A Kitchen Full of Starlings
Christmas Family Gathering
A Christmas family gathering in a large household is something between a celebration and a carefully managed storm. Every year, Christmas dinner at my grandparents’ house in Rixeyville, Virginia brought together relatives, food, noise, and just enough mischief to keep everyone alert. It was welcoming, chaotic, and completely unforgettable.
Every year, Christmas dinner at my grandparents’ house was an eagerly anticipated event. It was equal parts welcoming and chaotic. Their home was nestled in the rolling hills of Rixeyville, Virginia. It was always filled with the warm scents of roasting meats and freshly baked dinner rolls. The unmistakable sweetness of homemade pies and cookies cooling on the kitchen counter was intoxicating. Today, I’m reminded of the starlings and mockingbirds that dance over our vineyard every Fall. Mockingbirds guard the berries on the Dogwood Trees, while flocks of Starlings swoop in and try to eat all of the berries.
My grandmother? She was The Mockingbird. Everyone else were Starlings.
The Flock Arrives
Most of my kinfolk descended on the scene with a mixture of excitement and mischief a day or two before Christmas. The kitchen was a constant flurry of activity, with Grandma at the helm, stirring pots and pulling trays in and out of the oven. My grandfather, a self-taught violinist, would stroll through the house, serenading us all…whether we wanted it or not. He paused only to bring in more firewood or sharpen the carving knives while pontificating about the evening news. And also, to peck around in the kitchen for his next snack.
Grandma was only 14 when she took over cooking and raising her two younger sisters after her mother’s passing. She later raised eight children of her own. There wasn’t a sneaky trick or weak excuse she hadn’t seen or heard a thousand times. She knew what you were about to do before you did.
The Food Criminals
Food Crime #1: The Dough-Nay-Sayer
Trying to sneak cookie dough out of the mixer? Grandma would deliver a gentle slap on the hand and warn, “That dough is raw—you’ll get worms!”
Food Crime #2: The Batter Bandit
Attempting to leave a little cake batter behind in the mixing bowl for a secret snack? She’d snatch the bowl before you made it to a quiet corner. Scraping it clean she’d scold, “There won’t be enough for the cake if you don’t get all the batter!”
Food Crime #3: The Roll Rustler
“Just one bite, Grandma,” my cousin would plead, reaching for a golden-brown dinner roll, only to have his hand swatted away with a wooden spoon. “You’ll ruin your appetite!” she’d say, a half-smile betraying her amusement as she turned back to the stove.
Food Crime #4: The Ham Hijacker
My Uncles hovered around the ham like starlings circling ripe berries. They loved to pluck off crispy, caramelized fat edges. One even went so far as to lift the roasted turkey off its platter to steal the prized “oysters” from its back. Grandma appeared, as if by magic, wielding a menacing meat fork and threatening to use it. Those Uncles were worse than Starlings; they were more akin to Culinary Crows!
Grandma Keeps Order
Grandma’s crystal relish dishes, filled with celery stalks, olives, and her homemade bread-and-butter pickles, were her decoys and she placed them ahead of time on the dining room table. Much like a mother bird feigning injury to distract predators, these dishes lured us away from the main course and dessert treasures. Regardless, on her next pass through the dining room, she’d exclaim, “Am I losing my mind? Did I not just fill these relish dishes?”
Fed up with squabbles over cornbread, Grandma began baking it in a round cake pan. The elbows, those coveted crispy corner pieces, had caused too many fights. “This way, nobody gets them!” she declared.
If Mockingbird duties became too much for Grandma, then Aunt Annette masterfully filled the role of the Conscience Courier. She’d sidle up to mischief-makers with whispered, thought-provoking questions. “Do you realize if you keep pinching the cherries off the fruitcake, people will think Mama didn’t care about what she served at Christmas?”
Aunt Sylvia, who had honed her food surveillance skills with four children of her own, became the Dessert Defender. She was stationed by the pies, cake and fudge, swooping in with a sharp, “That’s for after dinner!” or “What makes you think you have the right to eat that before everybody else has a chance?”
I wasn’t innocent. I was one of the Relish Robbers and always lingered near the cranberry sauce, sneaking spoonfuls when I thought no one was looking. Grandma always caught me, her eyes narrowing as she muttered, “Kids these days,” with a laugh that betrayed her delight in the chaos.
Dinner is Served
We had “Dinner” around 1 PM. We followed that with a lighter meal of leftovers called “Supper”, at 6 PM for any who were interested. A lot could happen to the leftovers in the space of time between the two meals. One year, I was falsely accused of The Empty Pie Caper: eating part of the filling out of an apple pie and then turning the pie dish toward a wall to hide the crime. When my uncle tried to slice a piece, the top crust collapsed to the bottom and he immediately blamed me. I vigorously denied it, but nobody believed me. Until my grandfather came forward and sheepishly confessed.
The dining room, like the vineyard’s dogwoods, became the focal point of all the action. Finally, Grandma declared the meal ready and we all swooped in at once. The table buzzed with bustling wings—relatives jockeying for seats, rearranging chairs, and debating who should sit where. Grandpa always said grace before the meal, followed by some random commentary. The last comment I remember was, “Why, on Earth, do you all have to be so loud?!”
The hum of conversation rose to a roar, like the chatter of starlings perched in the trees. The energy shifted to a chaotic harmony as plates were filled, stories were shared, and laughter spilled into the cold December day. There were always squabbles: an elbow jostled here, a dish nudged there. Two cousins piled one-half of the fried oysters from a serving platter onto their plates, earning swift justice from their father.
“Boys! You get one oyster each to start! Put the rest back on the platter!” he squawked.
What Made it Memorable
By writing this, I’ve given myself a great gift: a way to remember them all. We were, in so many ways, just like starlings and mockingbirds—messy, mischievous, and full of life. A kitchen filled with laughter made the gathering magical.
© 2024 Terry Housel. All rights reserved.
Originally published at EnchantedGreenAcres.com
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