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A Very Special Christmas Dinner
Even though it was many years ago, I vividly remember our family Christmas gatherings. I was a little kid, no older than the age of 11. My mom drove in that day from San Diego, Her birthday was on the eighth of that month; however, for some reason, we celebrated her birthday along with Christmas every year. Every Christmas, my grandmother would gather every single one of her sons and daughters, total of eight, to come and celebrate Christmas. She never failed to reunite all the members.
My grandmother, Lupita, was a very sweet and caring woman. Back to when I was around 5 my father left my mother and me. Even though I wondered where he was, I never felt the loneliness because her and my mother—my other hero who always made sure I had everything I needed despite being single and working full time— would always make sure I had my family around me. So instead, I started wondering when would be the day I could go and play with the cousins, eat with my aunts and uncles, or perhaps when could I go out with my grandpa.
My grandpa was always the father I never had. He would take me with him shopping for the family business every weekend. There, he would tell me all of his adventures as a truck driver around the country of Mexico. Then he would take me to eat breakfast at random Mexican restaurants. I now miss being a kid.
As a result of the chaotic traffic towards Mexico that day, I did not have the opportunity to eat very much that day, and I was eagerly anticipating the Christmas dinner. We arrived at my grandparent’s house around five. As soon as we entered my grandma’s house, the aroma of all the foods could be smelled from the outside of the house. The smell of the food in the air made my tas...
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In fact, just one year and a half ago, I found myself on a plane to San Francisco to pursue a degree in business at San Francisco State University. As I reflected on the things that I was going to miss during my years in college, I thought of how much I had enjoyed those Christmas dinners. It wasn’t only the food that made this an unbelievable experience; it was the family. The pure joy of seeing family once again and enjoying each other twill surely be missed. Eating a delicious meal while spending time with the family is an experience of a lifetime. The year 2008 was one of the hardest things the family ever experienced; we lost the only person that was able to bring this family together. Since then, the family has never been the same and perhaps we don’t celebrate together anymore. Other we don’t see at all. She’s was a true hero, you are missed.
Christmas has consumed itself. At its conception, it was a fine idea, and I imagine that at one point its execution worked very much as it was intended to. These days, however, its meaning has been perverted; its true purpose ignored and replaced with a purpose imagined by those who merely go through the motions, without actually knowing why they do so.
The first Thanksgiving was believed to be a feast after the first harvest; The Native American Wapanog tribe taught the first settlers to cultivate vital crops and sustain off the land1. Thanksgiving is an American holiday that values this union and cooperation between immigrant groups; the term “Native Americans” designates the very first immigrants2. The influx of immigrants gave birth, shaped, and developed American society. But immigrant groups, in modern context, have been politically and socially exploited. This may not have been as extreme as colonization, slavery, or exclusion, but a more discreet and covertly nativist ideology exists up to today: the fear of the rising immigrant population demoting White-Americans to a minority3.The view that immigrants were detrimental to society was expressed in the publication of many historical political cartoons. Thomas Nast and G.F. Keller both express their views that condemn and support this xenophobic culture, respectively; Nast utilized labeling while Keller, irony. The use of the analogy of Thanksgiving, in addition to other techniques, expresses the differing views on immigrants, and whether or
My grandmother has a certain look in her eyes when something is troubling her: she stares off in a random direction with a wistful, slightly bemused expression on her face, as if she sees something the rest of us can’t see, knows something that we don’t know. It is in these moments, and these moments alone, that she seems distant from us, like a quiet observer watching from afar, her body present but her mind and heart in a place only she can visit. She never says it, but I know, and deep inside, I think they do as well. She wants to be a part of our world. She wants us to be a part of hers. But we don’t belong. Not anymore. Not my brothers—I don’t think they ever did. Maybe I did—once, a long time ago, but I can’t remember anymore. I love my grandmother. She knows that. I know she does, even if I’m never able to convey it adequately to her in words.
It was August 8th of 2013 when my dad got a call from my Aunt Theresa. She urged him to come over to her house because she had devastating news. The car ride to her house was quiet. The weather was gloomy, the sky was filled with dark cumulus clouds.When we pulled up to my Aunt’s house, the adults were organized into a small circle. My uncles were supporting my grandma, however, I thought nothing of it. My parents had told me to go inside because they had a matter to attend to. I went inside to hang out with my cousins. I saw them a couple days before, but the feeling of happiness never subsides when I see them.
I was 13 years old, my first year back in El Paso since my family moved away when I was four, the first year to join my larger family. It was the first time I was invited to the annual “tamalera,” the tamale-making party held on Christmas Eve. When my father first told me that I had to help my grandma make tamales, I was fairly indifferent. I responded with the normal, pre-teen apathy: “I guess.” Little did I know that tamale making would become such an important part of my life.
