Cinnamon Orange Cider — The December Ritual, Warm in the Hand

I made meatballs. Mamma's recipe. I will always make Mamma's recipe. The recipe is Mamma now. I am the recipe carrier. The carrier becomes the recipe. The recipe becomes the carrier. There is no daylight between them anymore. Karin came from Stockholm for the funeral. She slept in the basement. She drank coffee at Mamma's table (Mamma's table is now in my dining room — Erik moved it over when we cleaned out the Fifth Street house; the Kenwood dining room now has both my dining table and Mamma's, pushed together to make a single longer table). Karin said: "It is so strange that the kitchen still smells like her." I said: "I have been baking her bread." Karin understood. Erik called Sunday. He said he was thinking about Lars. He said he had not thought about Lars in a long time, not really thought about him, not the actual Lars, the twenty-year-old in 1979. Mamma's death has unlocked the older grief. Both of them at once. We sat on the phone for forty minutes mostly silent. Erik said: "It is too quiet over here, Linda." I said: "It is too quiet over here, too." We hung up. We were both alone in our too-quiet houses. The aloneness was, somehow, shared. Mamma is in hospice now. The home is good. The staff is kind. I visit daily. I bring food — though she eats less and less, the smell of the food is still received. I bring limpa bread. I bring her own meatballs (the recipe she taught me, returned to her by my hands). She holds my hand. She says the names: Pappa. Lars. Erik. Linda. Karin. Astrid. The names are the prayer. The prayer is what is left when the words go. The julbord happened. The family came (the ones who could). The almond was found. The akvavit was poured. Paul's chair was empty and full at once, the way it always is. The house was loud and full for one perfect night and quiet again by Sunday morning. The dishwasher ran nine times. The leftovers will last me through New Year's. The 32nd julbord (or however many it is now) is in the books. I cooked Pepparkakor and glögg this week. The December ritual. The cookies thin and crisp. The wine warm with cardamom and orange peel. Damiano Thursday. A teenage boy came in alone. He was hungry. He did not want to make eye contact. I served him soup. I did not make small talk. He ate two bowls. He left. The not-asking was the gift. The not-asking is sometimes the right form of attention. The teenagers know. The kitchen is the reliquary. I have used this word in the blog before. I am using it again because it is the right word. A reliquary is the container that holds the bones of the saints. The kitchen holds the bones of my saints — Pappa, Lars, Mamma, Paul, Erik, the first Sven, the second Sven. The bones are not literal bones. The bones are the marble slab and the bread pans and the glasses on the shelf and the wooden spoon worn smooth by Mamma's hand. The kitchen holds them. The kitchen is what holds them. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. It is enough.

The pepparkakor were cooling on the rack and the glögg was already gone when I thought about what I actually wanted in my hands — something warm, something that smelled like the season without the weight of the wine. Cinnamon orange cider is what I make when the house has gone quiet again after the julbord, when the dishwasher has run its last cycle and I am standing in the kitchen alone with the dog and the bread and the lake doing what the lake does. It is not Mamma’s recipe. But it smells the way her kitchen smelled in December, and that is close enough.

Cinnamon Orange Cider

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• 1/2 gallon fresh apple cider
• 2 cinnamon sticks
• 1 orange, sliced into rounds
• 1/4 teaspoon whole cloves
• 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
• 2 tablespoons honey (or to taste)
• 1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Instructions

1. Combine. Pour the apple cider into a medium saucepan. Add the cinnamon sticks, orange slices, cloves, and allspice.
2. Warm slowly. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the cider just begins to steam — about 15 to 20 minutes. Do not let it boil.
3. Sweeten. Stir in the honey and vanilla extract. Taste and adjust sweetness as needed.
4. Strain and serve. Remove the cinnamon sticks and cloves. Ladle into mugs. Garnish each with a fresh orange slice or cinnamon stick if desired.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 120 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 30g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 15mg