MY CHILDHOOD CHRISTMAS MEMOIR

The smell of spicy tomato sauce mixed with hearty laughter greet me and my family as we
climb the circular staircase to my Nan and Grandpa’s home. We have travelled six hours to
join our family for Christmas Eve. When we open the door at the top of the stairs, aunts,
uncles, and cousins surround us with warm hugs and loving smiles. I am seven years old
and can hardly contain my excitement as I return the hugs.

We are celebrating Christmas Eve in a very Indian way with the Feast of Spicy
Maharashtrian food.

The table extends the length of the dining room and is adorned with Nan’s finest ivory
crocheted tablecloth and gold-rimmed china plates surrounded by sparkling silverware
and shiny goblets. Pretty soon, I know the centre of the table will be crowded with
steaming bowls of rassa (soup), raita, biryani, naans and sol kadi,

I run into the kitchen to see my Nan stirring the soup. She wipes her hands on her red
gingham apron and bends down to wrap her arms around me as we both squeal with
excitement.

“Oh, I’m so happy to see you my baccha,” she says, smiling as she offers me a spoonful of
soup after blowing on it a few times.

The smooth, tomatoey-y sauce slides down my throat and warms my insides.

“This is s-o-o-o good, Nan,” I say as I close my eyes and take in the sweet smell and taste of
home.

“Well, it’s ready.” Nan says.

My Mom and Aunt Shayla start carrying food over to the table and we all enjoy the
delicious food with my Nan’s tasty homemade orange juice.