Our Christmas Cookbook - 8. An Orange and Some Walnuts

An Orange and Some Walnuts

By Cole Matthews

“We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling . . . one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height.”

The Imp of the Perverse, by Edgar Allan Poe

“Robb, UPS just confirmed delivery of the packages to Milwaukee and Chicago,” Sara Finley said. I looked up distractedly from my computer.

“Fine, fine,” I said, waving her away. “Send me all the confirmations including those from the florist and Omaha Steaks. All the clients are important, not just the biggest ones.” I glanced over the top of my glasses at her, then, I looked down, dismissing her.

“Will do,” the willowy blonde answered. “After I do that…” her voice trailed off hopefully.

“After you do that, I need the receipt for my caterer and an Uber ordered.”

“And then?” she asked meekly.

I looked up and groused, “And then what? It’s only two in the afternoon. I already gave you the day after Christmas off.”

“Tom just got back into town and we haven’t seen each other in—“

I interrupted. “Fine. Call my caterers and make sure that food is delivered tonight both times, the first is at five o’clock exactly. They can’t be late and it must be hot. If it’s not hot, I’m going to blow a gasket,” he warned. I could feel my forehead heat up and no doubt redden, an angry vein pulsing in my temple. “Make sure they don’t forget the rolls this year.”

This could be the only decent meal they get all year long.

Sara replied quickly, “I’ll make sure they’re ready. I’ll confirm the Uber and I emailed you the paid invoice.”

“Forward those confirmations and you can meet your brother,” I barked. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“Thanks,” Sara said, as she left the room, “You old Scrooge.” She whispered to no one.

***

I watched the clock tick slowly, pounding out the beat of another minute to Christmas. The office was empty; all my employees and staff disappearing into the darkening evening. My assistant, Sara, had left long ago to meet her brother and parents. It was almost five o’clock on Christmas eve, and I could feel the prickles behind my eyes.

I cleared my throat and looked around my office. It was luxuriously appointed with a couple of Remington paintings on the walls; some exquisite gleaming Waterford crystal on the sideboard. There were lead-free decanters made by Baccarat filled with expensive whiskeys and they glistened and sparkled in the waning light. Rich leather chairs and a broad, solid sofa were set at pleasing angles with assorted antique side tables glowing with age and sophistication.

Against one wall there was a showcase laden with expensive trinkets I’d purchased at estate sales and auctions. In one specially designed case, there was a signed copy of a Dicken’s Great Expectations. Next to it was a letter from General Grant to General Lee asking for parley for a prisoner exchange. At the far end from the office door was a piece of Colossus, a stepping switch from the machine that helped crack the German codes in World War II. I’d paid a fortune at Sotheby’s for this piece of history.

It made me shiver. Yet, I didn’t feel comfortable.

It didn’t feel like my office, my stuff, my life. This all seemed surreal, alien, and it made me want to run away. This wasn’t me.

Shaking my head, I grabbed my Norwegian wool car coat, my Tom Ford briefcase and headed out. Behind me, the lights blinked off as I hit the keypad after stepping into the elevator.

The luxury sedan Uber was waiting for me at the curb. As I climbed in, the driver greeted me and took off. He glided down the streets of Manhattan, which were almost empty, and filled only with shadows along with the occasional taxi. Few pedestrians were walking down the sidewalks as the evening turning to night, was cold and a smattering of flakes were flittering down from the sky.

“Are you going to a party or meeting family for the holiday?” the man asked warmly.

“Neither. I don’t celebrate.” My tone was terse and more pinched than I intended, but I didn’t soften my intent with more pointless words.

“My wife and I take our boys to my parents and we sleep over,” he added, ignoring my attempt to stifle small talk.

“That’s nice. I’m spending a quiet night by myself.” I paused, and feeling even more overwhelmed added, “I’ll give you an extra hundred bucks if you don’t talk.”

The man opened his mouth, but my eyes caught his in the rear-view mirror. He closed it and nodded.

Blissful silence kept me cold company the reminder of the short ride.

The car stopped, and I crawled out, grabbing my briefcase and reaching into my pocket. As he lowered the driver side window, I handed the man a crisp bill from my wallet. He was about to speak, but thought better of it and drove off leaving me at my destination.

I walked into the cold concrete starkness of the loading dock of the Manhattan Mini Storage. Approaching the office, I coughed gaining the attention of the clerk behind bullet-proof glass. She looked up from a tattered crossword puzzle book and stared at me.

“What?” she asked in a nasally monotone. “We’re closing soon.”

“I need a locker,” I said, pushing a credit card through the slot at the bottom of the window.

“Sure,” she said. “Our standard contract—”

“I only need it for tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I said, pushing the card a little closer to her.”

“Okay,” she said, chawing on a wad of something, probably gum. “We don’t rent for less than a month.”

“That’s fine,” I said hurriedly. “Can we make this happen? I have someplace I need to be.”

She sneered at me, but took the card and ran it. Her fingers flew across a keyboard as she asked questions which I answered quickly and without additional comment.

