At Christmas Time, It's the Loaf of the Party

During the early 1960s, when my family consisted of myself, my husband and six obedient children, we all worked hard for our heavenly reward by participating in weekly Sunday Mass and making every holiday a religious celebration. At Christmas, we played "No Room at the Inn."

While relatives hid behind closed doors, the younger children played Mary and Joseph, with an occasional camel, shepherd or angel added, depending on who were the guests for the evening. The Holy Family knocked on each door with Joseph announcing, "My wife is having a baby. Do you have room for us?" The answer behind two of the doors was a growl: "There's no room here for strangers." At the third door, a welcoming voice invited them to stay in the barn behind the inn.

Fast-forward to the late 1980s. My husband decided he'd rather celebrate holidays with someone else, and my children were avowed atheists. Additions to the family included assorted spouses and grandchildren, all with their own holiday agenda. However, we did begin a tradition that pleased even the most irreligious, since it resulted in uniquely secular gifts at the Christmas manger.

It started when my oldest son, Paul, had his first apartment. At a family gathering, he shared his disappointment over a girlfriend; he had entertained her for dinner but she never returned his phone messages. When his sister Monica asked what he cooked, he answered, "My famous meatloaf, of course."

We all had experienced Paul's culinary disaster -- an oval-shaped mass of greasy ground meat with enough bias-cut vegetables sticking out to make it look like football cleats.

Monica offered a possible explanation for his date's lack of response: "She may have had a massive attack of indigestion and couldn't answer the phone."

Next Christmas, Paul exacted his revenge. He presented his sister with a box labeled Paul's House of Loaf and bearing the slogans "It's not heavy; it's my meatloaf" and "Don't be an oaf. Eat Paul's meatloaf." In it Monica found a pan of frozen meat loaf crusted with grease. Bell pepper and onion studded the top like the hairdo of a punk rocker.

The following year, Paul was my temporary housemate because we both were embarking on significant life changes. We decided to make the holidays more meaningful by adding to the merchandise at Paul's House of Loaf.

After purchasing several pounds of cheap ground beef, we added the usual glutinous ingredients and colorful vegetables and shaped it into meatballs. We stuck an ornament hanger in each and baked them. When I asked the hardware store clerk for advice on how to preserve these unique gifts, he did not raise an eyebrow as he suggested, "Just shellac them after they cool." He added a warning: "Suspend them over newspaper because they'll stick."

That year each family member received an ornament that looked somewhat like a cross between an unbaked oatmeal cookie and moose droppings.

My meatballs still hang on my tree each Christmas. One year, when I stored my decorations in the garage, a mouse invaded. His bite marks were evident in some of the dough ornaments, but the holiday meatballs remained intact.

When Monica and her husband bought a new house, Paul made a wooden sign with shellacked, snake-like letters spelling their last name. Monica's retort on the next holiday was a shoe slathered with meatloaf and baked to a crisp brown. It was aptly termed "The Meat Loafer," possibly referring to Paul's jobless state at the time.

At Paul's wedding, Monica made a miniature bride and groom, complete with veil and top hat. We presented this decoration with a poem, part of which read:

So now you two are married,

And we offer this keepsake.

A bride and groom that's made of meat

As a topping for the cake.

Sometimes, I think it's no accident that we happened on meatloaf for our theme presents, as we are a family who nourishes each other with humor. After Sheila married Phil, for Christmas Vicki presented them a gingerbread-style meatloaf man with cherry-studded, onion-ringed eyes. The onions were particularly appropriate, since both the bride and groom sobbed throughout the ceremony. When Claire's daughter was born, Charlie attempted to construct a meatloaf pacifier; however, his gift fell apart as soon as it was removed from the box. When Vicki, who could always be depended on to add spice to any family gathering, moved to Washington, Paul's House of Loaf sent her an exquisitely preserved Christmas wreath heavily sprinkled with oregano. Chunks of red and green bell pepper spiked out of its shellacked surface.

Each Christmas has brought challenges. When my mother turned 90, she needed a walker to keep her steady. Paul and Berit became parents. Sheila and her musician husband no longer made marital music together. All these changes are reflected in the group picture we take every year. One event remains constant. We eagerly await the ringing of the doorbell and the announcement: "Delivery from Paul's House of Loaf."