The smell of a roasting turkey wafts into the living room of the house on the corner of P. Guevarra Street and Mariano Marcos St. in San Juan town. Drifting with this mouthwatering scent are other smells: Pochero is simmering in a large stockpot alongside a wok where laing is gently cooking. Outside, succulent pieces of fish and pork roast on a huge grill.

Butter cookies prepared in advance are laid out on the dining room table beside slices of Marca Piña queso de bola and biko from Bicol, sweet and dark sago’t gulaman and aged fruitcakes sliced thinly.

This is the first round of food laid upon my grandmother’s table at Christmas, the same table we all gather round now that she has been gone nearly ten years. Bottles of wine and a glossy chicken galantine bathed in savory gravy add sparkle to the table as the bells of Mary the Queen chime to call the faithful to the Misa de Gallo, the Christmas Mass that marks the end of the Simbang gabi novena of masses.

The tree is tall, the harp-playing angel perched upon it nearly touching the ceiling of this old house, the first one to be built in Little Baguio in 1918. Fairy lights and tinsel, candy canes and shiny balls and strings of popcorn decorate it. Each child in the family has added something to the tree by this time, as we all, in our time, had added one hand-crafted ornament on each Sunday visit from the first Sunday of November on.

The festive food, the clinking of glasses, the church bells, the tree with its blend of handmade and store-bought decorations and a lava-flow of gifts beneath it are all part of my childhood. They are now part of my daughters’ childhood and will remain a tradition long after my ashes are strewn on the wind.

Because our family tree has grown into a clan of several branches, we all bring something to the celebration. One aunt brings her famous chocolate cake, another buys the best ensaymada her favorite bakery has to offer. Yet others bring the dishes of their spouses who hail from Pampanga, Bicol, the Visayas. What was once a Spanish-Zambaleño feast has become a feast from all the islands, a feast that represents the growth and spread of our clan from Aparri to Jolo.

The table is laden until it groans and we all circle it at our leisure, sampling cousin Robbie’s fresh baked bread, another cousin’s reprise on Superlola’s tapa, a tribute to our late Tito August by his son Bobbie – caldereta as close to Tito August’s own recipe. We celebrate living and loving in our family with this feast. We also remember our beloved dead with their signature dishes, prepared as best we can and as closely to the original.

There were the Christmases when we fed off Tito Greg’s immortal fudge and his irrepressible chili con carne as done by his grandson and exchanges stories of how he would reward us kids with these treats if we were good all week. Someone came in with a platter of cheeses – limburger, Roquefort and other smelly delights – and Norwegian smoked salmon and a shoulder of Chinese ham one Christmas in memory of Tito Robert.

Then there were the Christmases when the younger members of the clan would pluck up their courage – and their newly-found culinary skills – and come to the Christmas get-together with dishes of their own making. Not everything was good, but it was all eaten with good grace and goodwill, accepted in the manner with which it was given.

Our family speaks in the language of food, you see. We even have a certified Cordon Bleu chef in the family (she trained in Switzerland). We express our affection with the food we bring to the clan table, especially at Christmas. Statements like “Oy! I brought these mango tarts from Conti’s because I heard you love these,” or “These lemon squares are from Becky’s Kitchen, for my favorite inaanak!” or “Superlola! I brought you a case of Cerveza Negra! And pulutan of your favorite chicaron,” are the things we chivvy each other with during this most magical of nights.

Second helpings are the norm, so the table gets re-laid with turkey, my mother’s Bam-I noodle soup, my Tita Noli’s kapampangan specialties and arosep salad, as well as desserts: Cathedral windows jellies, a huge centerpiece of starlight mints and gummi bears from Canadian resident Mama Heck, kakanin like sapin-sapin and pichi-pichi smothered in grated cheese.

For thirds we have the drinking fare enjoyed by the adults: Bottles of the finest scotch and wines bought and hoarded for the occasion, tapa, salpicao, vegetables and blue cheese dip, fresh oysters and slices of dayap, cakes and soda for the kids.

Once we are sated, the midnight bell tolls and the children run squealing to the tree, where my Superlola once sat in her favorite brown Pitoy Moreno gown and would call our names out grandly as she handed out each wrapped package. Now the matriarch is my Tita Gloria and it is she who sits in the regal chair of rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl and, with the help of her children, calls the little ones and gives out the gifts.

Each Christmas at the house on the corner of P.Guevarra and Mariano Marcos is a magical time for our clan that is nearly 200-strong. It is a time of revcelry and memory and all of us touch our roots and souls with stomachs full to bursting with food made from the heart. -end-