Christmas in Nevada?

It is 65 degrees outside right now.

The problem is, it's December 10th.

I've put up the tree. I've sent out the cards. I've even put a candy dish full of red and green M&M's on the coffee table. But when I open the blinds, I see only clear skies and sunshine.

I'm a NY girl; and try as I might, I just can't seem to get that Christmas mood going in NV. This is the time of year that we should be making sure that the snow blower is working and there is enough salt in the garage. The fridge and freezer should be stocked to the brim. The clothes that I'm wearing right now (short sleeves, mind you) should have been packed away last month to make room for sweaters and thermals. And, I should already be planning our biggest feast of the year. That's one thing I can still do, but I just keep putting it off. I actually even let the thought cross my mind that maybe we should (shudder) go out for Christmas dinner.

Christmas is the ultimate day of feasting at our house. We, literally, eat all day long, even more so than on Thanksgiving. Rolling out dish after dish, the oven cranking all day long steaming up the windows, the dishwasher on a seemingly endless cycle; we indulge and enjoy. I try to do that here and I'll wind up having to put the air conditioning on. Who cooks a roast in this weather?

I was talking to some fellow displaced NYers about entertaining for the holidays and such; about how I haven't unpacked my china yet, and asking if they knew a good butcher, etc. They laughed and told me to leave my china in the boxes, that no one entertains like that here. As for the butcher, no such luck. At least there are a couple of delis around so I can put out a half-decent antipasto.

So, what to do? I guess I should just toss aside my inherent need to go from butcher to salumeria to fruit stand to specialty grocer to baker bundled up against the elements in order to produce my annual feast; and just put on my sandals, run to the supermarket and get over my praying-for-snow self. Old habits are hard to break, especially the ones you enjoy. I just don't know if I can muster up the love. I find it hard to be passionate about a feast that was procured at the Trader Joe's down the road. Did I mention that I'm Italian? Did I have to?

Do you think Trader Joe's will have a bottle of Sambuca and pfferneusse cookies set out at the register? Now do you see what I mean?

If you've never had the experience of shopping in an Italian neighborhood at Christmastime, you won't. There is a sense of celebration; of joy and community and goodwill in every tiny storefront you enter. As cold as it was outside just moments ago, you are instantly warmed by the blast of heat as soon as the door swings open. Tastes of everything are given freely, and tiny boxes of Torrone are tucked into your bag as a gift. A paper cup full of Sambuca and a cookie and you're back out onto the sidewalk en route to the next shop. I can smell the provolone as I type.

Ahhhhh, those were the days that turned bags full of goodies into feasts. The spirit that drove me to make my way through cold and ice to prepare a celebration for my family. That feeling of relief when I walked through the door knowing I had purchased everything I needed, and would not have to go back out until the day after the last fork had dropped. The giggles that only tiny cupfuls of Sambuca can produce. How I miss them.

See, for me, the build up to the meal helps make the meal. It creates the energy, the passion that fuels the preparation and the anticipation. That's what I'm missing. It's like taking half of the ingredients out of a recipe and expecting it to still turn out.

There will be a Christmas feast. I'll locate as many of the expected delights as possible, and I'll put on a smile and plate up the food. I'll keep the blinds closed and pretend it's freezing outside. Maybe I'll unpack the china.

And maybe I'll even keep a little Sambuca in the kitchen while I'm cooking.