{"id":92990,"date":"2015-12-17T15:20:48","date_gmt":"2015-12-17T20:20:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=92990"},"modified":"2015-12-17T15:20:48","modified_gmt":"2015-12-17T20:20:48","slug":"holiday-spirit","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/12\/17\/holiday-spirit\/","title":{"rendered":"Holiday Spirit"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Photo: cyclonebill, via Flickr<\/p><\/div>\n

When my grandmother was alive, she would make rum balls every Christmas. Hers were the standard heavyweight confection: Nilla wafer crumbs and pulverized nuts, mixed with cocoa and bound with corn syrup and raw rum, then rolled into truffle-like spheres. They arrived as leaden bundles wrapped in foil, and they were always a cause for celebration, heralding as they did the holiday season, and evoking her other Christmas traditions\u2014the jolly Santa drawn in glass wax on the bay window and the collection of little elf figurines at the center of the table.<\/p>\n

But it must be said: they never tasted very good.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Strange, then, that I should decide to replicate them. This winter, as I pushed my cart through the market, accumulating sacks of sugar and bags of navel oranges, vats of marshmallow fluff and cans of evaporated milk, the thought came to me. My building\u2019s super, Gilbert, had given me a bottle of strong rum. And after all, my family is lacking in traditions; shouldn\u2019t I preserve what I could? \u201cOh, why not?\u201d I said aloud, gaily, to the consternation of the nearby employee stacking bags of flour.\u00a0<\/p>\n

As Jacques P\u00e9pin would say, \u201cI deed eet.\u201d Pulverized the cookies and nuts, mixed in cocoa and a dribble of light Karo. Then came the rum. I decided to be lavish with it and poured in several satisfying glugs. My eyes watered from the fumes, but it seemed like in such a case generosity should rule the day. After chilling the mixture, I rolled it into balls\u2014a messy business\u2014and covered them in powdered sugar. The resulting lumps were sullen and unappetizing: just as I remembered. I popped one in my mouth. I gagged, then immediately went to bed.<\/p>\n

When I woke up twenty minutes later, I decided to bring a couple to Gilbert. \u201cThey\u2019re not for kids,\u201d I said, trying to make a virtue of their potency. He took a bite, then unflatteringly spit it out into his hand. \u201cThere\u2019s too much rum in these,\u201d he said flatly. I reluctantly crossed the names of several recovering alcoholics off my gift list.<\/p>\n

Maybe they\u2019ll mellow as they age, I thought. It occurred to me that I had effectively created VIP, a fictional product from the Doris Day\u2013Rock Hudson romp\u00a0Lover Come Back.\u00a0<\/em>In that idiotic film, the ad agency promotes a vague miracle product without having any idea what it will be. In the end, they make a mint that gets people drunk really fast and cheaply. This being midcentury America, it\u2019s a smash. So my problem was really one of marketing: if I promoted my rum balls as an edible shot, rather than a terrible cookie, maybe they, too, could change lives. Or, alternatively, I could just present them as lumps of coal\u2014punishment for the naughty.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But just in case that didn\u2019t happen, I\u2019d gotten some glass wax, too, and arranged the elves in the middle of my table. There is nothing to say tradition need be sweet\u2014just repetitive.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review, and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When my grandmother was alive, she would make rum balls every Christmas. Hers were the standard heavyweight confection: Nilla wafer crumbs and pulverized nuts, mixed with cocoa and bound with corn syrup and raw rum, then rolled into truffle-like spheres. 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