For the first 12 years of my life, I lived in Monterrey, a vibrant city in northern Mexico where snow never falls, the idea of a white Christmas a mere state of mind. The coldest it ever got was five degrees Celsius — an unbearable temperature by Mexico’s standards. It was enough to send everyone indoors.
Each year we spent Christmas at my grandparents’ home, where we would sit and talk, waiting patiently to devour the feast prepared lovingly by my grandmother. She worked all day to prepare a meal of ensalada de nochebuena — a seasonal green salad complemented with strawberries and nuts, drizzled with a maple soy vinaigrette — and picadillo navideño — seasoned ground beef mixed with bacon, onions, bell peppers, raisins and almonds. Time was of no consequence during the festivities; an hour, sometimes two, would go by — with us chattering and laughing across the table — before emptying our plates.
After dinner, it didn’t matter how full our stomachs were, we couldn’t wait to play our Christmas games, filling the house with noise — and in hindsight, havoc. Our favourite was the Christmas unwrapping game — where a massive ball of wrapping paper would get passed around, and everyone had their turn to try to unwrap as much as they could to get to the treasure hidden at the centre. Even if the treasure was a mere 20-peso bill, the adrenaline rush, and seeing the look of defeat on my uncle’s face, made it worth it.
In 2011, my parents told us that we were packing our bags and moving to Canada. As a kid, it did not register that this was a permanent thing — not until I saw my grandfather beg my mother to stay. My mother loved her country, but the opportunities Canada could provide were more valuable in her eyes. We arrived in Edmonton at the tail end of summer, the colder seasons fast approaching.
I saw things through a grey filter after our move — including festivities. As much as gifts under the tree still excited me at 12 years old, there was an emptiness in knowing it would be my first Christmas without everyone we had left behind in Mexico. The laughter and screams that once filled my grandparents’ home were now replaced by quiet remarks shared inside a small, almost claustrophobic apartment.
But it was within that confined space that I first understood the real meaning of the holidays. What began as a quiet Christmas — unlike the ones I had known back in Monterrey — slowly transformed into moments that made our new home start to feel like the one we’d left behind. My parents gave their time and energy to create a space where we could be happy — through homemade dinners from my grandmother’s cookbook, gentle encouragement and reminders of how far we had come. I saw my siblings burst into uncontrollable laughter watching Christmas classics, allowing themselves, even briefly, to step away from the pressure of adapting to a new world. The only reason the world seemed to quiet down for a moment was because we were together.
As I think back on my childhood Christmases — here and in Mexico — I keep coming back to this idea of gathering. Why do we do it? Why do we come together to share food and time with one another? For our earliest ancestors, gathering was a means of survival — a necessity born of limited resources and limited food. And surely we’ve inherited some prehistoric instinct to gather at mealtime. But I think it’s more than that.
In her book 40 Years of Chez Panisse: The Power of Gathering, Chef Alice Waters, describes gathering as something that inspires us “to be more hopeful, more joyful, more thoughtful: in a word, more alive.” Coming together, rejoicing in each other’s company and in food, nourishes us — literally and in less tangible ways.
I remember waiting impatiently for my grandmother to call us over to the dinner table — mostly to stop our stomachs from growling, but also because of the growing anticipation of sitting together with everyone. I didn’t know this then, but looking back I can see how wonderful it felt knowing I wasn’t alone. It reminded me that I had people I connected with.
It took a little time to find that feeling again, here in my new home. But it happened, over meals and holidays with my family.
We gather — during the holidays and the rest of the year — to feel alive, as Waters says. And food is what gets us there. It is an invitation to get together — to be together. My mother, following in her mother’s footsteps, always welcomed us to the dinner table. She created the opportunity for us to remember that we are not alone.
For years, Christmases spent surrounded by the noise and chaos of my cousins, uncles and aunts felt precious, as if preserved in a snow globe. My family made new traditions and found new ways to celebrate, but those childhood holidays were always there in the back of my mind.
This year, for the first time since we moved, my extended family is coming to Edmonton for Christmas. I’m anxiously waiting for the smell of my grandmother’s cooking to fill the space. We will all gather tightly around the table, spiritedly sharing stories, no one rushing to take their last bite of my mother’s classic tres leches cake. And, of course, it wouldn’t be a perfect Christmas without seeing the look of defeat on my uncle’s face once again.
