GROWING up, I would spend Christmas in my grandparents’ home. My earliest recollection was at their Heroes Hill, Quezon City residence, where the grandchildren would be photographed at the staircase leading to the house.
I can’t quite recall the food, though it must have been similar to those served in the next house they moved into.
My grandfather had bought two lots on West Avenue, and my mother, an architect, designed three houses for them. I was told he was into development, and would later sell the house and lot. I can imagine my grandmother complaining about having to move houses several times.
I would dutifully go to my grandparents’ house for the holidays until my grandmother’s death. What has survived are memories of what she cooked for our big family.
Older grandchildren helped in the preparation, especially in making the mayonnaise from scratch. From the many spanks my tired hands suffered while mixing, I’m not sure if I was a big help at all.
We witnessed how my grandmother herself butchered and dressed a turkey, the same one that had chased us as we walked by.
My cousins and I would come in new clothes. For some years, my mother labored over her sewing machine doing our “fashion statement” for the year. The dresses always had a perfect fit, though my sister complained about my mother’s color choice for her—always peach instead of pink which was always my color.
There would be roast bird (capon or turkey), potato salad with mayonnaise, fruit salad, leche flan, galantina, whole leg of ham, a mound of imported fruits (grapes, oranges, apples, pears) and unlimited imported chocolates.
The steamed fish with mayonnaise had bands of colorful chopped vegetables and pickles—said to have originally been prepared by Alice B. Toklas, poet Gertrude Stein’s longtime companion, for a dinner in honor of the multitalented Spanish artist Pablo Picasso.
Christmas Eve
Having settled down in West Avenue, my mother decided that we should have our own party on Christmas Eve. It was likewise my sister’s birthday, so she could invite her friends, later on her bandmates with their electric guitars and drums doing their signature tune, “Get Ready” by The Temptations.
My cousins from my father’s side also dropped in before their own Christmas Eve reunion with their mother’s relatives.
The menu stayed constant for years—smoked pork loin, fish au gratin (my mother learned how to make it in one of her cooking classes), American ham smothered in pineapple, fruit salad, leche flan, and roast chicken given by her sash factory supplier.
After I got married, the Christmas Eve party moved to my home. The menu changed to what my siblings and I brought to the table—roast turkey, lechon, kare-kare, Chinese-style ham, pancit Malabon, different vegetable salads, fruit salad, leche flan, cakes and pies baked by my sister or our nephews and nieces, and ordered steamed fish and prawns, rice cakes.
Sometimes we had Japanese sushi and sashimi. Once one sister decided she would do paella, and we’ve been having that since. Pasta was a favorite of the younger ones.
Our recent Christmas Eve parties have been in my sister’s place near Fairview. Better for her as she doesn’t have to pack a lot of her grandchildren’s things.
My observant son once commented that we adults never moved from the table for hours, except to get provisions for another long sitting. It is at that table where we recount our Christmases past, when our grandparents and parents live again in our stories.
Lolo would be eating quietly, always at the head of the table. Lola, in spite of so much preparation, wouldn’t look stressed at all. She would have the table ready when everyone arrived.
My Papa and Mama would just be happy to see all of us, enjoying the food, the company and even my sister’s “combo” music.
My siblings and I hope our children will remember their Christmas dinners as vividly as we do ours, and that their families would always celebrate together.
