Keith said grace with folded hands and bent head, and, of course, he had to say it twice because the first time he swallowed half the words in his eagerness to get through quickly.  Then the meal began.

It opened with a light smoergasbord, hors d’oeuvres, literally rendered sandwich-table:  caviar, anchovy, sardines, shavings of smoked salmon, slices of bologna, and so on.  With it the father took a snaps of Swedish gin or braennvin, and after much pressing Granny consented to take one, too.  The main course consisted of lutfisk:  dried and salted codfish that had been soaked in water for twenty-four hours to take out the salt and then boiled until it was tender as cranberry jelly.  It was served with boiled potatoes and a gravy made of cream and chopped hard-boiled eggs.  It was followed by risgrynsgroet:  rice cooked in milk and served with a cover of sugar and cinnamon.  Wherever Swedes go, they must have those two dishes on Christmas Eve.  They have had them since the days when Christmas was a pagan celebration of the winter solstice, when dried codfish was the staple winter food, and when rice was the rarest of imported delicacies.

Keith did not become interested until the rice appeared and the father declared that no one could taste it until he or she had “rhymed over the rice.”  Lena had to begin, and blushingly she read: 

“To cook rice is a great feat, especially to get it sweet.”

Whereupon everybody applauded, and the mother followed: 

“Those who don’t like rice are worse than little mice.”

The father made them all laugh by saying: 

“The rice is sweet and looks very neat, but now I want to eat.”

The cutting of the cake, with its coating of sugar and its many layers of custard ... the wine, port and sherry, poured from tall glass decanters with silver labels hung about their necks to show which was which ... the blushing native apples and the figs from distant sunlit shores ... the almonds and raisins that tested best when eaten together ... the candy and the caramels ... the absence of restraint and reproof ... the freedom to indulge one’s utmost appetite ... the smiles and the pleasant words and the jokes sprung by the father ... and in the midst of it all a pause laden with rose-coloured melancholy....

“Why can it not be Christmas every day,” asked Keith suddenly.

“Because Christmas then would be like any other day,” the father replied, reaching for the first parcel which was always for Keith.

One by one they were handed out.  Each one was elaborately addressed and furnished with a rhymed or unrhymed tag that often hid a sting beneath its clownish exterior.  The father read the inscription aloud before he handed each parcel to its recipient, who had to open it and let its contents be admired by all before another gift was distributed.

The table became crowded.  The floor was a litter of paper.  Lena giggled.  Granny’s cap was down on one ear.  Keith could not sit still on his chair.