Christmas Dinner at the Palermo’s
The fondest memories I have of the Palermo family are always connected in some way with Christmas. Every year, whether five or fifteen people were present, Christmas was always a time of great joy and represented a little journey back to the renewal of family spirit with my grandparents leading the way. Reflecting our Filipino roots, my sister and I would call grandma and grandpa “Nanay” and “Tatay.” Even though the words meant “mother” and “father,” Jenny and I referred to them as such simply because that is what we saw our mother called them. Together with their children, Uncle Superman and Auntie Vangie, the warmth of the Palermo family imprinted a vivid memory to my heart I will never erase, and as though I were a kid in grade school again, I can remember celebrating Christmas evening at the Palermo home as if it were yesterday.
My grandparents’ house was a small and narrow three story building on a street of Detroit, just on the edge of where busyness and graffiti ran wild. Despite the neighborhood’s uniform architecture, the Palermo house stood apart from all the other houses on the street, as every year hundreds of green string beans could be seen curling twining in and out of its steel fences. In addition to green beans, Tatay would harvest peaches, tomatoes, squash, Italian zucchini, and ampalaya in his yard, in a small way keeping alive his farming days from when he lived in the Philippines. Nanay would welcome my mom, dad, Jenny and me at the door with big hugs and a fragrant Oscar de la Renta kiss. Upon entering the house on Christmas evening, the smell of dishes prepared during last five hours would fill each nostril. The first to reach us was the smell of adobo, a dish of chicken cooked with garlic, apple cider vinegar, and soy sauce, a Filipino standard that everyone enjoys and calms our worries to simplicity. Next of course would be my mother’s pancit, which represented a medley of efforts, from having my mom’s thin pasta and shredded chicken, topped with the carrots, celery, and green onion that my little sister and I had chopped with pride so meticulously the night before. Upon entering my grandmother’s kitchen, my vision would encounter a haze of steam coming from the many dishes still cooking. The strongest of smells was of Tatay’s barbeque, pieces of pork carefully marinated for days in vinegar, brown sugar, soy sauce, and garlic, put on skewers and broiled in an old metal box resembling a toaster oven. I would look forward to his barbecue every year, as only Tatay’s tenacious yet gentle work could fill me with a strength and wisdom that was easy on the stomach. Lastly, of course, would be rice, rice, and rice- everywhere! From sticky white rice to fried yellow rice, to my favorite- rice in Tatay’s arrozcaldo, a thick stew of shredded chicken, ginger, green onion, and shallots. His soup never failed to fill my belly with a sense of wholeness and healing, and the love he poured into the soup could be felt through every bone in my body.
With every bite of adobo, forkful of pancit, mouthful of barbecue, and sip of arrozcaldo, the spirit of Christmas time would not only would make my little belly happy, but my soul as well. While I was being fed on the inside, the mere presence of family provided external satisfaction. I remember sitting next to a 3-foot tall Christmas tree in my grandparentsí living room, looking around at us drinking Coca-Cola out of plastic glasses and balancing Styrofoam plates on our laps. We would talk about everything, and in that little house in Detroit our affection for one another was reconfirmed. My family would watch TV together and wonder at Spock and Captain Kirk, and depending on the weekday, would laugh over Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch, or Happy Days. Tatay and Nanay loved Laurence Welk, and sometimes Nanay would give Jenny and me a particularly special gift, such as a tiny piece of jewelry or small piece of clothing that she painstakingly sewed herself. Looking around the room, I wondered at how similar Mom and Nanay were, and how Dad and Tatay could show so much love for their wives in different ways of quiet adoration.
I remember looking at Uncle Superman chewing on barbecue, knowing that soon he would take me in both hands and fly me around the room like a superhero, and we would pretend I was zooming through space. We would dream of great accomplishments, and I would feel so happy soaring through the air giggling and screaming, hoping I would never grow any bigger so I could fly forever. Never could how I know then how powerfully his encouragement of my education would affect my future, as my Uncle Superman truly did give me my first wings to fly. I can also remember watching my Auntie Vangie sip her arrozcaldo, knowing that some time that night she would give me my Christmas present, a small bag filled with cosmetic samples collected over the past year. The bag was a treasure trove to me, filled with Estee Lauder eyeshadows and lip creams to Elizabeth Arden perfume samples. It was the coolest present in the world, and dozens of artistic ideas would lie before my eyes, as if I was looking at a new box of Crayola markers. We would paint each otherís faces and make fish tails in our hair while she would tell me about romances in movies I was not allowed to see, such as Pretty Woman or Terms of Endearment. Auntie Vangie would also share with me all the dreams and goals she was waiting to attain, and by her example I learned that a woman could be soft without compromise to independence. Every family member of the Palermo's contributed to a fostering Christmas spirit that, at that time of my life was measured in time, where the happiness shared in a few hours would imprint a mark on my heart for eternity.
Christmas at the Palermo house was also always guaranteed some slight variation from year to year. I remember the joy of making my first dollar when Auntie Beth came up from Texas to visit, trusting me to baby-sit baby Alex. I remember being awed at the musical talents of Alex's older brother, Nicholas, who played the violin. There also were years when Mom's older sister, Emma, would come to visit with her husband, Uncle Oscar. Their children, Omar and Lori, became a couple of my first break-dancing partners, with united emulations of Michael Jackson or Dance Fever. I remember the joy of savoring Auntie Emma's hard-shell crabs, and taking a full ten or fifteen minutes picking every little bit of meat from the crab before eating a bite of it with rice and vinegar. Uncle Olan, Mom's youngest brother would show me his moped and help me ride a giant stuffed dog around the house that he won for me years before at Boblo.
Today I no longer celebrate Christmas every year at the Palermo house. Tatay passed away over a decade ago, and everyone else drifted away to different areas of the world. But even though I cannot be with them for Christmas, the importance of love and oneness in family they instilled in me will be carried in my heart forever.