The Feast of Saint Nicholas

We all want to believe in fairytales. We want it to be true that there is a long-bearded man, wise with age, riding his grey-and-white horse high in the winter sky over our very rooftops. We remember the time when we believed it, a reassuring time when anything was possible. On the night of the fifth of December, we hopefully put our shoe by the fireplace with a letter for the Saint, a beer for his sidekick and a carrot for the horse. In bed we listened for a sound so that we could catch a glimpse of the old man, but every year we fell asleep before the grandfather of all arrived at our door. The next morning, it was magical to find the neatly wrapped gifts by the chimney, left with care next to our shoe, and the rest of the room full of speculaas, kruidnoten, chocolate figurines and letter biscuits, oranges and mandarins, scattered as though they were thrown around in haste. The combination of scents of the aforementioned treats created the perfume of the moment that remains vividly locked into my memory.