Short stories are a necessary medicine for my daily woes they are taken in large doses and can be found spilling from my luggage and coat pockets in airports and classrooms. I am ashamed to admit I already had several potential titles picked out for her. At the conclusion of CHRISTMAS DAYS, I discovered the urge to ring Winterson up and ask her to consider writing an entire memoir in the form of a recipe book. There is a great deal of love in every treat recipe, along with touches of sadness that sweeten each memory. While a few of the stories simply end too quickly for this writer’s taste (I enjoy lingering over my whiskey), the touches of memoir and Christmas recipes are where Winterson’s truest Christmas spirit can be found. Christmas fable, Christmas food, and Christmas memories follow one another in quick succession, just like whiskey tonics at the office holiday get-together. The heart of CHRISTMAS DAYS lies in the three-part harmony of short fiction and memoir couched in the form of Christmas recipes. After eleven pages of historical arcana, Winterson gives the reader a solid wink and urges the sleigh faster. Veterans of the Christmas wars will be familiar with most of the history, and will fall in love with it promptly anyway. There is an unexpected suddenness to Winterson’s writing here that may cause a reader, especially one of deficient Christmas spirit, to reach for their seatbelt. I admit, even in my stodgiest of my many hearts, I’m a sucker for history and was taken with the high-speed historical roundup and the bright touches of Winterson’s own deep love for the season.
Winterson’s collection begins with a whirling recitation of Christmas history with her tell-tale confidence leading the way. I had to revive the atrophied organ in my chest dedicated to processing whimsy and mercurial wonderment to understand Winterson’s collection. Winterson, this had better be good,” I said to a startled-looking, plastic reindeer half-buried in desiccated poinsettia leaves. Adjusting my monocle, I smirked into the darkness of my cellar. I prefer to leave Christmas down there, so imagine my surprise when asked to review Jeanette Winterson’s CHRISTMAS DAYS: 12 STORIES AND 12 FEASTS FOR 12 DAYS. Polaroids of the angry uncle, the racist grandfather, the Born Again aunt with the long nails and the red eyes from staring too long at the bottom of a bourbon bottle, all carefully catalogued and labeled for my inevitable, once-a-year grudge viewing.
There are picture albums stacked perilously high near the furnace, filled with photos of Christmases past. My heart is a coal cellar, piled high with flattened, inflatable Santas, shattered Christmas tree ornaments, and red and green drifts of unsent holiday greeting cards.
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