Editor’s note >> St. Paul author Roger Barr continues a 24-year Christmas story tradition with “Christmas, By Another Way.” It’s a look at how Christmas traditions, and particularly holiday food memories, have the power to unite us all.

The series began with the now-ironically titled “The Last Christmas,” which was published by the Villager newspaper in 1997, Barr says. With the exception of 1998, there had been a new Bartholomew story in the Villager every year until 2020, when the tradition moved to the Pioneer Press.

“I need Christmas around me,” Deidre announced, snapping her book shut. In the lamp’s evening light, Matthew Bartholomew could see the look of anguish that had taken residence in his wife’s eyes.

“I’m decorating inside the house tomorrow tonight. When do you want to go Christmas tree shopping?” In her voice, along with the resident anguish, Matt detected a sooner-rather-than-later sense of determination. Before he could answer, Deidre justified her announcement.

“I know it’s only the first of December, but I need some distance between me and November, if you know what I mean.”

Matt knew. November ultimately hadn’t settled anything. The country remained divided. The one thing everyone agreed upon was that the country was headed in the wrong direction.

“Anytime tomorrow is fine,” he said. “I’m the one who’s retired.”

“How about right after I finish work?” Deidre suggested. “Meet you at the tree lot. We’ll set the tree up first thing after we’re home so the branches can unfold. We can hang ornaments after dinner. I’ll unpack our Christmas boxes and decorate over the weekend.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Deidre laid her book on the end table. “I need something visual in here to remind me there’s a road other than the one to ruination we seem to be on.”

“I know. I get it.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“Not at all. I just thought we’d made a pact to stop talking about November.”“I know.” Deidre made a futile gesture. “It’s just that everyone’s still at each other’s throats. Everything feels so broken. Even the things we depend on to fix things when they break feel broken. Even our family is broken.” Deidre sniffed back tears. “Look at our family potluck! How many years have we done that? Everyone automatically marks the Saturday after Thanksgiving on their calendars. It’s the one time of year everyone in our whole family gets together. We light the creche in the front yard for the first time, everyone eats too much and we all have a great time. For the last two years, your brother and his entire family — his kids, their spouses, even the grandkids haven’t come because, well, you know the reasons. We used to see Tim and Linda all the time. They came for Christmas Eve dinner, for pity’s sake. Linda and I are good friends — were. After they left our church last spring, I tried to talk to Linda. She said we had nothing in common anymore. Since then, she’s ghosted me.”

“I invited them special,” Matt said. “They decided not to come. Apparently, our differences outweigh whatever we have in common.”

“Our differences didn’t used to matter.”

“I know,” Matt said. “Tim’s always been the outspoken one. We’ve always canceled each other at the polls. He’s just being himself, only more so.”

“Maybe so, but this hole in our family — it’s everything I’m talking about in a nutshell.” Deidre wiped away her tears.

“I hear you.” Matt said. “Have a little faith. Christmas is a time for miracles. Eventually all this broken stuff will get fixed one way or another.” Even to him, his words rang hollow.

“Forgive me,” Deidre snorted, “But I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“To be completely honest,” Matt confessed, “so will I.”

Deidre gathered up her book. “I’m going upstairs to bed.”

“I have to go outside and tuck in the creche. Then I’ll be up.”

Three Wise Men

Matt pulled on his coat and stepped into the garage. He raised the door and then disarmed the security system so he could move freely about the yard. He walked down the driveway to the boulevard sidewalk and turned to view the creche like a visitor. The life-sized, lifelike figures were so realistic that some visitors swore they could see them move. The life in the figures was just an illusion, Matt knew, created by the theater-style lighting, the night breeze and the visitors’ own faith.

Normally, the sight of Mary and Joseph, the Infant, the angels, the shepherds and their flock, the Wise Men and their camels filled Matt with feelings of anticipation. Standing here, he usually felt warmed by a sense of hope. But tonight, Deidre’s claim that everything felt broken enveloped him like a cold wind, drawing his attention to fixtures in the yard that visitors didn’t see. A half dozen motion detectors were strategically positioned throughout the yard to sense an intruder’s movements. The detectors would activate an alarm and turn on floodlights that would allow security cameras to photograph the intruder. Invisible as the detectors were to visitors, he hated the necessity for them.