In a few moments, I had a key card and instructions on how to use the code on the door.

I followed the signs until I found my locker.

Then, I did what needed to be done.

***

Later that evening…it begins

The snow was falling more thickly now, and I shivered as I tried to pull the coat around me more snugly. It was too small for my torso, and since a woman’s was all I could find, I had to tolerate my condition. There was a men’s coat in the dumpster behind that brownstone, but an angry woman had chased me off from there threatening to call the police. I had to settle, which is what I’d learned to do on this night over the years.

I assessed my situation once again since abandoning my clothes. I had an old pair of holey boots without liners covering my feet. The wet from melting snow by street grates seeped in and wetted my socks. My pants were too big, cinched around my waist with an electrical cord. I had that damned coat, obviously too small, but it helped the baggy sweater fend off the wind. My hands were so cold, even though two discarded socks covered them. My naked head was damp, with rivulets of icy water running down my temples. I couldn’t find a hat.

The garbage can I had leaned against stunk of rotten cabbage and dog shit and worse. But it sheltered me from the wind which had picked up in the past hour.

I was cold, wet, and really hungry. Feeling in the pocket of my coat, I found the small wad of items in the crinkly paper bag. I smiled thinking about later.

“This is my place,” a voice barked roughly. “Find your own fucking squat.” It was a large, dirty man looming over me, a large swaddled bag next to him on the asphalt.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted out of the wind,” I stuttered as my teeth clanked.

“Why do you think I like it?” he bellowed. “Get the FUCK outta here!”

I struggled to my feet and skittered away. I could feel the anger of his temper at my back, pushing me away. I looked back as I stumbled across the slippery alley and saw him hunkered down by the bin, rubbing his hands and digging into a McDonald’s bag. It looked like he’d found Christmas dinner.

I felt my spine twitch as the wind whipped through my coat and chill my damp undershirt, clinging to my skin.

This year was worse than last year. Last Christmas, there hadn’t been any snow and even though it was probably much colder, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as tonight. Every stitch of clothing touching me felt cold and wet, draining me of warmth instead of conserving it.

I pulled the sides of my coat tighter and continued down to the alley to the street.

It was late now, after ten at least, and there were some people on the streets. They didn’t look at me though. I was invisible. They’d scream and laugh, holler and cajole, and rush past me. Most acted a little drunk. Many had bags of packages or food. Some looked at me warily.

A glance in a store window confirmed my suspicions. I looked awful. Digging around in dumpsters and garbage cans had smudge my face with unknown filth. My hair was matted and stringy. The mismatched collection of clothes barely covered me. All that was left of my ‘real’ life was hidden beneath. My expensive socks, boxer briefs, and undershirt were rich, thick cotton, but they weren’t adequate in this weather.

Imagine if I didn’t have at least that.

I continued forward, down the way, looking for solace.

There was a storefront, closed and dark with a piece of plywood was leaning against a window box of some sort, and it looked dark and empty. It made a sort of sanctuary, or at least that’s how it seemed to me. Maybe this spot would give me some shelter, because my teeth had begun to chatter again quite uncontrollably. My feet were freezing and my neck was stiff with cold. I shuffled over to the space and sat down.

Looking over at the lighted streets and sidewalk, a small group of young people were walking by, laughing and talking. They looked happy.

Thankfully, they didn’t see me crouching in the corner. I feared what those young men might do.

It only happened once, thank God, but it only needed to happen once for me to realize in the city, even at Christmas, you stay out of sight. You find shelter. You hunker down. You keep hidden because that’s the only way to stay truly safe from hard shoes kicking ribs or smashing into your forehead.

I noticed something wadded in the corner of the plywood and storefront wall. I picked it up and unwrapped it. A plastic bag unfolded and I thought for a second before I pulled it over my head. I tied it tightly to the nape of my neck. My scalp tingled.

Feeling for the little bundle in my pocket, I thought about taking it out. The church bell had just rung ten times, but I wasn’t ready yet.

I looked at the building, and the stained-glass windows glittered in the gloom. This church’s windows were radiant with light from inside. They reached out to me, soothing blue, cheerful yellow, and vivid red, and yet I couldn’t accept it. This wasn’t right for me. I didn’t deserve it. Swallowing a sob, I steadied myself.

I sat in that corner, still and cold, but not as wet and uncomfortable as I’d been on the street.

A couple strolled by me, the woman gesticulating with her hands and the man laughing heartily. I recognized the laugh, but knew it wasn’t Phillip Newhouse. My mind played tricks on me every Christmas, making me think someone I knew was walking by. I had nightmares of colleagues finding me huddled in filthy, ill-fitting rags shivering. In my mind, I could hear them mocking me though no one ever had. I was the gay man who made it and in spite of the respect I’d earned, I knew those men would love to have something on me, something like my bizarre holiday retreat.

As I mused about the men I’d used, in so many different ways, my mind settled down. The cold and wet, the wind and exposure slipped away. There was a place I’d go every year, and maybe that’s why I did this.

I found myself dozing in the peaceful serenity of the little dark corner.

