Las Christmas (6 page)
Mother stocked up on Christmas gifts all year long, and she was likely to have a gift for everyone, she delighted so in giving gifts to those she loved. Not enough gifts came her way, ever. Born on December 24, she said she got cheated at Christmas. But it didn't matter. She loved to give us her extra boxes of Life Savers, along with the usual gifts of socks, panties, nightgowns, bathrobes, stationery, posters, stuffed toys, hair ornamentsâand all sorts of unusual items that came our way from her many charities, like the handmade holy cards made by the reclusive Mexican nuns of the Good Shepherd, or the roll of toilet paper genteelly covered by a doll she'd bought at the senior citizen's gift shop.
WHEN I GREW OLDER and moved away, Mother always had large bags of toilet paper for me and for my father as well. Before I drove off after a visit she'd give me her benediction, crossing my forehead with her thumb, as she hugged me hard, her eyes full of tears.
I wonder whatever happened to the Jesus wallet. I'd love to see it again. And who forgot to pass along the big
calzones?
What errant soul failed to keep the legacy alive, the tradition going strong?
I saw my mother die too young of liver cancer and then watched the slow, inexorable passage of my brilliant but troubled father into dementia from Alzheimer's disease.
CHRISTMAS WILL ALWAYS be special to me, as much for its wonderful noisy fanfare as for its deep and pensive silence. After all was said and done, our little street, La Colonia, was asleep but for the one house with its trinity of windows, a blue- or pink- or white- or silver-flocked tree in the corner of the living room, lights woven through the branches covered in angel hair. The incredible pile of presents underneath was so high it scattered halfway across the room. Nearby tables and surfaces held the spillover.
Contented, we dragged ourselves to bed, our family at peace, our disappointments, petty disagreements, and arguments tabled for another day. The cousins and the uncles and aunts were long asleep. My sister and I were tucked in, our father safe at home at least for a little while. Mother, her long black hair flowing down her back, her full bosom heaving happily, turned off all but the Christmas-tree lights. She stood in the doorway to her room, her face moist, a little red dot of color on each cheek. Her door was left open a crack, and would stay that way as she waited for that one special late-night visitor.
The Jesus wallet lay on the coffee table in the living room, ready to be tucked into a dark corner of the gift box. The big
calzones
were draped over the couch like a banner.
The night was beautiful, silent, still. There was no jarring whistle from the train at the end of the block, that train that moved forever north to Albuquerque and then Santa Fe.
In the clear and dark morning, that blessed early morning, the calm was broken only by the sound of muffled voices, rustling bodies, hope.
New Mexican Sopaipillas
FRIED BREAD PILLOWS
These “little pillows” are popular throughout Arizona and New Mexico, where they are served hot in a bread basket, to be dipped in honey, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, or split open and filled with beans or cheese. Many people are loath to fry things in lard these days (although it has less saturated fat than butter) and it's fine to substitute a solid vegetable shortening. Don't try to fry them up in a liquid oil, though. They just won't puff properly.
The dough
Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Work in the butter or lard, crumbling it into the dry ingredients a little at a time and working it through thoroughly with your fingers or a pastry cutter. You shouldn't be able to see any bits of shortening. Add the warm water or milk a little at a time, stirring quickly with a fork until it is all worked in. The dough should be pliable and just slightly sticky. If all the dry ingredients aren't absorbed, add a little more liquid, a few drops at a time until the dough is smooth. Knead gently on a lightly floured board, folding it over and punching it down several times. Cover the bowl with a towel and allow the dough to rest at least 30 minutes. The
sopaipillas
will puff up better if you have time to let the dough rest longerâ2 to 3 hours is ideal.
Shaping and frying
Traditionally,
sopaipillas
are shaped like little triangles. Divide the dough in half and roll each half between your hands to make a fat sausage. Roll each piece out to make a rectangular shape about 3 inches wide and quite thin, only about
1
/
8
to ¼ inch thick. Using a knife, cut triangles end to end from the rectangle. Each triangle should be about the size of a small biscuit.
Cover a tray or platter with a double layer of brown paper or paper towels and have it ready next to the stove. In a heavy skillet, heat shortening about 1½ inches deep until it is hot but not smoking. The temperature of the oil is critical to properly puffed and browned
sopaipillas.
When a few drops of water sprinkled on the surface bubble and pop immediately, the oil is hot enough. If it starts to smoke, turn down the heat and wait for the oil to cool off a little before you proceed.
Drop a dough triangle into the hot oil and immediately hold it under the oil with a slotted spoon, or keep spooning oil on top. In a few seconds the triangle should puff up like a little balloon. Turn it over and fry for a few seconds on the other side. The puff should be a light golden color. Once you have the technique down, you'll be able to fry two or three puffs at a time.
