The Difference A Year Makes
What to make for dinner on the loneliest day of your life, or with friends
Christmas morning isn’t running down the stairs in your pajamas with wide-eyed wonder of what awaits under the tree. It’s driving home from work at 9am, bleary-eyed and cheerless. There is no ripping open presents or brunch with family gathered around the table. There is sleep. There is no dinner feast featuring turkey, ham, or any other roast beast. There is frozen pizza and beer.
Normally, the frozen pizza and beer doesn’t bother me. It’s a tradition I started to cope with spending most Christmases in a newsroom. Stock up on frozen pizza and Christmas ale. Put on a feel-good holiday movie.
In 2020, it wasn’t enough. I emerged from my bedroom sometime after sunset and hardly felt the cold kitchen floor under my bare feet. I looked out the window at the glittering lights of Denver sprawled out before me and frowned. There were so many people out there gathering with loved ones, even if the celebrations were small. Visions of canceled flights and tears over the phone danced in my head.
I turned my gaze back inside, toward the fridge. Then, to the wine rack off to the right. I grabbed a bottle of Chianti I’d been saving, pried out the cork, and poured its burgundy contents into the decanter. Then, I retreated back to the bedroom.
I pulled my gaudiest Christmas sweater over my head. A sweater dress, actually, with red and white stripes on the sleeves. Bells. Sequined bows. Upbeat holiday music reached out from a bluetooth speaker and tried unsuccessfully to wipe the sneer off my face. I jammed dangly earrings that looked like Christmas ornaments into my earlobes and smeared on a festive shade of lipstick. I’m going to have a Merry f*****g Christmas if it kills me.
I tore back into the kitchen like a tornado, poured a glass of wine, and pulled ingredients out of the fridge. Eggs, chicken, bell peppers, sour cream. I threw my hair up, tied Nana’s apron around my waist, and dumped flour into a bowl.
Spätzle dough is easy to make, but it’s messy. It felt really good to make a mess. Small clouds of flour dissipated in the air as I formed the future dumplings. I turned up the music a little. Chopping onions and peppers and garlic felt pretty good, too.
When the paprika-seasoned chicken hit the hot pan, the smell overwhelmed my melancholy. The weight of lockdowns, long distances, and strained relationships lifted, if just for a moment. I twirled, now singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs. I made another mess dropping bits of spätzle dough into boiling water. Oh well. I tossed the rest of the ingredients for chicken paprikaš1 into a pot with abandon to simmer while I worked on my next glass of wine.
When the chicken was cooked through, I plopped it on top of the spätzle and drowned the plate in the stew liquid. I sat on the floor with my Christmas feast in a manner that would have horrified my mother. It’s ok; I’d clean up my act before the family video call. I took a bite. Then another. Then a few more. I wanted to swim in an ocean of chicken paprikaš, alternating between mouthfuls of juicy chicken and chewy spätzle on the journey.
When it was time, I opened my laptop and greeted the faces of my family, spread across three states and five households, with my first real smile in days. Merry Christmas, Jenny. I think you’re gonna make it.
317 Days Later…
I’d never seen such beautiful chicken in my life. It didn’t look slimy and sad. It looked like it had thrived. It was plump and snug in the pot. Three big pieces for three people.
The smell of onions and paprika took me right back to the last time I made paprikaš. My breath got stuck in my chest for a moment, remembering that stinging loneliness. But then I looked at what was right in front of me. Two people I love dearly, in the flesh. Unwinding after a long week. Fidgeting in anticipation of a good meal. Gently telling me I should add more salt.
Several bottles of wine disappeared quickly between fits of laughter. The paprikaš disappeared even faster. It was delicious. It wasn’t a solitary project. It was a moment of honest connection.
No one even commented on the fact that the sun had set so early in the evening. It’s clear the nights are getting longer and colder. But that’s ok. We’re gonna make it.
Thanks for reading! If you’d like to make my chicken paprikas, you can find the recipe here. It tastes good when you’re alone, but even better with loved ones. And if you’re still reeling from last year as the holidays approach again, I feel you. Tell me about it below.
Normally spelled “paprikash" in English. Chicken paprikash is a Hungarian stew that is typically served over dumplings. Though it comes from Hungary, variations of the dish can be found throughout the Balkan region. I chose to drop the “h” to honor the Serbian spelling.
I feel this one. One of the toughest parts about making the transition into adulthood was losing out on the first holidays with the family. I think that's the beauty of tradition though; it helps you connect with that part of your life, even when you're alone.