Every Christmas morning it was there, on the kitchen table: a frosty, shimmering halo of pure elysian bliss, cleverly disguised as a simple confection of flour, butter, sugar, fruit, nuts, and more than a dollop of holiday cheer. As kids, we tucked into it only after the raw, kinetic excitement of our new toy haul had worn down to a fever pitch. As I grew older and became more interested in what was in the kitchen than under the tree, I made a beeline for it. The socks, ties, and novelty calendars could wait. Kris Kringle was everywhere you looked in the weeks leading up to Christmas Day, but kringle came just once a year.
Indeed, it was never Christmas without kringle—Wisconsin kringle to be exact. Racine, Wisconsin, kringle to be even more precise.
My aunt and her family lived in Racine, and they’d often make the trek up the Lake Michigan coast to celebrate the holiday with us. If they didn’t visit, this manna appeared via a welcome (and entirely expected) Christmas miracle, courtesy of either Santa Claus or our USPS mail carrier—I never knew which. Though judging by the conspicuous, holiday-red hues of both their cheeks, they appeared to favor the same brand of scotch. (Single-malt Fleet Farm, in case you were wondering.)
Of course, depending on which “yo” was currently dominating my yo-yo diet, I might either shove half a horse collar of kringle in my head in one fell swoop or gradually pare the pastry down as prying eyes looked the other way, allowing me to stealthily nibble away at barely noticeable chunks of this impossibly perfect Danish dough-bomb. But I’d eat the same amount of kringle every year regardless—somewhere between “a lot” and “enough to choke the life out of eight not-so-tiny reindeer.”
It was usually enough to tide me over until we went to our maternal grandma’s house for Christmas lunch, where we loaded up on ham, German potato salad, old-timey Christmas candies (the kind that spontaneously fused together like a Yuletide rat king when left out in a dish for more than 15 minutes), and still more gluteny, sucrose-sodden goodies.
Ah, but the day was far from over. Christmas was always fully booked in the Pennyfarthing (not our real name) household, and so we had one more party to endure as our sugar-besotted minds flashed back to the toys that were at this very moment feeling like abandoned misfits under the tree.
Visits to my paternal grandma’s house were always fun, but her Christmas party felt like more of a grown-up affair, which naturally taxed the patience of us kiddos. Case in point: The centerpiece of the party’s self-serve hors d’oeuvres table was a noted culinary obscenity—and another Wisconsin tradition—that still makes me shudder: the cannibal sandwich.
Don’t let the name fool you: It wasn’t made of people. But don’t turn off your gag reflex just yet, either. It was nearly as disgusting as a stocking full of Soylent Green. For the uninitiated, a cannibal sandwich is basically just a schmear of raw beef on rye bread, topped with chopped raw onions, salt, and pepper.
My favorite description of the cannibal sandwich comes from this Milwaukee Journal Sentinel story, mostly because it includes two references in the first three paragraphs to the clear dangers of eating uncooked meat:
I’m a vegan now—not strictly because of cannibal sandwiches, though they no doubt provided a helpful nudge in that direction—so I’m immune to such gastrointestinal practical jokes nowadays. But even in my carnivorous past I knew better than to let this merry mound of E. coli mush pass over my lips. For one thing, my mother had often warned me in the starkest terms about eating raw beef, assuring me that it would give me worms. Where was that advice now? Do cannibal sandwiches give you special reinvigorating Christmas worms that impart a festive holiday glow-up before politely buggering off by Epiphany Sunday? Something wasn’t adding up. But hey, this was the same woman who insisted Santa Claus was real. Best to err on the side of caution until the internet is invented and I can look this stuff up for myself.
So two of my most indelible Christmas memories—one sublime, the other just slimy—endure in my imagination as diametrical bookends to countless Christmas Days from the ‘70s to the present. What better way to encapsulate a holiday that, in practice anyway, is often two parts festive and one part feculent?
So how ‘bout youse? Do you have any cherished traditions—and/or best-forgotten rituals—around food or any other holiday pursuits? Let us know in the comments! (Extra points if these are local or regional traditions.)
Also, merry Christmas! Let’s hope all your holiday dreams come true ... and aren’t simply the unfortunate end result of an undigested bit of beef or two.
