text CAROL POULIOT
W
hat do you remember most about
your childhood Christmases? For
me, it is one unusual ornament
that stands out above all else.
As soon as my mother made turkey sand-
wiches to dispense with the Thanksgiving left-
overs, she mixed up batches of anise-favored
cookie dough, whose pungent scent wafted
throughout our house for days. In no time,
dozens of stars, bells, reindeer, angels, trees,
and Santas were baked to a golden brown and
stacked between layers of waxed paper in our blue-
speckled roaster, just waiting to be adorned.
On a Saturday morning in December, Mom
cleared the kitchen counter and table, whipped up
big bowls of vanilla frosting, and set out dishes of
red and green sugar. My sister and I donned aprons
and went to work. As we iced, decorated, and
stacked cookie after cookie, the levels of joy spread
through me—the brilliance of the colors, the happi-
ness of sharing the experience with my mother and
my sister, the anticipation of savoring these drip-
ping, festive treats. We spent the entire day on our
project. My sister and I went to school on Monday
with red- and green-stained fngers.
Cookie Day was signifcant because it also
heralded the decorating of the holiday tree. We
breathed in the sweet fragrance of pine as my
father set the tree in the stand to let it settle. The
branches dropped, making room for the decora-
tions we brought down from the attic. Unwrap-
ping each ornament was like visiting an old friend.
We unpacked the new box of perfectly moulded
plastic characters—the laughing blue Santa, the
quirky red-and-green elf with his pointed cap and
slippers, the delicate white angel with her golden
halo and wings, and, of course, Rudolph with his
jingling harness and bright red nose. We oohed and
aahed over the exquisite handmade antique glass
ornaments from Germany that had been passed
down for generations in our family. There were
fragile bells that actually rang, long ropes of tiny
glass beads, handblown glass balls with “Merry
Christmas” and “Happy New Year” written on them
in glitter, and globes with sparkling winter scenes
etched into the surfaces.
Then there was the apple core. The moment
this ornament frst appeared in our house, it became
the favorite of both my sister and me. It was the
The Apple Core
size of a medium McIntosh apple and looked as if
someone had eaten all around the middle. Both the
top and the bottom were red, and the inside was
a pale green. There were indentations around the
edges that resembled bite marks. Why, of all things,
should we take to this odd decoration among the
vast collection of whimsical elves and beautiful
angels, the seasonal Santas and reindeer? Who
knows why something captures the heart of a
child? We loved it, and that was enough.
The frst year, the ornament hung exactly in
the middle, on the front of our tree. During the
Christmases that followed, we took turns—one
season, it graced my sister’s side and the next, mine.
And so the years passed. The day fnally arrived
when I moved into an apartment of my own and
my sister was married. Mom and Dad offered to
give us some holiday ornaments for our respective
trees. We went through the boxes, and each made
our selections.
Then we came to the apple core.
Now what
?
We had been sharing this favorite of all favorites for
more than a decade, so we decided to continue the
ritual. My sister would take it for fve years, then
she would give it to me for the next fve. I, in turn,
would pass it back to her, and so on.
It has been more than thirty years now that we
have been exchanging the apple core. It has its own
special box with its own personal schedule written
on top. I always say that I’m going to remember
when it’s my turn to get it back, but I always forget.
Last Christmas, when all the gifts had been opened,
my sister gave me one more. I knew immediately
what it was. Everyone joined in laughter as we cel-
ebrated our family’s Yuletide tradition of sharing.
This year, I will proudly hang the apple core on the
front of my tree for everyone to see and enjoy.
chimes
98
Victoria
November/December 2011