The Holiday Season is the time of the year when events unfolding in front of our eyes, sometimes dwarf the other senses right out of the picture. But if I pretend that the light is out, and there is no picture, what are some of the other sensory impressions that remain?
From our record player, reverberating church bells, proclaiming the arrival of Christmas, and the rich warm words of "O Tanenbaum," permeating the house.
The fragrance of cinnamon, blending with that of the rising coffee cake, invading our nostrils, and tickling our collective fancy.
Tasting the iced orange juice on Christmas morning, a rare treat in our household, the sharp citrus bite, tingling on its way down my throat.
The coldness of the frosty window pane, as I press my face against it, hoping to catch a glimpse of antlers silhouetted against the night sky.
Tissue paper rustling, juxtaposed with the ripping and tearing of Christmas wrapping; appreciative oohs and ahs.
A blend of sage, oregano, thyme and marjoram, heralding the upcoming stuffing, with its onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, turkey giblets, bread bits and black pepper.
The taste of cranberries, tangy and exotic, complementing the salt-dipped celery, the neat little salt-pile to the side of my plate.
The rich smooth texture of pumpkin pie, matched in its consistency by the smog, Papa’s word for the whipped cream (Cool Whip, but a small boy could not differentiate.)
Silver-ware, as opposed to silver bells, clinking and snicking, efficiently or otherwise, conveying the feast to gaping jaws ( I was required to sit on the left side of my father, all of the years our family ate together at the big, homemade picnic-style kitchen table. He could only have two of us right next to him, and I was one. I mention it, because it was a natural deterrent to galloping mandibles.)
I could have put the scent of the pine needles at the top of the list. If there were no scent of pine needles, I considered it my mandate to snick (new word to me, obviously :) a palmful of needles to crush, from the back of the tree, thereby infusing my immediate world with their aura. By circulating through the house, flailing my arms, I spread the wealth around.
The taste of mincemeat pie, served only on Christmas, sweet and tangy.
The resistance of a Brazil nut, juxtaposed with baked butternut squash.
The omnipresent sound of laughter, be it chuckling, chortling, snickering, giggling, guffawing, tittering or just smiling, the assumption being that the act of smiling, speaks volumes, pun intended.
The perfume of the German Christmas cookies that Auntie Anne used to bake.
The taste of green olives, biting, compared to its smooth cousin, the black olive.
The cooling refreshment of peppermint.
The sighs of contentment; the feeling of family; the taste of happiness; the smell of success.