The spirit of Christmas: A writer mulls on food, family and compassion

Not in our home.

We ate well on Christmas, I do remember that. There would be pulao, although we never put any dry fruit in it. And to go with that, there would be a curry. Sometimes a pork vindaloo or a mutton curry. But always, always, a pomfret
reichado. The masala had come from Goa, in a bottle whose lid was already crusty under the influence of the vinegar. The key ingredient was how many Portuguese chillies and what the vintage of the palm vinegar was. The fish
market was next door and Christmas was always a busy day. My father would instruct the lady that he wanted it stuffed on both sides and I would watch as she turned her koita sideways and sliced horizontally. The best and most
experienced fisherwomen cut close to the bone, lifting the flesh neatly away. In those days, long before fish meals at as-per-size restaurants became trendy, it was still possible to buy a pomfret so large you had to tie it up with sewing thread to prevent it from falling apart. We never used rawa at home, not even for bombils. And then this would be lowered into a pan into which a good measure of cooking oil had been poured and it would be left to cook slowly, slowly until it had to be turned. It would be turned twice more and then it was done. I enjoyed eating the head, chewing every bit of it and opening my mouth wide around the debris to disgust my sister who was, in those days, easily disgusted.

And when that was over, it was time for dessert. I have a distant memory of making sweets at home. We made neoris and kulkuls once, I do remember, but I have no fond memory of them. Dessert is a serious thing for me. It is the living heart of the meal. It brings everything to a triumphant crescendo. It cannot be left to amateurs. And, so, I preferred the store-bought cakes that came home.

There was Bonita’s in Mahim and that had a wonderful plum cake through the year which was even richer at Christmas time. It was dark and full in the mouth and utterly wonderful. There was marzipan that was ordered in from one of the aunties of the neighbourhood. She left the skin on the almonds on, which was thought to be not nice. And it was rumoured that she often spiked the almonds with a generous helping of cashewnuts because they were cheaper in those days. I loved the marzipan that way but once she passed on to her great reward, I had to make do with the denatured variety. It had less texture in the mouth and moved through the buccal cavity with such speed that you ended up eating a lot more than you had intended to. But then one year I met Kainaz Messman at Theobroma, when it was only a single shop at Cusrow Baug and I told her about this memory. She said: “We can do that for you” and indeed they did. It was quite lovely but it also moved through the buccal cavity with the same frightening speed.

I think the problem now is the problem of plenty. We eat sweets throughout the year. I have learned to buy my plum cake at Desiree’s near Candy’s at the Bandra Reclamation. I have access to it all year and the result is some of the joy has been leached out of Christmas eating. The greatest ever narrative of a Christmas meal — Christmas with the Cratchits from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol (1843) — is a meal made special by the poverty of those around the table. I remember one line: indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! This sounded like something you might hear in Moira, it rang so true and so clear.

Among the pleasures of Christmas then, may we never forget the hungry. And since the Christ child was a refugee who had no place to lay his head, may we never forget the homeless.

Jerry Pinto is the editor, with Madhulika Liddle, of Indian Christmas: An Anthology (Speaking Tiger Books)