On more than one occasion, I have found myself being lectured by non-Jews (always men) about why I am incorrect in my Jewishness. Judaism is a religion and I can’t be Jewish if I am an atheist, some say. The ones that accept the atheism then feel compelled to categorise me as a ‘cultural’ Jew whose identity is defined by rituals and customs passed down over the centuries. And then there’s the stern mystification about the relatively minor role that Hanukkah plays in the spiritual calendar for Jews. It is hard for some to realise that while it involves lights and wintry nights, Hanukkah is not remotely the equivalent of Christmas. Nothing in Judaism is.
The thing that all these mansplainers, or goysplainers as I call them, struggle to understand is that Jewishness is a sprawling spiritual edifice that inheres in everything from all-consuming worship of God to a forensic interest in Talmudic law to the somewhat bare and simple fact of having a Jewish mother. It is an identity and a fact: simple and iron-fisted and complicated. Spiritual for some; cultural, political and moral for others.
But what I truly do not dare not tell my goyish interrogators for fear of a level of cognitive dissonance that might overwhelm them is that come this time of year, I am a Christmas-lover. I remain naturally antipathetic to Christ and the associated imagery, but I wholeheartedly enjoy almost every aspect of yuletide. The smells and textures, for one: the evergreen, spruce and pine, the woodiness of the cones and the tree ornaments. The spiced wine and spiced candles. Then there is the childishly satisfying prettiness of the fairy lights. And I don’t much like a panto, but I do like sitting in a crowded space with friendly people and mulled wine. Nativity plays are a bit much for me theologically, but an old, preferably ancient, village chapel is a place I am always happy to sit.
The food is another highlight. It’s not the hunks of turkey or ham or plates of sprouts or roast potatoes, it’s all the bits around them. Every year I have a little gathering as an excuse to buy as many Christmas salmon iterations sold by Waitrose as possible – terrines, parcels, carved slices of fish, you name it. And then the pork. I am a Jewish person who has always eaten pork – dietary restrictions imposed, indirectly, by God don’t cut the mustard for me – and have always loved little sausages and salty strips of bacon and ham. Heaven for me is less about the proximity of God, and more about the proximity of a pig in a blanket.
At the sweeter end, I am also a Christmastime evangelist. Some people complain that items such as mince pies are ‘too rich’. I disagree. They are honestly sensational, and when slathered in brandy sauce, become even better. Christmas pudding is another delicacy at which those programmed to shun ‘too rich’ foods frequently turn their noses up – but I think it is the very pinnacle of decadent pleasure. A molten core of dripping black fruit churned with fat and flour? Yes please. It’s as if malt, blackberries and chocolate fondant had a baby with a bottle of brandy and a milking cow.
Heaven for me is less about the proximity of God, and more about the proximity of a pig in a blanket
The Christmas spread is top and tailed so beautifully. If one of my fears in life is that somehow there won’t be enough, then that is never the case on the day of the Christ Child’s birth. I have been hosted by several gentile families over the years – including those of ex-boyfriends from deepest darkest provincial England – and am always moved by the well-thought-through overabundance. The cakes, pastries, pies and cheese for morning and evening, the canapes, the salted snacks, the plates of smoked salmon, the dinner with every trimming, the multiple cakes that follow, the chocolates, the fizz, the wine and, in the case of one ex’s mum, the home-made sloe gin. It is the purest satisfaction of what the human spirit craves.
I also relish Christmas TV and Christmas music. I don’t just mean carols, though I associate them fondly with mince pies, booze from a flask and, oddly, going out on the pull. I also mean Handel’s Messiah and The Nutcracker. Lovely stuff.
I remain steadfastly Jewish. Not ‘Jew-ish’ but Jewish. Equipped with this confident sense of Semitism, I find I am more than able to appreciate the pleasure of standing in a candlelit English church whether in Highgate, Worcestershire or Northamptonshire, orangey mulled wine steaming up at me; of sinking my teeth into a sweet buttery pastry of hunk of ham; of taking cosy warmth from a glittering tree decorated with heirloom baubles; and of conversing pleasantly with whoever has been kind enough to have me along. Merry Christmas.
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