Christmas Meal: My Mom's Famous Baked Chicken

One of the best things about Christmas is the food. Every year at the holidays, my mom makes her famous Christmas meal of baked chicken with mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, pickled eggs (made the Pennsylvania Dutch way, the eggs a deep-dark pink from soaking in beet juice), and assorted goodies.

It's a lot of work for my mom, but she steadfastly refuses to let others bring dishes or assist much. I look at her 81-year-old fingers, bent and gnarled from arthritis (as were her mother's before her), and the thought of all that work on our behalf makes my heart hurt.

The smell of the chicken cooking when you walk into their house on Christmas afternoon could drive a person insane. The chicken is so tender, it falls off the bones. The mashed potatoes are creamy and real. The stuffing is an old-fashioned central Pennsylvania fried bread stuffing, not placed inside the bird but fried in a pan on top of the stove with butter, milk, salt, and pepper. The gravy is thick and tasty; there is lots of it!

The meal is served at the kitchen table, the very heart of the house; overflowing into the living room, a few of us eat at tray tables set up there. The children eat expeditiously and then rush from the kitchen; knowing that after the meal comes the scurry and bustle of opening gifts, they try to hurry the gift-giving process along.

Chaos ensues in the living room, where the kids adjourn to the tree. However, the adults linger in the kitchen, having another serving of mashed potatoes and gravy, or perhaps a bite (or two! or three!) of my mom's famous peanut butter or million dollar (chocolate) fudge, telling stories, catching up.

After the meal, several of us rush to do clean-up and put-away, refusing to let my mom do that at least. There are lots of leftovers, food for another day.

Even better than the food, though, is the fellowship of family and the keeping of tradition. It feels good in a way words can't seem to capture: good deep down to my very bones. Food for the body . . . and for the soul.