O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind? – Percy Bysshe Shelley

Winter rolls in on a wave of misty white, the fog hanging heavy and cruel over the city. The icy chill penetrates every pore of one’s body and no matter what one does, no matter how many blankets or pairs of socks, the cold has simply moved in. But the gloom and gray of a December day doesn’t dampen my excitement for the onset of the season and the coming of the festivities. The holiday spirit seems to have arrived and settled in, as the bustling marketplace is alive with shoppers pushing their way towards stalls overflowing with seasonal treats. The city sparkles with twinkling lights. Garlands of gold and silver sneak their way in, Santas pop up on velvet hills of snow and visions of sugarplums, smoked salmon and oysters dance in my head. The first strains of Winter Wonderland and Rudolph signal the beginning of the Christmas season.

I’ve been as busy as an elf since late last spring and now that Christmas and Hanukkah approach I actually have been slowing down. The hotel is quiet and peaceful, the tree glitters in reception, the jams are spread out in a dazzling array, jars shimmering in the blaze of a roaring fire, cozy and quaint. I settle into the peaceful lull between having dispatched my cookbook manuscript and receiving the first edits and thank heavens that it is winter.

The last 6 months have been a whirlwind of activity, non-stop motion all hustle and bustle. Hotel high season is no laughing matter in and of itself but add to that mountains of spring, summer, and autumn fruit to be turned into jam by the hundreds of kilos, and add to that a cookbook to be written (and all that this entails) and a writing workshop to organize and you are able to count to minutes and hours during those crazy 6 months that you actually spent sitting and resting. I can look back on those hectic, frantic months now and smile, and wonder at my capabilities and resilience.

The hotel was closed for one week early December during which time JP pruned and trimmed the garden, raked up sack upon sack of fallen leaves, damp and sticky, gathered into corners and strewn across the remaining branches and winter greens. We spent an afternoon pulling off the surviving persimmons from the tree, one by one snagging them into the contraption made just for such purpose, pulling off fruit from the tippy top branches of fruit trees. Snap, plop into the basket hanging below the hook, one by painstakingly one, to my triumphant cheers. Three times as many as last year. On the other hand, our harvest of kiwis is pathetic; no kiwi jam this year. Raymonde surprised me with 6 pumpkins that were duly chopped into cubes and stuffed into the freezer waiting for the arrival of our new stove.

Ah, yes, the new stove. We demolished our kitchen during the hotel’s week off early December, planning on having most of the new kitchen installed before reopening a week later. Much to our chagrin (and, yes, we should have known that kitchen renovations never ever go as planned) we are, 3 weeks later, still living with only half a temporary countertop, albeit sitting on a row of gorgeous new cabinets, and no cooker, no kitchen range. The one we had ordered to be delivered 2 days later did indeed fall off the back of the truck. And we are still waiting for its replacement, our old oven perched on sawhorses, and no stovetop in sight. No stovetop, no jam.

Yet, mid December and life continues. Mr. B stands out in the alley that runs alongside the hotel past his gate, in slippers, raggy old sweatpants and a winter coat open to the chill, washing his car oblivious to the frigid morning air. Raymonde scurries by in front of the hotel, head down, shoulders hunched, nose as red as Rudolph’s, trying to beat the cold home. The new butchers have moved in, young and handsome, Chinon’s very first true-to-life hipster butchers. Cafés and wine bars are overflowing with good cheer. We drive by Mme. Lainel’s house, slowly, reverently, her name erased from the front gate, and we miss her very much.

The fortress hangs over the city like a specter, suspended in the night sky. Driving back into town late last night, turning onto the bridge that would carry us into the center of Chinon and home, I was stunned by the ghostly apparition of the towers and old stones rising majestically, mysteriously from the white obscurity, thousands of years of history hovering over the city. Christmas lights glitter and shimmer in the inky night and we take comfort in the hotel’s calm. Busy workers have begun renovating the annex but all activity and noise are muffled by distance, the little alleyway separating the annex from the main building, and the thick, 15^th Century stone walls. Let the elves continue with their work and I will find the time to bake.

Now is the time to be merry! Fruit cakes and stolen and tables piled high with cookies. I up my pastry game by creating something absolutely, utterly festive. The Saint-Honoré is a spectacular French dessert named after the patron saint of bakers.

A ring of pastry cream-filled puffs (choux) sit atop a base of puff pastry or another pastry crust, the center of the ring of choux is filled with more pastry cream and topped with a simple, lightly sweeted whipped cream. It takes time to create and assemble, and although it seems complicated, taken step-by-step it is rather simple and quite fun to make. And it is so very much worth the effort, especially during the holiday season. Vanilla, rum, chocolate, and chestnut infuse my own Saint-Honoré with the Christmas spirit.