Even though it was many years ago, I vividly remember my first Thanksgiving dinner. I was a little kid, no older than the age of seven. I flew in that day from Ann Arbor, Michigan, where we had attended a special ceremony honoring my uncle. As a result of the hectic flight schedule, I did not have the opportunity to eat very much that day, and I was eagerly anticipating the Thanksgiving dinner. We arrived at my grandparent’s house around six thirty in the evening. As soon as I entered the house, the tremendous aroma of all the foods filled the air and my taste buds began salivating in anticipation for the meal. Normally at family meals the food came out in courses, appetizers followed by the entrée. However, this time all the food came out at once. I immediately reached for the turkey and proceeded to take a huge slab of meat for my plate. Coupled with gravy, the turkey seemed irresistible. It was a big piece of dark meat, roasted to perfection. The skin had some sort of spice on it. I don’t recall the name of the spice, but I can tell you that the spice was sharp. Yes sharp, I think that’s the best way to describe it. After my first bite I found myself reaching for the nearest cup of water. However, after I got used to the spice, I began to realize its incredible taste. In less than ten minutes, I proceeded to wolf down this massive chunk of turkey.
As I lay there resting, I closed my eyes and just soaked in the joyous sounds of the holiday. I could hear my father chatting with my grandmother, reminiscing of childhood memories and the joy of raising kids. Soft acoustic guitar melodies from the stereo sounded above the snapping and crackling of the fire. The ...
It is Christmas Eve at my grandparent’s house. I am sitting around the table in the noisy dining room with my whole family. As the seven different fish dishes finish cooking, my grandfather begins to place each one on the table in front of us. My favorite Christmas Eve dish is the first to come out—linguine with clams. As my grandfather enters the room, my senses are suddenly overwhelmed with the smell of the homemade white sauce and the fresh shellfish. My grandfather slowly sets the bowl of linguine with clams in the center of the table and I can barely stop myself from diving right into it. Linguine with clams and the other fish dishes hold a religious significance for most Italians, but for me, these dishes are significant because of the quality time I spend eating them with my family.
Family : My Grandmother Mildred truly defined the word family as I have come to learn and live it. Holidays and family gatherings were the celebrations they were because they were surrounded by Grandma’s love. I watched family such as my late uncle Reginald become the amazing family man he was because of traditions instilled by his mother. I have also seen her daughter - my aunt Milinda – raise three beautiful children by the love and traditions passed down from Grandma. I, of course, owe most of who I am from Grandma’s love passed down through my own mother Rayetta and her husband George, whom Grandma so highly regarded.
I remember vividly the weekends at his house. Sitting on his lap, going to wrestling matches, walking down the street or through a park--these were things I did with Grandpa. I wasn't just a kid to him: I was his granddaughter, and I was special. He was special too.
Christmas catastrophes. There's no other way to describe them. Some people most likely remember the gift giving or receiving. Many memories likely involved family relations-you know, the bickering in-laws, the kids running all over the place, mothers and mothers-in-law with too much advice for the agitated cook. But most catastrophes happened in the kitchen, or were otherwise related to a dinner that was supposed to be special. We've all heard about the inexperienced cooks who tried to roast turkeys that were frozen solid, maybe in time for next Christmas. Everybody needs a sense of humor to cope with the holidays.
My grandpa was the coolest guy ever. He taught me everything while I was growing up. My grandpa worked at blue bird as a bus mechanic. He loved his job there. By the time I was born he was already retired from there and had a part time job at a pumpkin patch. He drove the train down there, every time me and my brother would come down we would ride for free. My grandpa had many hobbie over the years, But none as big as him and his ultralight
Christmas was always a big event in our family. We always spent Christmas Eve with my father's family and Christmas Day with my mom's. There was always a lot of food and many gifts, but for the first four or five years of my life, I had no clue what we were celebrating. I really don't think I cared too much, being a young child caught up in all the excitement. And I had something to call it. Christmas. That's all I really needed until I stumbled upon a Christmas special on television entitled A Charlie Brown Christmas. I must have been four or five years old at the time, I can't remember for sure, but I don't think I had started kindergarten yet. But I know I was curled up in a Sesame Street sleeping bag in front of our old television set, one of the small older models instead of the giant entertainment centers like we have now.
The air is really fresh, and the wind is comfortable. Grandma usually opened the window during the daytime; I still remembered that feeling when the sunshine came in house and scatter. I walking among those numerous grand trees and admire colored leaves on the trees and on the ground. I miss that feeling of calmness and stability of the world around. I wish I could return the reality of those feelings once more. Memories in mind and never forget about happiness of staying in my grandmother’s house. Grandparent’s time-honored gift to their grandchildren is their unconditional love, unfettered by schedules, routines or commitments. They reinforced their grandchildren’s sense of security and self-value.
Ever since I could remember, I have spent Christmas at my grandmother’s house, a house which is full of comfort, warmth, and happiness. At Christmas, I have always been able to escape the cold and dark real world allowing myself to truly enjoy just several moments in time. These moments have left impressionable memories from my childhood making Christmas a holiday that is special to me and my family. It is a time for my family to get together, share stories, laugh, and even cry.