By Oliver Clarke Like many other children and grandchildren of immigrants, my family does Christmas a little differently. Ever since my Dutch grandmother Hendrika married my American grandfather Jim, we have celebrated Christmas twice, first on Sinterklaas Day, December 6th, and again on the tra...

By Oliver Clarke

Like many other children and grandchildren of immigrants, my family does Christmas a little differently. Ever since my Dutch grandmother Hendrika married my American grandfather Jim, we have celebrated Christmas twice, first on Sinterklaas Day, December 6th, and again on the traditional day, December 25th. We are the obnoxious neighbors who start hauling out the decorations immediately after Thanksgiving, or on one memorable year, after Halloween. As children, little was more fun than putting out our wooden shoes on the hearth, filled with grass and carrots for Sinterklaas’ flying white pony; filled with anticipation for the next morning, my brother and I knew that the pony snacks would be gone and be replaced with silly riddles that had us giggling and hunting all over the house for candies.
Of course, Christmas was a more elaborate affair. On Christmas Eve, my family would have a special dinner together, open one present each to heighten anticipation for the rest, and set out milk and cookies for Santa Claus… Nothing for his reindeer, unfortunately. On Christmas morning, our parents learned that if we were allowed to dive into our candy-filled stockings first thing in the morning, they would be spared an early wake-up call. After we had sufficiently gorged ourselves on candy, the floor littered with shiny wrappers, my parents would finally get up, and we would have fresh-baked cinnamon rolls for brunch. At this point, the very peak of our sugar high, we each took turns tearing into our presents.
After we cleaned up the living room of ripped wrapping paper, my mom would prepare two of her family-famous pies while my brother and I played with our new toys, excited to continue the festivities at our grandparents’ house as soon as the pies were put together. I can still taste my Nama’s spinach salad, roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, and of course, the clove sweetness of her show-stopping pickled beets (yes, really!).
Now, the holidays are a little less intense in their sugar-fueled, technicolor vibrancy than they were when I was a child, and instead of hunting for treats, we just buy stroopwafels and boterkoek and call it a day. I may not have my mother’s baking talent, and I’ve never been able to perfectly reproduce my Nama’s pickled beets, no matter how many times she explains them. But still, if I have children one day, I want to give them the best double Christmas holiday season I can, just like my family did for me.