It's an identity thing ...

I had drinks last week with my friend Julia. We hadn’t seen each other for a month. And there was so much holidaying to catch up on: assorted minor dramas and traumas, but mostly we talked about food, traditions and ethnic derivations.

Julia descends from Eastern European stock. Her people settled in Illinois and her parents migrated west to the Bay Area when she was a kid. When you ask Julia what she’s cooking for Christmas, she answers "pierogi." We talked at length about the nuances of pierogi-making. (Perhaps she'll tell you about it herself one day.)

Simona immigrated here from Italy as a young adult. She has an entirely different relationship with her memories: it’s direct and so close. She'll tell you about it on her blog at http://briciole.typepad.com/.

Clara immigrated with her family from Columbia when she was just five. She’s descended from Spaniards. For her, it’s paella on Christmas Eve. Delicious, but an obligation. When I ask her, her “oh, paella” sounds burdensome rather than joyful. She sets her table for 30 or more every year. She’d never think twice about it, but that's what makes beloved Clara beloved Clara.

I need to ask others, what do they do? What do you cook for Christmas Eve? Or Hanukkah? Or Kwanzaa? Or to celebrate the solstice?

As for my people, we’ve been here since forever. On dad’s side, since the 3rd boat landed from England in the early 1620s (we missed that first Thanksgiving by something like two weeks). And dad has a healthy dose of early Spain by way of New Spain (now Texas), but they arrived nearly a century later—ordered by Spain’s king to set up the secular community around San Antonio’s missions. On Mom’s side, we have signers of the Declaration. Though both sides all passed through Texas, which is considered an ethnicity on its own in certain circles, technically I’m really, truly, completely American. Any ethnic baggage I have is so dissolved by time and change that there is none left. It’s either a blessing or a curse. I can’t decide.

Regardless, it allows us the chance to adopt other traditions and preferences as necessary--or convenient.

My immediate kin--mother, brother, me--have never been particularly religious. Our holidays have always been deeply defined by gift-giving and gift-opening rituals, more than by food—often others’.

About 25 years ago, mom and her husband bought a home in Santa Fe, New Mexico--a place steeped in a more mystical version of Christianity. The first Christmas I joined mom and Will, we went to the Christmas Eve celebration at Holy Faith just off the plaza. It was standing room only. And amazing. Babies slept bundled and exhausted kids sat wide awake. Incense burned our eyes, and with that many of us so close, it was warm, and when we began singing ... Outside it was frigid, the clear air held hints of pinon fires burning in fireplaces hidden in the Sangre de Cristos and the slight moon cast soft shadows across the mountain ranges. Behind the moon, all those stars. Amazing.

That night, tradition and heart were more palpable any consideration of historical fact—or of gifts that might come later. That night, the stories we told each other about it all were so big, and at that altitude, they seemed so close, it seemed we could just reach out and touch them.

When we got home, mom dished out posole garnished with cilantro and avocado, green chile tamales, and Coronas with limes. That late, our meal was just like a kiss before sleep. Light, delicious. There was something in the flavor—or perhaps just the context—that I’ve been looking for ever since. Mom holds it all dear too, and every year strives for a perfected version of that moment--for that something that makes it as it was that first night we celebrated it together.

This year, we used the Santa Fe Opera cookbook’s recipe--same as back then, same as nearly every year since. In Santa Fe, it was so delicious. But in other places, and here, on the shores of Lake Merritt, it's good, but not the same … We've to make certain concessions to our local reality: instead of dried posole soaked overnight, we used canned hominy; instead of frozen green chiles, we used Hatch brand canned; instead of green chile tamales stuffed with jack cheese and fresh chiles, we used San Antonian interpretations, thick with masa and light on filling. Delicious, but not the same. Somehow, not the same.

So then, what combination of elements creates that tradition, a memory of food? Does it take more than just a few years? Or can it happen in just a moment? Is it repetition (have we not prepared this Christmas Eve meal enough to make it a true tradition)? Is it in the ingredients and methods? What do the people, the air, the smells and the bright stars hanging in the dark skies above bring to the recipe?

While we mull this, Phillip, beloved husband, and I are considering change. Next year, perhaps, we'll adopt a different tradition; one we can relate to ourselves. One without such burdensome expectations. One less dependent on the stars and clear night air.