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Once upon a time, the idea of a ‘Christmas party’ meant having the exciting chance to eat a Happy Meal in school while tugging the straw embedded into a carton of Frooti and anticipating the winter break. While naiveté might have worn off in due course, what it left behind was a yearning to consciously seek this time of the year differently, beyond the mere flash of a memory. My heart grows fonder as I think back to the phase as a young adult living in a hostel when we’d wait to extort our roommate from Goa of her bebinca and kulkul stash as soon as she was back. We’d sit on the floor nibbling them, listen to her anecdotes, as the world suddenly felt intimate and precious. Soon after, a freshly minted work life meant really growing up, shouldering responsibility and sounding just like everyone else when they said they couldn’t seem to find the time.
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Cooking, which interested me as much as making a piece of toast, became a survival skill reluctantly. Since then, it has metamorphosed into a buzz sought from nods of approval that nurtured a sense of ambition with each serving. Making a fudgy, khoya-laden gajar ka halwa was a project I was surprised to discover I could achieve one year preceding a caramel custard for the holidays, which seemed equally enticing to undertake. A successful wobble in the first attempt and I was sold! The golden, treacle-like blanket of molten sugar cascading down the delicate corners of the custard mound involved some serious showmanship while unmoulding it onto the serving plate. When I had really discovered the kitchen to be a place that awakened the best version of me, the oasis of acceptance it provided wasn’t a familiar one.
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I could throw scrambled eggs on a piece of cardboard and friends would eat it happily. Dining companions fawned at dressed plates with eyes glazed like freshly fried doughnuts. The kitchen was the only space where being myself did not come with its share of stipulations or pre-conceived notions. When the holidays began feeling like a time I was able to consciously save for myself in recent years, my attention turned towards gulping up hours worth of ingredient and recipe information, ferociously penning menus that orchestrated Christmas as a special occasion for the ones I valued, most of whom also grew up with no particular affinity to the festival. It wasn’t just the day of Christmas that was important, it was also the few days preceding it. Involving runs to the liquor store and supermarket, ensuring there’s enough ice in the freezer to reverse global warming and pre-ordering poee or pita bread from the local bakery were all high priority tasks. Serious phone conversations about what contingencies should be in place if the specific tipple we wanted might not remain in stock, made it a comically salient matter to introspect. For things to perform around the kitchen on D-day, groceries had to be bought, prepped, washed, assembled and refrigerated.
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In my version, there’s always one cocktail that does the rounds—this year is for the Spanish tinto de verano—followed by a shareable dip of some kind and chakna that disappears surprisingly quickly as we cook up the main meal. Friends—like soldiers—will play the role of vigilant sous chefs as they peel garlic, stir the saucepan periodically, take care of the playlist, ensure that drinks are refilled on cue and share updates about when I must intervene to check how far we’ve come along with a dish. I might wear the host’s hat for the evening but what truly makes it special is convening in the kitchen, laughing about nothing and ending up with a delicious meal somehow. Food isn’t merely a reward for having a good time, it is the good time. Weirdly enough, Christmas has also been a time of experimentation—finding out if shrimp tacos are ‘festive’ enough if made differently than usual, panicking over what might’ve initially appeared to be a lumpy mac and cheese sauce and licking the pot clean once its contents have been savoured—I always get the spoon; also to gloat after challenging a friend who was determined to prove that mushrooms are capable of being overcooked, before they transformed into pâté.
Eating multiples of pineapple-cheese skewers spearheaded by a sour cherry reminded me of parties where I once saw my perpetually disgruntled father at his chirpiest best. What’s most gratifying about these meals is also how the recipes found new kitchens and new plates to appear in subsequently—like life coming from life. As shaggy bags of salad leaves magically become voluminous arrangements on which cubes of grilled pumpkin or beetroot nestle comfortably, I’m applauded for conjuring up combinations that I have little to do with; if anything, it makes the effort to find people offering great ingredients worth it. While still snug and just as familiar as any other dinner, eating informally piled on top of one another on the couch beats the dignity of a dining table. Friends need not worry about putting on an outfit to mark their attendance; the idea is to participate more, display less. Christmas dinner was just as fun when spontaneously ordering takeout food and putting it in pretty bowls as it was making sure that even the onions are pickled from scratch.
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When it’s time to eat, I look around me to see entangled pairs of hands passing around platters, aromas converging with the clink of forks against the plate and the soft thud of wood against ceramic. I look at the frown vanishing from my best friend’s forehead as they take a bite of the handmade gnocchi we were almost certain about getting wrong. I look at the exchange of wonderment when a salad was underestimated to be healthy but all you can taste is the shaved cheese and bacon bits. I hear the collective ‘wow’ as I set down dessert I spent hours fussing over, only for it to be demolished with a cake spoon. I look forward to leftover bits of food that find a home in my refrigerator over the course of the next day or two, allowing me more time to do nothing and upcycling bits into newer meals. I say goodbye to everyone shortly after, pouring myself one last drink to enjoy in solitude and wait for some more of this next year.