Check out Aldous J. Pennyfarthing’s four-volume Trump-trashing compendium, including the finale, Goodbye, Asshat: 101 Farewell Letters to Donald Trump, at this link. Or, if you prefer a test drive, you can download the epilogue to Goodbye, Asshat for the low, low price of FREE.
Indeed, it was never Christmas without kringle—Wisconsin kringle to be exact. Racine, Wisconsin, kringle to be even more precise.
My aunt and her family lived in Racine, and they’d often make the trek up the Lake Michigan coast to celebrate the holiday with us. If they didn’t visit, this manna appeared via a welcome (and entirely expected) Christmas miracle, courtesy of either Santa Claus or our USPS mail carrier—I never knew which. Though judging by the conspicuous, holiday-red hues of both their cheeks, they appeared to favor the same brand of scotch. (Single-malt Fleet Farm, in case you were wondering.)
Of course, depending on which “yo” was currently dominating my yo-yo diet, I might either shove half a horse collar of kringle in my head in one fell swoop or gradually pare the pastry down as prying eyes looked the other way, allowing me to stealthily nibble away at barely noticeable chunks of this impossibly perfect Danish dough-bomb. But I’d eat the same amount of kringle every year regardless—somewhere between “a lot” and “enough to choke the life out of eight not-so-tiny reindeer.”
It was usually enough to tide me over until we went to our maternal grandma’s house for Christmas lunch, where we loaded up on ham, German potato salad, old-timey Christmas candies (the kind that spontaneously fused together like a Yuletide rat king when left out in a dish for more than 15 minutes), and still more gluteny, sucrose-sodden goodies.
Ah, but the day was far from over. Christmas was always fully booked in the Pennyfarthing (not our real name) household, and so we had one more party to endure as our sugar-besotted minds flashed back to the toys that were at this very moment feeling like abandoned misfits under the tree.
Visits to my paternal grandma’s house were always fun, but her Christmas party felt like more of a grown-up affair, which naturally taxed the patience of us kiddos. Case in point: The centerpiece of the party’s self-serve hors d’oeuvres table was a noted culinary obscenity—and another Wisconsin tradition—that still makes me shudder: the cannibal sandwich.
Don’t let the name fool you: It wasn’t made of people. But don’t turn off your gag reflex just yet, either. It was nearly as disgusting as a stocking full of Soylent Green. For the uninitiated, a cannibal sandwich is basically just a schmear of raw beef on rye bread, topped with chopped raw onions, salt, and pepper.
My favorite description of the cannibal sandwich comes from this Milwaukee Journal Sentinel story, mostly because it includes two references in the first three paragraphs to the clear dangers of eating uncooked meat:
I’m a vegan now—not strictly because of cannibal sandwiches, though they no doubt provided a helpful nudge in that direction—so I’m immune to such gastrointestinal practical jokes nowadays. But even in my carnivorous past I knew better than to let this merry mound of E. coli mush pass over my lips. For one thing, my mother had often warned me in the starkest terms about eating raw beef, assuring me that it would give me worms. Where was that advice now? Do cannibal sandwiches give you special reinvigorating Christmas worms that impart a festive holiday glow-up before politely buggering off by Epiphany Sunday? Something wasn’t adding up. But hey, this was the same woman who insisted Santa Claus was real. Best to err on the side of caution until the internet is invented and I can look this stuff up for myself.
So two of my most indelible Christmas memories—one sublime, the other just slimy—endure in my imagination as diametrical bookends to countless Christmas Days from the ‘70s to the present. What better way to encapsulate a holiday that, in practice anyway, is often two parts festive and one part feculent?
So how ‘bout youse? Do you have any cherished traditions—and/or best-forgotten rituals—around food or any other holiday pursuits? Let us know in the comments! (Extra points if these are local or regional traditions.)
Also, merry Christmas! Let’s hope all your holiday dreams come true ... and aren’t simply the unfortunate end result of an undigested bit of beef or two.
Check out Aldous J. Pennyfarthing’s four-volume Trump-trashing compendium, including the finale, Goodbye, Asshat: 101 Farewell Letters to Donald Trump, at this link. Or, if you prefer a test drive, you can download the epilogue to Goodbye, Asshat for the low, low price of FREE.