Shaking off the chill of Deidre’s claim, Matt started his nightly inspection. Carefully, he checked each figure, making sure it remained securely anchored. He checked the spotlights for burned-out bulbs.

His inspection ended beside the three Wise Men. Searchers like himself, the Wise Men were his favorite nativity figures. Solemnly, they stood in line to offer their gifts, two fair- skinned, one dark-skinned, united in their search. Tonight, however, Matt thought not about their journey to the stable, but their departure after they presented their gifts. He knew the Bible passage by heart: “And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way.”

“My friends,” Matt said, addressing the Wise Men, “Everybody says things are broken. Everybody says we’re headed in the wrong direction, but we don’t seem to know what road we should take. If any of you have suggestions for another way, I’d be pleased to listen.” The Wise Men remained silent. Talking to myself, Matt thought.

The final step of his nightly inspection was to check the food donation barrels positioned at the end of the driveway. The barrels were nearly empty, but it was still early in the season.

Years of experience told him that as the days ticked by, visitors would fill the barrels with canned goods, packaged foods and other nonperishables. Soon he’d make frequent trips to the Open Cupboard Food Shelf, run by his friend Handyman.

Years of experience also told him that once the house was decorated, once the holiday parties began, once she began shopping for her loved ones, Deidre would put November behind her and concentrate on the road ahead.

At least he hoped so.

Holiday distractions

Deidre assembled Christmas around her. On Friday after work, they purchased a Balsam fir and set it up in front of the windows. After dinner, while Christmas music played, they threaded strings of twinkling lights among the branches and hung the ornaments. James Taylor’s “Home by Another Way” seemed to be on repeat. They strung evergreen boughs over the arch and wrapped them around the columns that separated the entryway from the living room. Deidre placed Santa and Rudolph beside the fireplace. She arranged a nativity scene on the mantle. She set up the colorful German pyramid on an end table.

Normally, Matt could feel the mood lighten as the music played and the decorations went up. By now, Deidre was usually bubbling with holiday enthusiasm and spinning plans that would carry them through the holiday. There were presents to buy, holiday meals to plan, baking to do.

This year, she was the organizer of the Christmas Day potluck dinner at New Shepherd Church, back after a two-year absence because of the pandemic. She wanted to do something special to celebrate its return.

But all day Saturday, Matt could still see anxiety lurking in Deidre’s eyes. The look was still there Sunday evening when they settled into the living room after dinner, each with a book.

“Feeling better with the house decorated?” he asked.

Deidre closed her book and shrugged. “I called Linda this morning, but she didn’t answer. I left a voice message asking her to please call me back. She hasn’t called.” Deidre shrugged again and opened her book.

“I know how you feel,” Matt said. “I’ve all but given up trying to talk to Tim.”

“Why can’t people disagree about some things and still get along?” Deidre said sourly.

Later, as Matt was tucking in the creche for the night, he stopped beside the Wise Men.

“My friends,” he said, “We let the things we disagree about tear us apart. Why is it that we never choose to focus on things we have in common? How can we learn to look past our disagreements? If there is another way, that would seem to be it.”

The Wise Men remained silent. But in the soft light, Matt saw the figure closest to him nod slightly in agreement. Or was it just an illusion caused by the night breeze?

Breakfast epiphany

Every Tuesday morning, Matt met his friends Carter and Handyman for breakfast at the Louisiana Cafe. Carter and Handyman were already seated and sipping their coffee when Matt arrived. Passing the display case, he noticed a tray of caramel rolls behind the glass. A Christmas morning memory flashed through his mind as he slid into a seat beside Handyman.

The three men had been friends for almost twenty years. Matt had met Officer Darryl Carter in 2001 when the creche had been vandalized and the police officer had conducted the investigation. When Matt was first looking for a food shelf to support, he’d called Carter for suggestions.

