Feliz Navidad
creative nonfiction by Mal Arnold
In the corner of the partially darkened living room stands a brightly lit Christmas tree decorated with multi-colored c9 bulbs, homemade ornaments, glass balls that perfectly capture my twelve-year-old reflection, and an excess of silver icicle tinsel. I am hunched over a coffee table wrapping presents for various family members. I close my eyes and smile as Christmas music swirls magically throughout the small house and the scents of chicken, raisins, and plantains fill my lungs.
My Puerto Rican parents are in the adjoining kitchen, making the traditional holiday delicacy of pasteles. A large pot of mustard yellow masa sits in the middle of the half-moon kitchen table surrounded by small bowls filled with green olives, garbanzo beans, cubed sofrito-flavored chicken, and raisins. Strands of white string are cut and being piled up next to precisely cut sheets of crisp parchment paper and fragrant banana leaves.
Sitting on their stools, mom and dad begin the well-practiced process of layering ingredients on top of the green leaves. Each pastele is thoughtfully crafted by hands that are stained from the cutting and slicing of plantains, yautia, and guineos. The masa is scooped first, followed by exactly one olive, three raisins, several pieces of chicken, and one garbanzo bean.
Next, one parent, wraps each creation into a rectangular shape with parchment and together they would carefully tie string around each package as if it were a Christmas gift. Once wrapped the pasteles would be stacked one by one until there was an overflow of parchment packages waiting to be boiled and served for dinner.
This is my favorite time of year for so many reasons. Unwrapping delicate Christmas ornaments and decorations, baking cookies for Santa, driving around neighborhoods in search of beautifully decorated houses, dressing up for Christmas Eve service — the memories go on and on. But the most sacred reason for the beauty of the season was simply encased in one word — peace. Peace from the slamming doors, peace from the tension a knife could slice through, peace from the fighting and bickering, peace from the parents screaming at each other. During Christmas, the strife would exit our lives and a temporary, unspoken alliance was agreed upon until the new year. Christmas time became more to me then “merry and bright”; the season enclosed our family in a sacred space. A place to safely breathe, nestled away from the darkness and chaos.
On the stereo Wham! finishes singing the mournful “Last Christmas” and a Latino favorite emerges with glorious energy. The catchy motif introduces “Feliz Navidad,” causing all three of our heads to look up and as we make eye contact our heads and shoulders move in unison. After a verse, I cannot contain the Christmas cheer that has invaded my body. I jump up from the coffee table, causing the wrapping paper to snap back and recoil in a disorganized fashion. Laughing and singing, I let the music take over me and I began to dance back and forth in a style that would have closely resembled Snoopy’s famous dance.
My dad lets out an occasional vocal shout to add equal parts Hispanic richness and comedic flavor. Eventually he stands up and salsas in place until my mother waves him out of the room with playful impatience. Dancing backwards out of the room, he spins around and reaches out for me to dance with him. Striking up a traditional dancing pose we dance around our small living room.
Occasionally my dad spins me around and dips me low to the ground. From that dizzying position, the twinkle lights almost look like they are dancing joyously with us.
My Puerto Rican parents are in the adjoining kitchen, making the traditional holiday delicacy of pasteles. A large pot of mustard yellow masa sits in the middle of the half-moon kitchen table surrounded by small bowls filled with green olives, garbanzo beans, cubed sofrito-flavored chicken, and raisins. Strands of white string are cut and being piled up next to precisely cut sheets of crisp parchment paper and fragrant banana leaves.
Sitting on their stools, mom and dad begin the well-practiced process of layering ingredients on top of the green leaves. Each pastele is thoughtfully crafted by hands that are stained from the cutting and slicing of plantains, yautia, and guineos. The masa is scooped first, followed by exactly one olive, three raisins, several pieces of chicken, and one garbanzo bean.
Next, one parent, wraps each creation into a rectangular shape with parchment and together they would carefully tie string around each package as if it were a Christmas gift. Once wrapped the pasteles would be stacked one by one until there was an overflow of parchment packages waiting to be boiled and served for dinner.
This is my favorite time of year for so many reasons. Unwrapping delicate Christmas ornaments and decorations, baking cookies for Santa, driving around neighborhoods in search of beautifully decorated houses, dressing up for Christmas Eve service — the memories go on and on. But the most sacred reason for the beauty of the season was simply encased in one word — peace. Peace from the slamming doors, peace from the tension a knife could slice through, peace from the fighting and bickering, peace from the parents screaming at each other. During Christmas, the strife would exit our lives and a temporary, unspoken alliance was agreed upon until the new year. Christmas time became more to me then “merry and bright”; the season enclosed our family in a sacred space. A place to safely breathe, nestled away from the darkness and chaos.
On the stereo Wham! finishes singing the mournful “Last Christmas” and a Latino favorite emerges with glorious energy. The catchy motif introduces “Feliz Navidad,” causing all three of our heads to look up and as we make eye contact our heads and shoulders move in unison. After a verse, I cannot contain the Christmas cheer that has invaded my body. I jump up from the coffee table, causing the wrapping paper to snap back and recoil in a disorganized fashion. Laughing and singing, I let the music take over me and I began to dance back and forth in a style that would have closely resembled Snoopy’s famous dance.
My dad lets out an occasional vocal shout to add equal parts Hispanic richness and comedic flavor. Eventually he stands up and salsas in place until my mother waves him out of the room with playful impatience. Dancing backwards out of the room, he spins around and reaches out for me to dance with him. Striking up a traditional dancing pose we dance around our small living room.
Occasionally my dad spins me around and dips me low to the ground. From that dizzying position, the twinkle lights almost look like they are dancing joyously with us.
About the writer
Mal Arnold is a proud Latina wife and mother who is a regular contributor for Red Tent Living, an online magazine. She is a chaser of dreams, believes in living life with abandon and writes to pour some of herself out for any who care to experience her heart. When she isn’t writing she is chasing after her two year old, drinking mugs full of hot chocolate, avidly reading, and going on journeys with her family.
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