As I neared the age my mother was when she died, forty-six, I found myself finally ready to grapple with the themes that consumed her. I started to dig through the considerable archive of work she left behind. What I found blew me away.
Today I look back with fondness on those Christmas displays my father spent so much time perfecting, though I can recall with astounding clarity that at the time I was mortified by the entire proceedings.
Hazelnut Viennese cakes, two kinds of pierogi, a 12-course Christmas Eve meal, midnight mass, kutia on the ceiling (and many other beloved traditions)—this Ukrainian/not-yet-American family Celebrated Christmas with a capital C.