Christmases Past

I am thinking of Christmases Past; very far in the past, in that two-bedroom apartment in Bahrain where I grew up.

I am thinking of that tiny artificial Christmas tree that was hauled out each year. It was no more than three feet tall (if that) and stood in a small wooden block, but oh the grand festivities of decorating it. We lived in a desert; there were no real Christmas trees.

Several weeks before Christmas, the sweet-making began. My mother made traditional Goan Christmas sweets and there was some friendly but unspoken rivalry amongst all the Goan households in our Arabian part of the world as to whose Goan Christmas sweets were the best. Christmas meant visiting the families of friends and tasting all the sweets.

My siblings and I helped in this creation of Christmas goodies; sometimes the neighbors showed up to assist as well, or we went to their houses to pitch in and observe (and mostly taste) and maybe go home and tell my mother what they did differently.

This is what my mother made (some items dropped off the list some years, or got added):

• Christmas cake - the fruit was soaked in rum months before, tucked in at the back of a little free-standing kitchen cupboard. We were forbidden to open the jars and stick our fingers in. We may have got around this by using spoons, while our parents napped.
• Marzipans  - we shaped them into apples, pears and bananas, sticking cloves at the tips as stems.
• Kulkuls  - little doughy things shaped like shells rolled onto the back of forks, then  deep-fried to a golden-brown crispness.
• Neuoris - little pockets of dough filled with a concoction of dried fruits, nuts and coconut. Also deep-fried. There was a lot of deep-frying going on.
• Toffee  - several different kinds – almond, cashew, walnut, pistachio – requiring hours of non-stop stirring on the stove top. We took turns until our arms ached and the next one took over. Equivalent to a North American fudge but so much better.
• Bibique – hard to explain, a kind of rich, multi-layered egg pudding-cake. The more layers the better. There was likely some bibique-layer envy going on (along with all the deep-frying).
• Cheese straws – the best! These were savoury, not sweet. My brother still makes these every year and proclaims his are unsurpassed. Which they are, but don’t tell him that.

I make none of these and never have. My Goan-ness has been diluted out of me. But I still love these traditional sweets and will devour them whenever I find them.

Books were the best gifts (better than toys or clothes) and I longed for these. One year, my sister bought me a couple of books, wrapped them and placed them under the tiny tree far in advance of the big day. I knew of course, from the shape of the package, that they were books. But the anticipation of wondering WHICH books exactly was almost unbearable. I coveted the latest Enid Blyton Secret Seven and Famous Five adventure books, later moving on to Agatha Christie.  I held the package to the light, trying to see through the wrapping. Shook it. As if that would tell me anything. I don’t remember many of the other gifts I received as a child. There was one dancing ballerina on a shiny mirrored surface. She twirled around when wound up but didn’t do much else.  It was a gift given to me by a well-to-do friend (of my parents) who enjoyed visiting us in our modest apartment. I’m not sure why I recall this one in particular. Perhaps it’s the realization now that it was a kind act by a lonely man, buying Christmas gifts for other people’s children because his own were so far away.

My parents had a vast assortment of friends and at our Christmas dinner table there were always one or two men who were far away from their families back home in India or Pakistan. The table was set with the tablecloth and napkins reserved for special occasions. Colourful Christmas crackers were placed at each setting. We crossed arms, clasped the hands of the person on either side of us, and broke these before the meal. We, adults included, then put the funny paper hats on our heads for the entire meal. My dad would pour each of us a tiny glass of ginger wine that burned our throats as it went down. We begged for more.

My parents did a lot to make Christmas fun and joyful. I think they were the only parents who hid our Christmas presents. Yes, our gifts were not placed under the tree but were hidden around the house and we had to search for them on Christmas morning. Granted we lived in a two-bedroom (not that many hiding spots), but the rooms were large and airy (not like the tiny condo-sized ones here). How delightful it was to tear around the place with my siblings on Christmas morning, looking for our gifts. (But what on earth were my parents thinking? Did this afford them some grown-up time alone amidst the mayhem?) Of course, there was only ever one present per child. When you found your gift you knew that was it. You were done.

One Christmas morning, on my way to the bathroom, I spied a present tucked behind an armchair in the living room. I kept that secret to myself until it was time for the hunt, then raced to the spot. The present turned out to be for my sister. But it’s funny how that memory is so clearly etched in my mind.

Why am I thinking of those Christmases so long ago, after both my parents have long since gone (my dad over 9 years now, my mother over 5). Why are these memories surfacing now? Does it have to do with my own aging?

Why not think of Christmases when my daughter was young? Those early years of setting milk and cookies out for Santa? Her dad leaving a mess of crumbs for her to find the next morning; me leaving her a note from Santa, trying to disguise my handwriting by slanting sloppy letters backwards and forward.

But no, my mind is going much further back, to my own childhood; to those Christmases in that apartment in Bahrain. To my parents who made our Christmases fun, despite their modest means.

And who always, always, included at our table someone who was alone.