1 year ago
84
Every Christmas morning it was there, on the kitchen table: a frosty, shimmering halo of pure elysian bliss, cleverly disguised as a simple confection of flour, butter, sugar, fruit, nuts, and more than a dollop of holiday cheer. As kids, we tucked into it only after the raw, kinetic excitement of our new toy haul had worn down to a fever pitch. As I grew older and became more interested in what was in the kitchen than under the tree, I made a beeline for it. The socks, ties, and novelty calendars could wait. Kris Kringle was everywhere you looked in the weeks leading up to Christmas Day, but kringle came just once a year.
Indeed, it was never Christmas without kringle—Wisconsin kringle to be exact. Racine, Wisconsin, kringle to be even more precise.
My aunt and her family lived in Racine, and they’d often make the trek up the Lake Michigan coast to celebrate the holiday with us. If they didn’t visit, this manna appeared via a welcome (and entirely expected) Christmas miracle, courtesy of either Santa Claus or our USPS mail carrier—I never knew which. Though judging by the conspicuous, holiday-red hues of both their cheeks, they appeared to favor the same brand of scotch. (Single-malt Fleet Farm, in case you were wondering.)
