Wednesday, December 24, 2025
Christmas Eve
Everyone has their own routine for Christmas Eve. Some are traveling. Others are preparing for the day tomorrow. A few are getting ready to sing or preach tonight at Christmas Eve services, bathed in candlelight. I do wonder: what will Goldy Gopher be doing?
This is the evening, of course, when I make my corn chowder after church once everyone has arrived from out of town. It's a big pot, because there will be a lot of people here in Michigan! I use this recipe, which I first discussed 18 years ago here on the Razor. Here is part of what I said then, and it is just as true now:
The thing that I feel is the urgency of the travelers who must be fed, the ones awaited. These travelers—they are tired, worried, hungry; and they might not have a bed to sleep in tonight, because it is crowded with other travelers. It’s not a thought, it’s an emotion, and it’s overwhelming. I start to act differently.
It’s time to chop the ham which will go in last, and I reach for the good knife and I cut it thick, big chunks that will fill up a soup spoon with just a little bit of corn hanging on the edge like the last men in a lifeboat. Time is short now, I can’t let the milk boil, but this soup has to be rich and I grab the really great wine and make sure no one can see, and I dump some in, and pile in even more of the ham in a feverish rush. If there is fish, I cut away all but the best parts which are firm and free of bones, and slide them in gently from my palm, and then I call to the others. The travelers come to eat.
It’s hard not to cry, because I know it isn’t good enough. I’m not worthy to feed them, and though they are grateful, I am sad that it can’t be more, that in this season of love I have only carrots, onions, potatoes, milk, bacon, and ham. Could it ever be enough?
It’s time to chop the ham which will go in last, and I reach for the good knife and I cut it thick, big chunks that will fill up a soup spoon with just a little bit of corn hanging on the edge like the last men in a lifeboat. Time is short now, I can’t let the milk boil, but this soup has to be rich and I grab the really great wine and make sure no one can see, and I dump some in, and pile in even more of the ham in a feverish rush. If there is fish, I cut away all but the best parts which are firm and free of bones, and slide them in gently from my palm, and then I call to the others. The travelers come to eat.
It’s hard not to cry, because I know it isn’t good enough. I’m not worthy to feed them, and though they are grateful, I am sad that it can’t be more, that in this season of love I have only carrots, onions, potatoes, milk, bacon, and ham. Could it ever be enough?
