
New Year. A time to reflect on 2013, to add up our narratives and dramas and to wonder how we might tweak them in the year to come. Nothing brings this home more pointedly than a session reading Christmas letters at my parent’s kitchen table.

New Year. A time to reflect on 2013, to add up our narratives and dramas and to wonder how we might tweak them in the year to come. Nothing brings this home more pointedly than a session reading Christmas letters at my parent’s kitchen table.

Christmas in the Knowles household has always lasted the full 12 days, not least because slap dab in the middle of it is my Mum’s birthday. In the last few years we’ve taken to celebrating in style, with an afternoon at the ballet, followed by dinner and presents back at home.

Retreating from the snow that blanketed Manhattan last weekend, we headed to Ronnie and Karen’s house for Swedish home cooking and Christmas music playlists.

The day before heading home for the holidays is always a last minute rush of Christmas shopping, but I should have known better than to go to American Girl on 5th Avenue on Sunday Afternoon.

Probably the thing that Jon likes most about our new apartment is that we have room for a proper Christmas tree. Taller than him. Which is pretty tall. He set off into the cold, the day after Thanksgiving, steely eyed and focused, much like a woodsman of old in search of the perfect specimen of fir, and returned with a shoulder full of needles and the biggest tree we’ve ever had the pleasure of decorating.

It’s become an absolute Thanksgiving tradition that the night before the parade Jon and I head to the Natural History Museum to see the giant balloons tethered down under nets, ready and waiting to fly.

Much has been written about the Thanksgiving meal, which easily piled up to feel overwhelming and daunting, but really doesn’t need to. Butter and season a bird. Put it in the oven on a bed of onions. After an hour or so, pour in a couple of cups of white wine. Make some mashed potatoes. Tear up some bread, add onions apples and stock. Bake. Boil some green beans.

Last year, Jon and I decided that we would head over to Williamsburg to experience the traditions of Hanukkah in their natural setting. Cultural tourists to the core, we had a list of restaurants in hand, each one specializing in a different delight, from chicken soup to donuts. “We’ll do a walking tour of deliciousness!†I said as we set off gamely into the evening.

So I’d heard that the Merchant’s House Museum did candle lit tours, and I persuaded Katherine and Duncan to come with us and meet my sister, over from London for the weekend. Jon navigated the website and got the not-as-cheap-as-you’d-ideally-like tickets, and we were off. Continue reading