I dreamt of oranges and walnuts as I nodded off for minutes at a time.

That’s what my grandparents left in my stocking for Christmas morning. I’d get a nice, ripe orange and a bag of walnuts from Santa. Then I’d open brown paper packages of socks and underwear, a coat, and sometimes when there was overtime; boots. If it was a hard fall without much steady work, I’d get an extra pair of socks.

It was interesting, because when I first started spending my Christmas like a crazy person, I’d thought it was because of those childhood memories. I believed that maybe I didn’t deserve the expensive sports car, the million-dollar brownstone, or the lavish dinners at fine restaurants. I grew up poor and wanting, and so of course I craved a Christmas of deprivation.

The year the boys beat the crap out of me for fun, I realized that wasn’t it. My family had never abused me. I didn’t really ‘want’ for anything real. My grandparents made a feast for us kids at Christmas. We had church and singing, togetherness, and shelter. There was nothing really lacking in my life. It was spare and simple, but in a way, it was also fuller than my life in Manhattan.

The year I ended up with a cracked rib, a broken cheek bone, and deep, aching bruises, was also the Christmas I remember with such wonder.

As I said, for Christmas, I’m a crazy person.

The church bell rang eleven, and I decided to make my way to the shelter. It wasn’t too far from there. This shelter was the same one that cared for me after I’d been injured those years ago, and so I tried to pay it forward.

I skirted back down the alley and took the back way. Safety always.

I found I was shuffling, because my toes were numb and my heels felt sore. The sliding around in the boots was causing damage. The cold damp socks were chilling my digits. I trudged on, trying not to think about my pain.

When I saw the lights for the mission, my heart leapt in my chest. There was a line, as always for this place. There were two different times for food. The first was at five and the second at midnight. I’d ordered food for both times because the truly homeless will eat early and then batten down in their spot to sleep. The incidentally homeless, those who find they are alone and afraid for the night, eat late. They need the calories for keeping warm.

I stepped into the shadows of a tree next to another storefront, and watched as these late-night homeless waited for the doors to open. I choked up a bit when the line began to move. They shuffled forward to get a plate of turkey and potatoes, hot coffee or cocoa, and even a slice of pie, pumpkin or apple.

I wiped my face dry, and stomped my feet, waking up my toes. My feet were screaming in pain, which was a good sign. Four years ago, I’d lost a toe to frostbite. I never even noticed it until the next morning when I went home.

I felt in my pocket for the bag with the small wad of items inside and smiled.

I walked around the side of the mission and found the side where the dumpster squatted. I’d found this a couple of years ago, and for some reason, it was always empty. Apparently, the homeless shelter and soup kitchen dumpster wasn’t a popular spot to bed down in. There were a couple of empty garbage bags, which I then stuck my feet into. I scooted behind the back of the metal compartment. While the metal was cold to the touch, the air still and smelly, but more temperate than elsewhere.

Now I could have my Christmas feast.

I pulled out the little bag, took out a hard candy, and sucked on it, enjoying the sour-sweet sting of apple. The next was grape, like the soda pop of my youth. It made me sob, but I swallowed that emotion. One after another, I ate the candies until my tenth and last one had disappeared. I huddled with my knees to my chest.

The Dolly Parton song rang through me as slumber took me; “I'll be fine and dandy. Lord it's like a hard candy Christmas. I'm barely getting through tomorrow. But still I won't let sorrow get me way down.”

Tears trickled down my face from the memory of seeing my mother’s face twitching, my daddy’s back, quivering as he walked away, and my grandmother’s sadness when I turned my back on them and left. Or had I?

Settling into the space, my body relaxed.

I fell asleep, at ease, and at peace.

***

“Did you have a nice Christmas eve?” Sara asked. “I hope those dinner reservations worked out for you.”

“They did,” I said. “I had a very peaceful night.”

“That’s good,” Sara said. “My brother and his family came over for dinner, and we played games.”

I could tell she was fishing for an explanation. After a prolonged uncomfortable silence, I said, “It was just what I needed,” I sipped my morning coffee. “Now, let’s look at those contracts for the Henderson Electric account. Those shipments for Costa Rico are due.”

“Yes sir,” my assistant said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I know I sure did.”

I nodded and looked off, remembering.

Stained Glass Snowflake Cookies

2-3/4 cups flour

½ tsp baking powder

¼ tsp salt

2 sticks of butter

¾ cup sugar

1 egg

1 tsp vanilla extract

½ cup hard candies, like Jolly Ranchers, broken up but not pulverized.

Blend dry ingredients. Add butter and sugar and beat with mixer until fluffy. As egg and vanilla until combined. Add dry ingredients until barely combined.

Roll out and cut with snowflake cutter and in the center cut out a round hole.

Line baking sheets with parchment paper. Place cookies in refrigerator for an hour.

Place a little mound of crushed candies in the hole in the cookie and bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 15 minutes until sugar is melted and edges have browned. Remove from oven and let cool before removing cookie from parchment. Dust with powdered sugar without getting on the stained-glass candy.