Darnell Jensen, known to all as Handyman, was a social worker for the county by day. On nights and weekends, he operated the Open Cupboard out of his double garage. It was the only place Matt knew of that operated successfully by the honor system.

The service door was never locked. Clients helped themselves, obeying the directions on the signs: HELP YOURSELF! LEAVE SOME FOR OTHERS. In the neighborhood, Open Cupboard was hallowed ground. A retiree, Matt volunteered frequently.

As they waited for the server, Handyman ran down Open Cupboard’s numbers for the month of November. “Demand is up thirty percent. Inflation’s making it tough for poor folks to get by. We need every can of beans, every box of spaghetti your creche visitors drop in the barrels, Matt.”

The server returned, poured coffee for Matt and took their orders. Carter ordered biscuits and gravy, Handyman the Cajun breakfast.

“I’ll have one of those big caramel rolls,” Matt said, drawing raised eyebrows from his friends. “Saw those rolls in the display case. Made me feel nostalgic. My mom always made caramel rolls for Christmas morning. Raising eight kids, she seldom had time to bake, but Christmas morning she made up for it. When the rest of us got up, she’d already been in the kitchen for an hour.”

“At Christmas, we always had collard greens cooked with onions and ham hocks,” Handyman said. “My grandparents moved up here from Batton Rouge in the late 1930s. “When I was a kid, we ate ham hocks and greens, ham hocks and black-eyed peas with onions.”

“And chitlins?” Carter asked.

“Oh, yeah!” Handyman chuckled. “At Christmas, we’d visit my grandparents. Grams would cook chitlins with onions.”

“I don’t remember chitlins at Christmas,” Carter said. “Christmas was for something special — homemade vanilla ice cream. We cranked that ice cream freezer until it felt like our arms would fall off. Took forever! It was worth it though. Mama made the best hot fudge you ever tasted to pour over it.”

“The good old days,” Handyman said.

“If I’d known those were the good old days,” Carter drawled, “I’d have enjoyed them more.”

In the next booth, Matt noticed a white-haired woman wearing a Christmas sweater was listening to them. The server returned with their orders. Matt cut the gooey caramel roll into four pieces and took a bite.

“So,” Carter asked, “How’s the nostalgia taste?”

“Not like Mom’s”

Later, as they were standing up to leave, the white-haired woman rose from her booth and offered an apologetic smile.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I couldn’t help overhearing you gentlemen talking. My great Grandmother Ingrid — from Norway — used to make kringla only at Christmas. It’s a soft, doughy cookie. I always looked forward to it. She gave me the recipe, of course, but mine never tasted as good. I haven’t made kringla in years. Listening to you talk, I decided I’m going to this year.”

At home that evening, Matt told Deidre about the woman at the restaurant.

“I saw caramel rolls in the display case and remembered Mom used to make them on Christmas morning, so I ordered one. The three got to talking about what we ate at Christmas. As we were leaving, this woman who eavesdropped on us stood up and told us all about her ancestor from Norway, who always made kringla.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to make caramel rolls,” Deidre said.

“Sure, why not?”

“They’ll never taste as good as what your mother made,” Deidre warned.

“I’m sure they’d taste better than the mincemeat pie she always baked for Dad. Mincemeat pie was something his mother, Grandma Lillian, always made. After they got married, Mom baked one for him. I’m sure he ate most of it. After Mom died, Dad talked my sister Carol into baking one for him. When Dad died, the tradition died. And now, Carol is gone, too.”

“I’ve never ever had mincemeat pie,” Deidre said. “What’s it like?”

“Traditional mincemeat contains meat, suet, and various fruits and spices. It has a taste I never acquired. It’s fruity, meaty, sweet, savory and spicy all at the same time. Now that I think about it, Tim loved mincemeat pie, too. He was the only one of us kids who did.”

