“Oranges and peppermint candy, fruitcake long in the
making but swift enough in the eating, with a little Bourbon whiskey poured
over it. A chill in the air, if not the snow of dreams, and the dusty whiffs,
at that woebegone time, of soft coal burning in the grate—this was Kentucky
long ago, when we sat with our father at the upright piano and each night of
Christmas week sang the hymns and the old songs of Christmas, many with their
dog-trot rhymes of bed and head, night and bright.”—Elizabeth Hardwick
(1916-2007), “Christmas Past,” in Christmas at The New Yorker: Stories, Poems, Humor, and Art, from the editors of The New Yorker (2003)
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