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| These pomanders make aromatic, hand-crafted gifts. Create them now so they have time to "cure." |
Some of you may be fortunate enough to grow your own oranges, lemons or limes. However, since whole cloves come mainly from Indonesia, Madagascar and Zanzibar, most of us will need to buy those in bulk from the supermarket!
Pomanders date back to the 15th century, and were particularly popular in the Victorian age. They were used as natural air-fresheners as well as decorations, so you will be carrying on an age-old tradition that appeals to many of the senses.
Here's What You Need:
Oranges, lemons or limes, unblemished
Whole cloves (to be economical, buy in bulk from Costco or the bulk section of the supermarket)
Wooden skewer, toothpick, or knitting needle (to pre-poke holes)
Ribbon in holiday colors
Rubber bands, masking tape, rubber gloves, (optional).
Here's What You Do:
*Use a wooden skewer, toothpick, or knitting needle to pre-poke holes in the rind of the fruit, in your desired pattern. This avoids frustration as younger children insert the whole cloves. Older children may design their own pattern.
Before you begin, mark off a criss-cross pattern with rubber bands or masking tape where the ribbon will eventually go.
*Insert a whole clove into each prepared hole.
*When you are satisfied with your design, wrap a ribbon around your pomander and hang to dry for a few weeks.
*Use to freshen clothes closets, give as gifts, or decorate your home for the holidays!
This is a touching holiday story, set in the days when an orange was a luxury and a rare treat:
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| Oranges and Lemons, a Nursery Rhyme |
Oranges and lemons
Say the bells of St Clements
You owe me five farthings
Say the bells of St Martins
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey
When I grow rich
Say the bells of Shoreditch
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney
I'm sure I don't know
Says the great bell at Bow
Say the bells of St Clements
You owe me five farthings
Say the bells of St Martins
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey
When I grow rich
Say the bells of Shoreditch
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney
I'm sure I don't know
Says the great bell at Bow
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| This moving story is well worth a listen, and a good way to begin the holiday season! Click on the link below to listen to a classic, sweet story. |
Here's another story featuring oranges as a gift of love from an older brother to his younger brother, in a time and place where food was scarce and times were hard. Romania, 1989.
Night of Oranges
A child comes of age.
It is Christmas Eve in 1989 in Timisoara and the ice is still dirty from the boots of the Romanian revolution. The dictator Nicolae Ceausescu had been deposed a few days before, and on Christmas Day he would be executed by firing squad. I am in the center of the city with my friends, empty now of the crowds that prayed outside the cathedral during the worst of the fighting. My friends and I still hear shots here and there. Our cold hands are gray like the sky above us, and we want to see a movie.
There is a rumor that there will be oranges for sale tonight. Hundreds of people are already waiting in line. We were used to such lines under the former Communist Government—lines for bread, lines for meat, lines for everything. Families would wait much of the day for rationed items. As children, we would take turns for an hour or more, holding our family's place in line.
But this line is different. There are children in Romania who don't know what an orange looks like. It is a special treat. Having the chance to eat a single orange will keep a child happy for a week. It will also make him a hero in the eyes of his friends. For the first time, someone is selling oranges by the kilo.
Suddenly I want to do something important: I want to give my brother a big surprise. He is only eight years old, and I want him to celebrate Christmas with lots of oranges at the table. I also want my parents to be proud of me.
So I call home and tell my parents that I'm going to be late. I forget about going to the movie, leave my friends, and join the line.
People aren't silent, upset, frustrated, as they were before the revolution; they are talking to one another about life, politics, and the new situation in the country.
The oranges are sold out of the back doorway of a food shop. The clerk has gone from anonymity to unexpected importance. As he handles the oranges, he acts like a movie star in front of his fans.
He moves his arms in an exaggerated manner as he tells the other workers where to go and what to do. All I can do is stare at the stack of cardboard boxes, piled higher than me. I have never seen so many oranges in my life.
Finally, it is my turn. It is 8 o'clock, and I have been waiting for six hours. It doesn't seem like a long time because my mind has been flying from the oranges in front of me to my brother and then back to the oranges. I hand over the money I was going to spend on the movie and watch each orange being thrown into my bag. I try to count them, but I lose their number.
I am drunk with the idea of oranges. I put the bag inside my coat, as if I want to absorb their warmth. They aren't heavy at all, and I feel that this is going to be the best Christmas of my life. I begin thinking of how I am going to present my gift.
I get home and my father opens the door. He is amazed when he sees the oranges, and we decide to hide them until dinner. At dessert that night, I give my brother the present. Everyone is silent. They can't believe it.
My brother doesn't touch them. He is afraid even to look at them. Maybe they aren't real. Maybe they are an illusion, like everything else these days. We have to tell him he can eat them before he has the courage to touch one of the oranges.
I stare at my brother eating the oranges. They are my oranges. My parents are proud of me.
Flavius Stan was an 18-year-old exchange student from Romania who was attending the Fieldston School in the Bronx, New York when he wrote this story, which originally appeared in The New York Times.
