It is I, the ancient relative of the family. I am the one of many names: Grandma, Meemaw, Karen. As I sit here at the head of the solstice feast, I am overcome with guilt and frustration. Looking into your loving faces as we clutch together for warmth against the yawning cold, I can no longer hold in this secret that has plagued me for years.
You see, loved ones, our family has been built on a foundation of lies.
It was a simple lie at first. Passed from generation to generation; mother to daughter; father to son, as a way to hold back the dark and cold of this solstice season. We kept it close to our chests and our hearts, hiding it in the socks hanging from the mantle and tucking it into the boxes covered in the colorful paper.
The lie has become too much. It has consumed. It is consumed.
You see, my dear clan, the festively-shaped dough that we make every year does not come from the hearts and brains of our ancestors. It is not unique to us. It is not of our own. Lights of my life, it pains me to say, but it comes from Outside.
I was a young girl when I discovered the secret of the festive dough. My mother had shown me the recipe, written in an ancient hand on yellowed paper covered in pictures of green, conical trees and the all-too jolly, eldritch Man in the Red Coat that haunts this yearly festival.
I took in the recipe as one takes in Holy Communion. This was the beginnings of The Dough. This Dough that would be shaped into the Man in the Red Coat’s face and painted in his all-knowing countenance. It would make the faces of those strange, horned beasts pulling his monstrous sled and some, even, would become replicas of the star-adorned tree sitting not a foot from you.
I poured myself into The Dough, aware that it would take my all to make. My mother assisted me, however, revealing that I was not strong enough to make it myself. Years passed, and my mother and I would continue to make the Dough into the many shapes, like that of the frozen men with eyes as black as coal. We would continue to feed them to all of you.
It wasn’t until some years later, as I traversed the local market, that I uncovered the lie. You see, I picked up a simple ingredient for the Dough, nothing more than the chips of chocolate from the House of Nestle Toll. I peaked at the back for a brief second and the world tilted.
There was the Ancient Family Recipe. Sitting for all the world to see. Naked in the wind.
I threw the bag down and screamed in terror. How could we have been betrayed? Who had done this to us so freely and carelessly? Had they no shame? No dignity? No love for the Man in the Red Coat who saw our hearts and bestowed gifts on those not counted on the list of the damned?
I raced home with the bag in hand and showed the accursed object to my mother. Upon seeing the visage of the disgraced recipe, her eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the ground, her mind unable to comprehend the terrors that had befallen us.
After I was able to revive her, she asked me if I had told anyone else. I told her no, and she contemplated the fate of our beloved Dough. Within those silent moments, we could hear the man they called Bing singing a soft warning of the horrors he saw when he dreamed of a milky solstice. The minutes seemed to stretch before us as he crooned of bells sleighing through the abyssal snow.
My mother finally stood and swore me to secrecy upon the very Dough itself. We would not let this monstrosity, this abject horror tear our family apart. I solemnly agreed, and we began concocting that year’s batch, drifting in and out of sanity.
I would hold this secret for many years until this very moment, my dear ones. I cannot take it anymore, I cannot stand to live a lie during this long, despairing season of ice. I will no longer sit in this doughy prison that I baked for myself.
So do with this information what you will, my loves. Cast the Dough into a pit, burn it, give it to your friend at work that you don’t really like. I care not. But do not blame me for the sins of our ancestors. I beg of you.
Now, would someone please pass me the homemade biscuits from Uncle Pillsbury?