Remove the puffs from the oil immediately and allow to drain. Serve piping hot with honey or cinnamon sugar on the side.
Makes
about
25
sopaipillas
Jaime Manrique
Jaime Manrique was born and raised in Colombia. He is the author of the
novels
Colombian Gold
(Clarkson Potter),
Latin Moon in Manhattan
(St.
Martin's Press) and
Twilight at the Equator
(Faber and Faber). His most
recent works are
My Night with Federico GarcÃa Lorca
(Painted Leaf Press),
a collection of poetry,
and
Sor Juana's Love Poems
(co-translated with Joan
Larkin).
Forthcoming in
1999
is his autobiography,
Eminent Maricones.
He
has been a teacher in the MFA Program at Columbia University, and at the
New School for Social Research and Mount Holyoke College.
MERRY CRISIS AND A HYPER NEW YEAR!
I GREW UP in Barranquilla, on the Atlantic Coast of Colombia. Normally a steamy cauldron, this Caribbean port is cooled each December by trade winds that bring crisp evenings and intimations of the Christmas season. Springlike conditions prevail, the
Iluvia de oro
trees and the
matarratones
blooming golden and lavender, looking like Christmas trees hung with neon lights.
The first pre-Christmas event in Colombia is La Noche de las Velitas on December 7. Celebrants decorate their front porches with hundreds of candles and colored lanterns. The families who observe this tradition stay up all night partying. At dawn, the revelers join the procession of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception, whose feast day this is.
The next three weeks are like an ongoing Fourth of July: The nights become resplendent with the voices of children burning sparklers (which we know in Colombia by the more poetic name of “Bengal Lights”) and with the overlapping noises of the
triquitraques.
Makeshift wooden
castillos
are built, and when they are set alight, crowds gather to admire brilliant displays of pyrotechnics.
Every year, my family journeyed to El Banco, a town on the shores of the Magdalena River, to spend Navidades at my grandparents' house. There, the Ardilas clan (my mother's people) assembled: my grandparents, their twelve children, and all the grandchildren. We arrived by Christmas Eve and stayed until New Year's Day.
I can remember congregating at night in the town's main church to sing
villancicos,
our carols. Of course, we exchanged
aguinaldos,
and on Christmas morning there were the gifts
el niño Dios
had brought. But not all my memories of Christmas in Colombia are so happy.
Recently, I called my sister to probe her memory about our childhood Navidades. “All I remember,” she snorted, “was the men pulling out their rifles and guns and firing them into the sky, scaring me to death!” Yes, I also remembered this terrifying display of machismo.
My sister got me thinking. What else did I remember about these family gatherings? Then, slowly, it all came back to me: the real excitement of the holidays was provided by the seasonal family crises. Every year it was the turn of another of my young aunts to announce a romance. It seemed thatâno matter who the suitorâmy grandfather would automatically find him unworthy.
Christmas was not complete without one of the lovelorn
tÃas
trying to commit suicide by swallowing boxes of matches or dozens of firecrackers, or by slashing her wrists. When my aunts really wanted to scare us, they announced they were going to take rat poison. Fortunately, none of them ever went that far.
So while the aromas of
ayacas,
coconut rice,
arroz con leche,
and
natillas
emanated from the kitchen, life-and-death melodramas took place in the women's quarters. As stuffed turkeys and cinnamon-scented
enyucados
came out of the oven, and rice
pasteles
were wrapped in plantain leaves, the older women darted hysterically from the kitchen to the bedrooms of my aunts to save a life or two. It was a strain on the married women to make sure that the
pernil de puerco
was done to perfection, just before accompanying a younger woman to the hospital, or to remember to mix all the ingredients in the
pasteles
before they met with the doctors who constantly came by the house.
My young uncles, too, fell in love. They dramatized their plights by getting drunk and smashing the Jeep against a huge termite mound. We took love seriously in our family.
The annual holiday season closed on New Year's Day at my grandfather's farm, where there was usually at least one female nursing a bandaged wrist, another lying in a hammock, too weak to walk as a result of having had her stomach pumped. There was usually also a young uncle on crutches, wearing a cast and looking as angry as Paul Newman in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
We ate an epic
sancocho,
wondering whose turn it would be the following Christmas. It's no wonder that to this day I dread the mention of Christmas. I was well into my adulthood when I discovered that not all families celebrated the holidays the way mine had. And yet, glutton that I am, I would gladly revisit the past just to eat one of the immortal
pasteles
my aunt Emilia prepared for Nochebuena.