Food unites us

Matt volunteered at Open Cupboard on Fridays, one of the days Handyman worked in the office rather than remotely. When he arrived, he was surprised to find Handyman seated at the corner desk, staring into his computer screen, white earbuds in his ears. He acknowledged Matt with a wave, but kept his eyes on the screen. As was his custom, Handyman had set up a Christmas tree generously decorated with candy canes, there for the taking. Matt helped himself to one. Using an old grocery cart, he wheeled a box of canned goods he’d brought into the aisle nearest the desk and set to work.

Handyman suddenly pushed his chair back. “Whew,” he exclaimed, laying his earbuds on the desk. “I need a break!”

“Tough case?” Matt asked.

Handyman nodded. “I’ve been a social worker for thirty years. I know the patterns. When there’s discord across the country, it always trickles down and shows up in our caseload. But I’ve never seen it this bad. Something has to give, we’ve got to learn how to live together, or …” He shook his head.

Matt thought of the discord in his own family and felt a pang of guilt.

“You know,” Handyman said, “I keep thinking about that lady at breakfast the other day, the one who shared her Christmas memories with us? A complete stranger, but she found something in common with us, something important enough to her that she felt compelled to share it. How often does that happen? These days, when complete strangers interact, it’s usually to argue or accuse.”

“Food does bring people together,” Matt said.

“That it does,” Handyman agreed. “A few years back, I attended a community dinner. Everybody brought food that represented their heritage. There were twenty different countries and cultures represented. People filled their plates, sat down and chatted with whoever sat beside them, putting aside whatever differences they had. For one night, we were all just people. No one wanted it to end. It was fabulous. I wish we could replicate that evening on a national scale. Think what we might accomplish if people focused on what they had in common instead of their differences.”

“Maybe Congress should sponsor potluck dinners,” Matt suggested.

“Now there’s an idea!” Handyman declared. On his desk, his cellphone suddenly pinged.

He grabbed it, read the screen and grimaced. “Uh, oh!” he said. “Listen, I gotta go out on a call. There’s been a shooting.”

“Be careful,” Matt said, alarmed.

“Always.”

Over dinner that night, Matt recounted his day at Open Cupboard, leaving out the shooting.

“Handyman told me about this community dinner he attended where everyone brought food that represented their heritage,” he said. “People with different backgrounds sat together, ate each other’s food and talked for hours. He said it was fabulous.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Deidre said.

“Food does bring people together,” Matt said. “I told you the other day about the lady who eavesdropped on our Tuesday breakfast conversation. Handyman and I decided that Congress should start having potlucks so they can find out what they have in common.”

Deidre’s eyes suddenly brightened. That’s it!” she exclaimed. “That’s the theme I was looking for to make New Shepherd’s Christmas potluck dinner special. Instead of just bringing any old dish, people could bring a dish that was a Christmas tradition in their family.”

“That’s a terrific idea,” Matt said. “People could write a little story about their tradition along with the recipe. We could make up a book of stories and recipes.”

“People could post their stories and recipes on the church Facebook page,” Deidre said.“I’ll put an announcement about the theme and instructions in the church’s weekly email. Now all I have to do is decide what tradition to honor.”

Over the weekend, Deidre emailed church members and set up a subpage on the church’s Facebook page to collect stories and recipes. Every evening, they checked the Facebook page and read the stories. Deidre could not decide what to prepare. “I’ll know it when I see it,” she declared.

At Tuesday breakfast, Matt invited Handyman and Carter and their families to the potluck, noting the theme had grown out of their discussion a couple of weeks ago.

“Do you think New Shepherd is ready for collard greens and ham hocks?” Handyman asked, chuckling.

“I’ll pass on cranking that ice cream freezer,” Carter said, “But Lucille makes the best sweet potato pie you ever tasted.”

With Christmas just days away, Deidre still had not announced her decision.

“So, what are you making for the Christmas potluck?” Matt asked one night as they settled into the living room for the evening.

“You said your brother liked mincemeat pie,” Deidre said. “I think Linda still checks New Shepherd’s Facebook page from time to time. So, I’m baking one. You never know. Do you know what became of the family recipe? I’d love to use it.”

