My father came from a family of 10 siblings. His youngest sister married a man who was also the tenth child in his family, and they produced 10 children. Their firstborn son was followed by a succession of six daughters, and they rounded up the number with three more sons. As all the names of their children began with “G,” the joke in the family was that they had run out of names and the youngest would have to live with “Gago” (roughly, stupid).
My father’s eldest brother had four daughters whose names began with “C,” “D,” “E,” and “F.” He was saving “A” and “B” for sons that never materialized, so I was often “borrowed” to be spoiled by him, my aunt, and my cousins. My father’s youngest brother had six children whose names all began with “M.” Our family was the smallest, with three children whose names all began with “A.” We did have an elder sister who died as an infant and had a name that began with “M,” so I guess she does not count except in spirit.
The advantage of having a large extended family in Pampanga was that although I was born and raised in Manila, I had a “province” and a happy childhood that formed my cheerful disposition in life.
The noche buena the other night was different from Christmases past because only four of the 10 siblings are alive and they move much slower than we remember. Many of my cousins were absent because they have since married and have to spend Christmas with their in-laws. When my grandparents were still living we went to San Fernando in Pampanga every Sunday, and with first cousins (75), uncles, aunts, and staff, I now appreciate the effort my aunt had to expend to feed over 100 people each week. As the family grew we had difficulty keeping track of new nephews, nieces, in-laws and, later, even grandnephews and grandnieces.
For this year, the noche buena was quite simple. We still had the scalding hot liga with beef, pork, chicken and vegetables that was always a staple for a cold December night. Also on the table were: rellenong bangus (milkfish with ground meat stuffing), dila (ox tongue in a cream sauce), biringi (a Kapampangan version of the Spanish paella with green sticky rice and coconut milk), ham, mechado, etc. What was new were kamote chips with a choice of tinapa (smoked fish) or eggplant relish dip. For dessert, there was a table groaning with fruit salad, jaleyang ube and assorted rice cakes and sweets.
This year I stuck with the nilaga and jaleyang ube, and was nostalgic about the other Christmas fare missing from the table: galantina (chicken with ground meat stuffing), ham in bone cooked and glazed with pineapple, queso de bola with the distinctive labels “Marca Pato” (duck brand) or “Marca Piña” (pineapple brand) that can never be replaced by Magnolia or even the authentic Dutch Edam that isn’t as salty as the cheese paired with the sweet ham. There was also no tamales this year, no apahap (sea bass) that was traditionally considered the only fish worthy of a fiesta table because of its exorbitant price. Lechon was absent simply because it used to be served only during lunch because the pig was slaughtered in the morning and roasted nearby (in the evening you had leftovers recycled into paksiw or, as we experimented sometimes, into sinigang na lechon). Today we can order and have lechon delivered any time for a party meal.
In my childhood the dessert was as important as, or perhaps more important, than the ulam, and I often partook of desert while waiting for the line for the main dishes on the table to thin out. Another thing missing this year was the thick hot chocolate I would mix with duman (young green rice that was traditionally harvested only in November and December and served as is or fried and puffed and renamed pinipig). Also: No leche flan, no tocino del cielo (what we called mini-leche flan that was richer because each piece had one egg yolk), no sans rival, no tibuk-tibuk (loosely translated as “shaking” because it has the consistency of Jello but is made from carabao milk and nipa sugar topped with latik or fried sweetened coconut cream), no pastillas, no turron, no silvanas. I think the absence of these traditional sweets reflects the more health-conscious mindset, or the fact that diabetes runs in the family.
So noche buena does adapt and change, leaving us with memories of Christmases past.
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Charlie Azcuna sent a long text message in response to my last column on the “Panunuluyan.” It reads: “We do the ‘Panunuluyan’ in school (St. Scholastica’s Manila), on the last day [before the Christmas break] with all sectors involved. Mary is always pregnant because, I think, they put a basketball under her dress! The event is called Peace Camp, which starts with a Peace program followed by the Panunuluyan (which we have been doing for the past 20 years) followed by Mass, then the mass exodus to go home signaling the Christmas break!”
Her text reminded me that Peta or the Philippine Educational Theater Association recast the traditional Panunuluyan and staged it in 1979 as “Ang Panunuluyan ng Birhen Maria at San Jose sa Cubao, Ayala, Plaza Miranda atbp lugar sa loob at labas ng Metro Manila.” In the play, Mary and Joseph talk to vendors in Quiapo, get thrown out of a Manila Hotel Christmas party, and find shelter in a squatter colony.
The Panunuluyan was transformed from the biblical story into a commentary on the divide between the rich and poor in the Philippines.
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Comments are welcome at aocampo@ateneo.edu.