The Taste of Christmas

I could smell the woody, fresh scent of the evergreen wreath as I hung it in our bakery window. The little, sparkly lights and rough pine cones sway as I adjust the wreath from side to side, trying to decide where it looks best. I could almost hear my grandmother’s soft, frail voice saying,” Make sure it’s right in the middle of the window. We need to eclipse the Parten’s window if we want any chance at beating them this year.” 

My grandmother passed away a couple years ago, from breast cancer. It really shook my mum. She went on a hunger strike, we would have to force feed her for months before she would leave the house. By now my mum has recovered but this season is especially hard for her, since it was my grandmother's favorite time of the year. And every year my grandmother would put all her energy into beating the Parten’s, who own a bakery across the street from us. She would bake for days on end. So we expected that my mum, in honor of my grandmother, would do the same. But we would have never thought she would take it this far.

At the beginning of the week she made a declaration. It was dinner time and we were all sitting down at the table. My dad had cooked that night and made his specialty carbonara, it is an Italian sauce usually used on spaghetti. It consists of cheese, oil, salt, eggs and tiny, cut up bacon bits. We had just decorated the house over the weekend and it felt very cheery and Christmasy. We have white curtain trailing down to the floor covering the door to the deck. Colorful lights winding their way up the banister. A Christmas tree in the corner of our living room covered in ornaments and so many lights it looked like it was glowing. A natural snow white rug lay under our glass table. I had always loved that table. When I was younger I would go underneath it and it  made me feel like I ate some of that magic mushroom from Alice in Wonderland and had suddenly shrunk and couldn’t get up to the table. I remember once someone spilled their glass of water on the table and it looked as if a wave was washing on top of me without actually touching me.

 I was sitting next to my brother Max who is 16, two years younger than me. My dad was coming over with the pot of pasta. And before he could sit down after serving us the pasta, my mom stood up. In a commanding voice she declared,” I have decided that we are going to win the baking contest at the town’s annual Lights festival this year. We are going to have to go all out. Have the best window on the street so that when people pass it they will want to take pictures in front of it, it’s so pretty. And I want us to have the most incredible baked goods in all of Bishop Stortford.” And ever since, all she has done is desiccate donuts, scorch creme brulees and chill scones every day, all day, nonstop.

I had been assigned to the window display, the art of attracting customers. Normally overlooked, window decorating is a vital marketing strategy, and takes a lot of effort and concentration. You have to have an image of what it will look like in your mind or it will turn into complete chaos. It takes planning, consideration, and patience to make the perfect Christmas window. 

So there I was, having no plan at all, attempting to accomplish this feat. Then I saw the Parten’s display. It was outlined with an evergreen garland, with shining white twinkle lights. A gingerbread mansion sat on top of a white stand. It’s detail was impeccable. From the white snow frosted lawn to the Christmas tree in the little gingerbread window. But what was really amazing was what the tiny gingerbread residents were staring at. To the right of them was a scintillating Christmas tree. It stood about 4 feet high, decorated with colorful cookie ornaments and luminescents that would fade ,in pattern, from a bright gold to an off white. A sparkling star was perched at the top, descending from the star were gold ribbons that were draped around the tree. Coming down at the arched top of the glass came dazzling lights like snowflakes with a piece of mistletoe coming down from the middle of the window. It was spectacular.

I had no idea how I could beat that. So already feeling beaten, I decided I should take a break to gather my thoughts and take a walk. I threw on my black, wool pea coat, and my black leather gloves. The crisp, winter air felt good on my face. I sauntered closer to the Parten’s bakery to examine their window better.. A man in a hazel, heavy parka coat and a Scottish hat was the only other one looking at the window. He turned to look at me.

“It’s astonishing, isn’t it?” he remarked, in a low voice.

“It is pretty amazing.” 

“I’m Harry.” he announced.

“Oh, like the prince?” I teased.

“Hey, maybe I’m the prince in disguise, you never know.” he joked, gently bumping into me. 

“Well, you royal highness” I declared sarcastically, doing a little courtesy. 

“I am Rocky” 

“Rocky? ” he questioned, a little stunned.

“Why do you say it like that?” I accused.

“I don’t know, It’s just not what I was expecting, I mean Rocky is so...Rocky”

“Yeah, it’s pretty uncommon, my dad is from America and he wanted me to have an American name and my mom wanted traditional so they decided on Roxann so my dad could call me Rocky and my mom Roxann.”

“Wow they put a lot of thought into that. My parents wrote names on pieces of paper, put them in a hat and picked one out. Your’s are serious.” 

“Yes ,well I believe having a meaningful name is important” I announced. I glanced down at my watch, it was already 7:45! The bakery would open soon!

“I have to get going!” I say quickly, already starting to hurry away.

“I’ll see you at the Lights festival!” Harry called out as I was rushing across the street. The lights festival was our town's annual Christmas festival, there would be an outdoor ice skating rink, carolers, dazzling lights and ,of course, the bakery contest. 

Today is the lights festival! And our bakery looks incredible. My mum was right, we may have a shot at winning this year. As I take out a table from the bakery and drag it out the front door, I take a moment to gaze at my masterpiece. But before I could even process how pretty it is, my mum drove down the road in her gray Subaru and called “Roxann, what are you doing?! It’s already 4 in the afternoon and you haven’t even finished putting out the tables!”

“Sorry” I grumbled. It might be 4, but last night we all stayed up till 6 in the morning perfecting the cakes and cookies and I am dead tired. I heave the other 5 white tables out the door, plus all the metal white folding chairs. Next I carry out a box of glittering red and green centerpieces for each table, that match with our white with red or green accent table cloths. By 4:30, I am finished. The festival starts in 15 minutes and I feel like sleeping for 100 years. I stumble back inside, reaching for my coffee that I left on the counter. And, somehow, when I look at my watch again it is 4:45, just in time for the festival to start, my shift at our bakery doesn't start till 6 so I have some time to enjoy the festival, because even though it was only 4:45 it was already pitch black. But it’s not the lights I am searching for, it’s Harry. Sure enough, in less than 5 minutes, someone comes behind me and covers my eyes with their soft, gloved hands. 

“Guess who?”

“Hmm, is it Harry?”

“How did you know?” he jokes, pretending to be amazed, eyes wide and mouth open.

“Ha ha real funny” I say.

“Let’s go ice skating”

At first he is reluctant and I had to basically drag him there but once he is on the ice it’s as if that’s all he has done in life. He is gliding past the children with their mums. Past the glowing Christmas tree in the middle. He seems like he is soaring.

“You're sure you never did this before?” I say mesmerized.

“Yes” he replies, laughing a little. Looking just as impressed as me.

We skate out of the rink (Harry skates, I stumble) and stroll over  to the Parten’s bakery. 

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“Because as Harry Parten I’m allowed to give you one free cookie of your choice.”

I am stunned. I feel light headed, I start sweating even though it’s -3 degrees celsius. My stomach is doing so many cartwheels, I think I might puke. I must have looked pale in the face because as soon as he noticed this his pupils dilated and  immediately he asked “what’s wrong? Do you want to sit down?”

He started guiding me to a bench. It was icy, cold blue metal but I was too numb to feel it. 

“Rocky? Rocky?” he whispered, the worry in his voice hit me like a wave. Then I 

realized something, I was in love with him. I lost control of my body. Everything was getting fuzzy and my ears started to ring. I felt blood going down my head and heard shouting in the streets, when I got an unsettling feeling, and realized something else. At the time I was too exhausted to notice. But I never bought coffee and I was the only one in the shop that afternoon. Furthermore, the coffee had a musty taste, almost acidic. That was the last thing I remember before it all went black.