Matt reached for Deidre’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Look, it’s a nice gesture, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. This isn’t a Hallmark movie after all.”

“You’re the one who said food brings people together, that Christmas was a time for miracles,” Deidre countered. “It just feels like the right thing to do.”

Matt saw the determination in his wife’s eyes. “I’ll check with Carol’s girls for the recipe,” he said. “Maybe one of them kept it.”

Matt texted Elizabeth and Ann. An hour later, he received a reply from Elizabeth.

“I have it. On the back in Mom’s handwriting, it says that it was Grandma Lillian’s recipe.”

Another text appeared with pictures of the recipe and her mother’s note.

Deidre scanned the recipe. “I’m in business. You write the story.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Matt thought. An hour later he handed Deidre his iPad.

“Mincemeat pie is an English tradition. It was Dad’s favorite. When he was young, they always had mincemeat pie at Christmas. After his mother died, my mother took up the tradition. Mincemeat was also a favorite of my brother Tim, and they always jockeyed to see who got the last piece. When my mother died, Dad talked my sister Carol into baking him a pie at Christmas, using the same recipe. When Dad died, the tradition died. My sister is deceased, but her daughter Elizabeth kept the original recipe, which Deidre used for this pie.”

“Perfect,” Deidre said. “I’ll post it tonight.”

Mincemeat memories

A week before Christmas, Matt pulled on his coat and went out to tuck in the creche for the night. He disarmed the security system, checked the food barrels and began to inspect the creche figures. Halfway through the task, his cell phone rang.

“It’s Tim.”

Matt swallowed his surprise. “Well, hello.” An awkward silence followed as he groped for something to say. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You, too,” his brother said. Another silence. “Listen, Linda just sent me a screenshot of your Facebook post about mincemeat pie. She said she was going to call Deidre tonight. Good lord, I haven’t eaten a piece of mincemeat since Dad passed. Nobody makes it anymore. Dad always said it wasn’t Christmas until Mom made mincemeat pie. Boy, you nailed it, when you mentioned us two competing for the last piece. I remember one year I suggested we flip a coin. I called heads. I can still see the look on Dad’s face when heads came up. I forgot you liked mincemeat pie. At least we still have that in common.”

Matt felt a wave of emotion wash over him. They had much more than memories about mincemeat pie in common, but both of them had let their differences get in the way. “Well,” he said, seizing the moment, “it’d be nice to share a piece with you. If you’re available.”

“We’ve got other plans Christmas Day,” Tim said, “but tell Deidre thanks anyway.”

“Why don’t you tell her? You and Linda should come over on Christmas Eve, like you used to. It’s just the four of us here and Allison and Christopher would be glad to see you. I’m sure Deidre would be glad to make a second pie.”

“Can’t. We have plans.”

“Well, another time then. We have nothing planned on New Year’s Eve.”

“I’ll have to check with Linda. If we’re not busy, well, I’ll let you know.”

Matt sensed a wistfulness in Tim’s voice. “I’m glad you called, Tim.”

“I flipped a coin. It rolled under the couch.” Tim’s voice was suddenly tight. “I’m not sure if I won or lost, but here I am.”

“I think we both won.”

“Listen, I gotta go. It’s good talking to you.”

“Well, if we don’t see you, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”

“You, too.”

Matt pocketed his phone and continued his inspection. He felt exhilarated and disappointed at the same time. Deidre’s instincts had been right. Was it the pie itself or the gesture that had inspired Tim to call? Did it matter? Either way, it was a step forward. A mincemeat pie wouldn’t fix the discord across the nation, but hopefully it had started a broken family on the road to healing. Who knew, maybe the true fix for the nation was a million little fixes like this one, where people took the initiative to look past their differences and focus on what they had in common. Who knew? Christmas was a time for miracles.

When he reached the Wise Men, Matt paused for a moment. “My friends,” he said, “When you depart for your own country, I’ll be walking with you, headed home by another way.”

He hurried toward the house to see if Linda had given Deidre a call.