Fifteenth night

It is one of the best kept secrets in this country, that Christmas is actually 12 days long. Yes, there’s the song, but when kids ask their parents about it, they get the same level of hemming and hawing as when they ask about drug use later on. The church (the real one, where clergy don’t wear microphones or have back-up singers) knows all about it, and know that “Little Christmas” is Epiphany, the day the magi arrived to adore the Christ child. It is the Twelfth Night immortalized by Shakespeare, and the day that many still celebrate with some sort of twelfth night cake or tart. The tree and decorations are taken down the next day, after Christmas is over. Unfortunately, the boy scouts pick up trees for recycling on January 5^th in our neighborhood, so we’ll have to recycle our tree the old-fashioned way—in the fireplace.

Like many people this time of year, I am chronically behind. Sunday was Epiphany, but we were invited to a Little Christmas party by enlightened friends who not only celebrate all twelve days, but have two Priuses (Prii?). So I didn’t get to the galette des rois then. No big deal, I thought, but then Number One gave me puppy eyes and asked when we were having the tart. Yeah, chimes in Little One, the one where you find the thingy inside and get to be king? And then I remembered: Swiss friend brought me a very special fève she found, which I had been cleverly hiding in the back of the baking drawer since the summer. The fève was a representation of Grossebaf, the fearless Norman warrior featured in Astérix chez les Normands. With his hands on his hips, he clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

So I did make one, but the easy way: What a delight to discover that Trader Joe’s now has frozen puff pastry (imported, of course) and I still have a bag of frangipane mix from France that we picked up last spring.

Following the spaghetti course (the only acceptable menu for spelt Wednesdays, according to both offspring), the galette made its entrance, and we did the traditional cutting with Little One under the table calling the names to decide who got which piece. After the third bite, I donned a tasteful paper crown, and handed the little Swiss treasure to my Darling Husband.

I have it from a reliable ecumenical sort that Christmas isn’t really over until the Sunday after Epiphany, so I’ve got a few more days to take care of dismantling the tree.