the meals I cook, and how food touches all our lives. I am a home cook, taught by my parents, friends, and many failed meals. I invite you to share my meals and my thoughts, even if you can’t share my table. This is a free publication, but please subscribe to receive the latest essay in your inbox. I’d love to hear your thoughts too, so please leave a comment.
With gratitude.
Tragedy overshadowed this holiday season. We experienced loss and were forced to mourn as we celebrated. As I grow older, I come to terms with this common paradox. But grief is an odd emotion. It’s heavy and tiresome and comes in unpredictable waves. By Christmas Eve, I had no strength to watch over a pot. I did not have the creativity to come up with a menu. I didn’t have the capacity to go to a family member’s home. I was shell-shocked. I mourned.
So fuck it. We’re having pizza.
I bought pizza dough from my favorite grocery store. Semi-homemade pizza felt like the max of my capabilities and was at least better than delivery - also, most delivery was unavailable due to the holiday. Going to a grocery store on Christmas Eve is weird. Lots of shelves are empty, and everyone there has a desperate energy. But I didn’t fall victim to the anxious vibes that permeated the store. On Christmas Eve, I wasn’t worried there would be a run on pizza.
While at the store, I call my husband. I inform him of our pitiful holiday meal. But he chimes in, “See if they have oysters and pick those up, too.” Hmmmm….well, oysters don’t require cooking. Ok, then. I walk to the seafood section.
Obviously, if we have oysters, we have to have champagne. So I walk to the wine section and have a delightful conversation with the wine guy about champagne that didn’t include the usual labels. We talk longer than we should, seeing as a line forms behind me. But unlike those behind me in line, I’m not desperate. My conversation with the wine guy isn’t as high stakes as those other patrons. I am not worried that choosing the wrong wine will ruin the holiday. This holiday is already tarnished. He recommends a reasonably priced bottle, and I am eager to try it.
I get home. I turn on the oven to preheat. Then I think, “What the heck? Let’s use the pizza stone.” Sure, it makes the oven heat slower, but the pizza tastes better. As the oven heats up, I shape the dough and build the pizzas. I enjoy the familiar practice. I add lots of cheese.
While the pizzas are in the oven, it’s time to shuck the oysters. I don’t even have a shucking knife. What was I thinking? Fuck it. I sacrifice a paring knife to the cause. I ruin my knife but end up with two dozen oysters on the half-shell on a bed of rapidly melting ice.
Dinner time is nearing, so I pop the champagne. If we’re going to drink champagne, we should get out the nice stemwear. And if my husband and I are going to have pretty glasses with bubbly drinks, then our daughter deserves some of the sparkling apple juice that I’ve been hiding from her. And if we have nice stem wear, then we should lay out a nice tablecloth. And maybe put on music? What about light candles?
By the time the food has reached the table, my humble “Fuck it” meal has transformed into a feast. The food is still simple, but we are undoubtedly having a celebration. We devoured our oysters and reveled in our cheese pizza. The champagne flowed, and for a brief moment, it was a Merry Christmas indeed.
What makes a celebration? Is it that feeling of carried-awayness? One luxury leads to another indulgence or a little extra special something. The care given to the meal gains momentum, sweeps you up, and provides a reprieve from the trenches of everyday life. Maybe you didn’t even think you wanted to participate, but the joy and excitement took over. You gladly take the extra effort to shuck oysters, even though you don’t have a shucking knife. You happily get your hand dirty because the joy of the flavors you rarely encounter is too big of a temptation.
Celebrations are labor. Yet, we often turn ourselves into slaves of celebration. We drag our feet through traditions and roll our eyes when people do too much or too little. Sure, special moments require work, but perhaps we’ve forgotten that the work is also part of the celebration. Are we too focused on Instagram-worthy final products that we forget the labor can be the best part?
If all that matters is a fancy spread on the table, then just cater the dinner. But for me, that sounds far less celebratory than my Pizza and Oysters. Perhaps we need to liberate ourselves from the notion of a holiday looking a certain way but instead emphasize it feeling a certain way. It should feel fun. It should feel indulgent.
This past Christmas was sad for reasons well beyond food. Yet, it was one of my favorite holiday meals in many years. The spirit of celebration filled our plates. So, while I hope I never experience such a tragedy again, I do hope I replicate the feeling of that meal. Full of Comfort and Joy.