Back for these holidays, the Snapshots series, an end-of-year gift from journalists from Duty, offers fiction texts inspired by archive photos sent by readers to the editorial staff. Today, a text by Jean-Louis Bordeleau based on a photo by François Giguère.
I yawn until my jaw drops. A rumbling noise emerges from the depths of my stomach to snore over the priest’s sermon. If only the wafers were seasoned… A nudge brings me out of my greedy reverie. “Hey, let my brother whisper to me. Do you think my uncle is going to bring his donuts later? »
This is exactly where, at this precise moment, the holiday season begins. From then on, my whole life revolved around eating. During New Year’s Eve — the biggest buffet of the year. Tomorrow — aunt invites us to supper. Two days later — first cousins visit us. Eat again two days later — this time, it’s family friends who treat us. And so on. Every day, Sunday. For a big week. Food for all tastes: from truffle dip, petit fours à la log, from du Lac’s brother-in-law’s tourtière to grandmother’s sandwich bread. This all looks very appetizing, if it weren’t for the fact that, this year, everything tastes very bland to me. As if something was missing.
That said, I devour everything. Breakfast lunches and desserts. Salty after sweet after salty. Appetizers before appetizers before starters. Salads, cured meats, shortbread. Without falling too far into grandpa’s caramel because after that come the brioches, the tartlets, the marshmallows, the marzipan, the panettone, the fruit cakes. I eat all the time, but it’s funny, I’m always hungry. No appetizers put me out of shape to eat.
However, the food is going bad over there. “One of these four” ends up arriving and we spend the evening at the neighbor’s house. He receives us with the paraphernalia of a chef. He’s waiting for us with a breast that’s not at all thin and a baba that leaves us gaga. Then, the candy canes disappear one after the other from the tree. Every evening, once 8 p.m. has passed, it’s “After Eight” time. Before going on vacation, there was the mother of a classmate who brought cream sugar for all the students. So everyone left with a little brown package filled with sweets. To compensate for this refined sugar, I eat a lot of natural sugar. Hop! Here is the box of clementines that disappears in a gust of wind. Despite all their colors, these candies leave me with a bitter feeling in my mouth.
When it’s light, we walk around a bit to get all that stuff out of our legs. My brother and I, with our skis on, we eat on the left and then on the right. It’s quickly noon and, from the first stop at one of our friends’ houses, it’s already time to swallow some soup. Next comes the remainder of yesterday’s ham. That’s without counting tea and biscuits to get you back on track and have an appetite. It’s endless. Except that my hunger remains insatiable during this marathon of food.
And yet, we stuff ourselves! We only have that to do between Christmas and New Year’s Day, a strange moment when time expands as much as my stomach. I devour meat pies like sugar pies. From hot drinks, we move on to eggnog and then punch. We cut out another piece of the gingerbread house. On this umpteenth evening at the end of the year, I discovered the mysterious koulibiac at the home of a distant uncle. The next day, it’s the family friend who prepares his game for us with, of course, his meatball stew. I swallow a piece of aspic, even though I don’t like it. You have to taste it! The days go by and we lose the thread as well as the line. But, again and again, this feast seems very cheesy to me.
Something is missing from the pleasures of the table. Maybe more cinnamon? Basil? I add a ton of pepper to my vol-au-vents. Nothing works.
It’s because Dad isn’t here. He works in the camps in “the North”. My appetite will only really open up when he pushes the door open, on the evening of the 31st, back from the construction sites. Only the turkey will be truly delectable this year. They are our loved ones, the real sugar of the holiday season!