Eurasian Xmas

When I was young, Christmas meant presents, then as I grew out of presents, as the adults put it “old enough to afford to buy, not receive”, food became the main reason why I looked forward to Christmas parties. The big party held at my grandma’s house where the whole family – 3 generations in all gathered to rekindle kinship. The Christmas feast was the mother of all feasts, bigger than the grandma/grandpa’s birthday, bigger than the Chinese New Year Reunion Dinner. To a palate accustomed to savoury and spicy rice and stir fries, Christmas food always heralded some king of rare delight that unfortunately had very little to do with the “true” spirit of Christmas and its religious significance.

It was an occasion when my grandma could hang up her aprons and the family maids take much deserved rest, for the Christmas feast was ordered from elsewhere, from outside expertise – making it more special as there was no nostalgia for home cooked food then, now so sorely lacking in our working lives.

The children would huddle about as tray after tray of exquisite delicacy was carted out and placed on the communal table.

The children relished the rare occasion when we could dispense with chopsticks reserved for picking up morsels and rice grains held in porcelain bowls. For us, how else to eat turkey but to tear at its sinews with our fingers and dip it into the cranberry sauce The memory of my family taking turns to dip into the myriad sauces and my nitpicking aunt, the self-appointed “la bouche” of the family proclaim at each turn whether this dish passed the test resonates.

The succulent lambchops, a dish ordered from a top hotel naturally attracted the most number of second helpings – with the result that my grandma would always reserve some for her grandchildren by not serving all to the guests. It was a finger-pointing game should one take more than the customary two. If three, one had to justify that the previous one was a small slice..etc

The highlight came in the form of the Devil Curry. We had over my grandma’s Eurasian neighbours to whip up their Eurasian Christmas dish. This dish would send my sister into a frenzy of lip smacking delight. This practice originated in our Christmas feast -- it was an act whereby my sister and I would register our anticipation, and afterwards, joy, of the wonderful dish, by swooshing our tongue around the lips for a split second akin to a lizard reaching out for its food. This practice would very unfortunately stay with us until adulthood, much to the utter bemusement, and on occasions, thinly veiled horror of our dining companions.

The devil’s curry, a distinct and fiery hot Portuguese Eurasian curry, was prepared in my grandma’s kitchen and I often lingered in the kitchen keeping myself busy so as not to be chased out by my grandma. The exotica quotient was upped when my neighbours explained that the dish had roots in Portuguese cuisine. The spices were thoroughly familiar to me as part of my grandma’s repertoire – onions, garlic, chili paste, tumeric powder and galangal yet the incongruous “western” ingredients – sausage, roast pork, ham bone ( usually from leftover roast meats), made my stomach churn a little the first time I saw the whole meats being prepared, surely not I thought?

The devil’s concoction overwhelmed my senses with pleasure –mustard seeds popping signaled it was time to add the pungent spices of onion and garlic, the heavenly sambal belachan (shrimp paste) the woody/heady aromas welling up from the stove and filling the kitchen, stirring up my reverie of a distant Portuguese heritage. A scoop of the rich and thick brew lightened with tangy lemon juice and green chilis added to provide a more crisp and balanced bite would renew my appetite, which was by now was waning from the cold turkey and ham.

In Chinese saying spicy/sour dishes were intended to “kai wei” or to “open one’s appetite” – except that I was way past the start of my meal!

We strangely did not feel full during this ritual but definitely so after the main meal ended. The log cake with alcohol was by now often chewed at feebly, and regrettably so, because it would have been a heavenly treat any other occasion, but was simply too rich for our by now overladen stomachs.

This ritual is still held every year, but regrettably, the sheer pleasure of indulging now rests uneasily with nagging thoughts that my waistline cannot afford yet another piece of cholesterol laden meat or slice of fruitcake. And unlike the past when my appetite could be “opened” again by the fiery devil’s brew (my grandma moved) it now has to be content with self-restraint and an exercise in moderation.

by Hong Suen Wong