A kaleidoscopic whirl of images flashing around and around, a testimony to the writer’s sloth that occasionally plagues me. In times of such duress, I resort to clicking random images and filing them away for captioning.
Traditional noche buena with arroz caldo and ham, sparkly stuff that the siblings pretend is alcoholic and down with exaggerated sophistication from wine glasses. Fireworks blooming violently in the midnight blackness. Bejeweled houses twinkling. The stately Christmas tree richly aglow and the angel atop it like a benevolent sentinel. Charging into the living room early morning to grab presents and rip them open to delighted squeals and furtive glances to gauge how many the others received. Christmas lunch of old specialties that are as much a part of the family gathering as we are. (Who can top Tita Juliet’s decadent leche flan with that sultry caramelized sauce?) Tall, strapping cousins—who officially make me the shortest in the household for the day. (Thank the Shoe Fairy for gold stilettos.) Christmas outfit of printed green silk kimono with blue sash and rice pearls. The sideboard groaning under the weight of so many comestible delights. A stuffed moose on a sock merrily chirping “We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish..” Poinsettia- and holly-printed tablecloth. Gold placemats, gold candlesticks. Tinsel draped across the piano. Rich red drapes. Gleaming parol. Scents of fruitcake and cheese and cinnamon wafting enticingly in the air.
The only jarring note in this reassuringly familiar holiday bricolage is the weather—unseasonably, unreasonably hot. None of that crisp December chill that used to be a harbinger of fuzzy knit sweaters, and somehow, it just seems so wrong. Others chalk it up to global warming. Right. Gaia must be terribly pissed off.