December 18

As you all know, I grew up in Brooklyn in the Methodist Church, as austere an institution as you could ever imagine. Just a plain and simple cross on the altar, clear glass windows, and white pews. But on Christmas Eve, it all looked beautiful to me in the electric candlelight. (Methodists were practical. They used battery powered candles.) Hard to believe, but this Protestant girl was so much of a minority in my Brooklynese homeland, that most kids didn't even know what I was.

In Brooklyn you walked, no matter what the weather. Our "tradition" was to walk to church on Christmas Eve and get our loaf of Limpa bread after the service. Marge Sealander trekked out to Bay Ridge, where all the Scandinavians lived, and bought bread for everyone at the Swedish bakery. The Limpa is a sweet Rye bread—very delicious with sweet butter. My Swedish father loved it and the pickled herring (yuck) that is traditional Christmas fare in the land of fiords.

One year it was very, very cold on Christmas Eve and even though we'd eaten dinner, we felt inordinately hungry. The Chinese restaurant was still  open after the candlelight service. Thinking ourselves very rebellious we bought take-out for a midnight feast. I remember very vividly eating chicken chow mein with Swedish rye bread on the side and laughing with my parents about how "unconventional" we were being. This was the one and only time I ever remember laughing with them over being unconventional. We had Chinese the following year, but it didn't taste quite as good, and lacked the spice of rebellion, which I developed a bit of a taste for.