Some Seasonal Reading

This was supposed to be an extensive write-up, posted well before Christmas. I wanted to write a merry, celebratory post about some of the most satisfying, illuminating, imaginative seasonal reads, which have made my life (and my winters) better for having been published. But, surprise, surprise, I haven’t been doing all that well lately so words have been difficult to come by. But, something is better than nothing. Below the bulk of this post, I’ve listed – and linked – many of the books I was going to write about (and will do so in depth another time) so you can, if you like, venture down some wintry rabbit holes.

A LITERARY CHRISTMAS

This book was a treat, the literary equivalent of a homemade, deep-filled mince pie, free of unidentifiable-unless-Googled ingredients. Unlike with a mince pie, though, I savoured the poems, short stories and prose over a couple of days – dipping in whenever the opportunity arose for some reading – and doing so helped me transition gently into the festive season.

I didn’t study the contents page especially closely. Not knowing what’s coming next in an anthology is a thrill, and not paying too much attention to the contents page is typical of me. Still, I’ll let on that it’s arranged into several sections, such as Christmas Day, Christmas Fare, A Child’s Christmas and Seasonal Snow and Ice.

There are some beloved texts including the evergreen poem A Visit from St Nicolas by Clement Clarke Moor which is as bedazzling a read today as it was when I first encountered it through a deluxe pop-up-book in the early 90s, and an extract from Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows which continues to enchant me enough to want to be written into the book. I like to think I’d be most welcome in the Wild Wood and anyway, who wouldn’t want to spend Christmas in the company of Rat, Mole and Badger and be carolled by mice?

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

– Clement Clarke Moore, A Visit from St Nicholas

“It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field-mice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, “Now then, one, two, three!” and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.”

– Kenneth Grahame, from The Wind in the Willows

There were reams of writing I hadn’t encountered before (always a good thing), such as the semi-autobiographical novel Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence (available on Kindle for 75p, just for the record), The Mill and the Floss by George Elliot and The Lost Boy, a short story by George Mackay Brown.

‘He was coming at Christmas for five days. There had never been such preparations. Paul and Arthur scoured the land for holly and evergreens. Annie made the pretty paper hoops in the old-fashioned way. And there was unheard-of-extravagance in the larder. Mrs Morel made a big and magnificent cake. Then, feeling queenly, she showed Paul how to blanch almonds. He skinned the long nuts reverently, counting them all to see one was not lost. It was said that eggs whisked better in a cold place. So the boy stood in the scullery, where the temperature was nearly at freezing-point, and whisked and whisked, and flew in excitement to his mother as the white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy. “Just look mother! Isn’t it lovely?”

– D.H. Lawrence, from Sons and Lovers

‘Snow lay on the croft and river-bank in undulations softer than the limbs of infancy; it lay with the neatliest finished border on every sloping roof, making the dark-red gables stand out with a new depth of colour; it weighed heavily on the laurels and fir-trees, till it fell from them with a shuddering sound; it clothed the rough turnip-field with whiteness, and made the sheep look like dark blotches; the gates were all blocked up with the sloping drifts, and here and there a disregarded four-footed beast stood as if petrified “in unrecumbent sadness”; there was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow. But old Christmas smiled as he laid this cruel-seeming spell on the outdoor world, for he meant to light up home with new brightness, to deepen all the richness of indoor colour, and give a keener edge of delight to the warm fragrance of food; he meant to prepare a sweet imprisonment that would strengthen the primitive fellowship of kindred, and make the sunshine of familiar human faces as welcome as the hidden day-star.’

– George Elliot, from The Mill on the Floss

There were also some texts I spent too much time with back in the days when I didn’t have a choice, so I skedaddled over those, one such piece of writing being an extract from Emma by Jane Austen, which I couldn’t abide at 19 and still can’t abide at 38.

There have been several Christmas/Winter anthologies that I’ve invested in lately that were infuriatingly lacklustre, so it was with great relief that I found so much in A Literary Christmas that I loved and could enthuse about.

THE CHRISTMAS CHRONICLES BY NIGEL SLATER

For someone who spent a very long time afraid of food and so these days wants each mealtime to be a sacred experience, I spend so little time cooking it’s devastating. Having ADHD makes spending time cooking and eating one of the more challenging things I need to do as a human being.

However, I can spend ample time reading about food and cooking, though there are only a few food writers I know I can rely on for soul-nourishing prose. Nigel Slater is one such food writer. Slater writes so delectably about food that reading his books almost makes up for my diet’s sad lack of diversity and care.

One hundred recipes weave amongst the cosiest of winter musings, musings which made the experience of reading The Christmas Chronicles quite possibly the most hygge experience of my reading life.

However, of the one hundred recipes, I’ve only ever made one – a stratospherically indulgent Toasted Mincemeat Sandwich which will be made again this year, though admittedly, I made mine with sliced bread rather than panettone as listed in the recipe and cooked it in a toastie maker rather than in frying pan, though being reminded of this food bomb of a photo has me thinking it was unforgivable to do so. I should have instead followed the recipe to the dot.

When Slater writes about winter, I feel the sort of kinship which produces prickling tears:

“I loved the crackle of winter. The snap of dry twigs underfoot, boots crunching on frozen grass, a fire spitting in the hearth, ice thawing on the pond, the sound of unwrapping a Christmas present from its paper. The innate crispness of the season appeals to me, like newly fallen snow, frosted hedges, the first fresh page of a diary. Yes, there is softness in the cold months, too, the voluminous jumpers and woolly hats, the steam rising from soup served in a deep bowl, the light from a single candle and the much-loved scarf that would feel like a burden at any other time of the year.”

Never has Slater enjoyed writing a book as much as he enjoyed writing The Christmas Chronicles. His delight and appreciation for the season lifts every page. The Christmas Chronicles is a meticulous, satisfying tome, and I would be quoting much more from it if I were at home and had the book to hand). It takes us through winter (from November to February) and comes in at just over 450 pages. Although if I’d had anything to do with it, I’d have wanted 450 pages more. I’m as much a glutton for Slater’s writing as I am for mincemeat toasties eaten whilst still ‘slightly too hot for everyone’s lips.’

More Recommended Festive & Wintry Reading

Winter: An Anthology for the Changing Seasons edited by Melissa Harrison

Winterlust by Bernd Brunner

Winter by Adam Gopnik

The Nature of Winter by Jim Crumley

Snow by Markus Sedgwick

50 Words for Snow by Nancy Campbell

A Christmas Cornucopia by Mark Forsyth

Christmas Days by Jeanette Winterson

The Dead of Winter by Sarah Clegg

The Old Magic of Christmas by Linda Raedisch

Krampus by Al Ridenour