Christmases Past: A Bittersweet Walk Down Memory Lane

When I woke that morning, I craved Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC), a chain I had not visited for many years in Japan.  As a graduate student living close to the campus, I had choices: “Shokudo” diner, train station food stall, and ready-to-heat convenience store food.  But as I rode my bicycle to the research lab that day,  I could smell grease in the air.  And it made me crave KFC more.

I knew the day would be busy. Before winter break, I had to ensure that sensors worked and data loggers continued recording for days in any weather. I had to check on automatic sprinkler systems.  Close to a thousand tree seedlings had to be watered consistently. I grew them for long-term experiments in my forest nursery plots. And the campus would be completely deserted.  I did not want to be there working by myself.

Back in the mid-1990s in Fukuoka City, Western Japan, winter break did not start until after Christmas Day. That was when everyone started preparing for the extended New Year’s celebrations. It was time to head back home to be with family by New Year’s Eve, much like Thanksgiving for Americans, Lunar New Year for the Chinese, and Christmas for Filipinos were.

Throughout Japan, “Okasan” or the mother of the house prepared a big batch of  “Zōni” or “O-Zōni,”  an umami-rich miso-based soup.  One or two “Mochi,”  the pounded sticky rice balls, per person were added to it around serving time.  Loaded with poultry meat, seafood, and vegetables, the soup anchored the  “O-sechi Ryori,”  or the New Year’s special meal.  Served in fine lacquered boxes, the feast consisted mostly of preserved food beautifully arranged in each tier of boxes.  The delicacies represented wishes for prosperity, health, and long life — good fortune for the year ahead.

For the next three days of the new year, mothers reheated the “O-Zōni” soup and served left over “O-sechi Ryori.”  It was when mothers took a break from cooking altogether.  The winter holiday in the majority non-Christian Japanese nation signaled the time for relaxing with family. They did not celebrate Christmas or New Year’s partying.  Instead, “Shōgatsu,” or its polite form, “O-Shōgatsu,” for “righteous new month,” signified rest. 

Christmas is for everyone, right?

The Japanese needed no religious reason to celebrate Christmas. To them, Christmas is a festival, or joyful time of the year.  So, even in the post-economic boom of the mid ‘90s, they went all out decorating stores, streets, and town centers.  At the height of the bubble of the ‘80s, Christmas was a time for couples to splurge on a romantic dinner date at a hard-to-book restaurant. They paid premium prices for a fancy overnight stay, today’s “staycation,” at luxury hotels.

I had been living in Japan for several years by the mid ‘90s and had gotten used to working on Christmas Day. I learned to enjoy spending a few quiet days around the New Year’s alone. But when I woke up craving KFC, I forgot it was  Christmas Eve.  Oblivious even after checking on my tree seedlings, I decided to indulge my fried chicken craving.  On my way home, I stopped by the neighborhood KFC and was surprised to see that it was closed for dining in. Instead, I saw ropes to guide those lining up for take-out or pick-up.

Right there, my disappointment turned to an epiphany of stupidity.  I remembered what I knew for a long time. The Japanese, convinced by KFC that fried chicken was the quintessential Christmas food of the West, ate it for Christmas Eve. They ordered KFC in advance and brought it home along with  “Kurisumasu Keki,” or Christmas Cake.  A layered cake of airy vanilla sponge, whipped cream, and bright-red strawberry decorations, “Kurisumasu Keki” was their must-have Christmas treat.  On the 26th, all Christmas adornments came down, and KFC or any unsold cakes were relegated to history.  Focus instantly shifted towards “O-Shōgatsu” preparations.

Trying to Forget

When I craved fried chicken that day, perhaps I was simply experiencing the power of subliminal suggestion. But forgetting what day it was must have been my subconscious  blocking out memories of Christmas past. Years earlier, in the late ‘80s, I had just arrived in another part of Japan, Tsukuba, when winter came.  

I spent my first Christmas and “O-Shōgatsu” there in that university town alone, cold, and far from family.  Heaters in the empty dormitories had been turned off because the university staff had gone home to their families. Shops were closed. Yet, even if they were open, I would have been unable to read signs and labels anyway.

But I could not have been more miserable than my mother sitting at home on Christmas Day without news from her youngest son.  At that time, E-mails and cell phones were over a decade away.  Calling home meant finding a pay phone in a booth located outdoors and using a “telephone card” with prepaid minutes.  Delays in the snail mail meant not receiving word at all.  Poor mother thought I had deserted the family.    

 After getting used to “quiet” winter holidays in Japan, spending Christmas surrounded by the warmth and laughter of a big extended family reunion in Los Angeles felt like a long, tight hug.   Then I moved to Florida for work.

 Christmas with a Family that Chose Me

       In Sarasota, Florida, I got to spend another first-of-a-kind Christmas with a chosen family. The year before this epic gathering, Kristel, a volunteer and donor to the international program I managed, lost her husband.  From what I gathered, he died after a challenging period following his cancer diagnosis.  The volunteer-turned friend was still distraught when she told us about it a year later. She wanted to reclaim some joy. But as a transplant from Vienna, Austria, she had no family in America.

My friend Kristel hosted eight of us for Christmas Eve dinner, perhaps thinking that company might make the season bearable. Difficult as it may be for her to overcome grief, she made every effort to treat us to a feast. She welcomed us with sparkling Bellinis made with mango, instead of peach, nectar.   When we sat around the long, extended table, we found each setting arranged with a salad and a place card bearing our names. 

Our elegantly dressed hostess prepared everything herself. After clearing our salad bowls, she served us plated salmon as the first course and followed that with the most tender, perfectly simmered beef and vegetables. Likely the classic “Tafelspitz” of Austria, it tasted homey and comforting.  Throughout dinner, she made sure we had enough bread and wine to match the entree.  By dessert time, she revealed that she hand-carried “Esterhazytorte” from Vienna on her flight back in time for the party. The heavenly cake’s five layers of almond meringues sandwiched the nutty cognac-flavored buttercream.

I went there with another one of my wonderful volunteers, the late Marge S., a retired Sociology professor.  Time and again, generous Marge donated to our non-profit organization in my name. Kristel and Marge were good friends because they were both cultivated and accomplished women.

After the lovely dinner and the most affable and engaging conversation, Kristel invited all her charming guests to the living room. There she gave us each a personalized gift.  Before we could protest that she specifically said, “no gift giving,” she started explaining how she selected every gift.

Then she handed us each a colored facsimile of the original sheet music for “Stille Nacht.”  We went out to the porch where we lit candles on a real tree. The four-foot tree on the table had not been adorned except for the slender white candles. We stood there for a moment of silence, then sang “Silent Night,” the music composed by Austrian Franz Xaver Gruber for the poem written by Austrian priest, Joseph Mohr.  The company, the flickering candlelight, the balmy Florida night, and the serenity settled in a way I had not anticipated.

Today in Japan, Christmas is still considered a seasonal event and enjoyed with KFC and Christmas Cake.  Unmarried couples dine out on Christmas Eve. And they exchange presents too. Parents now give their children gifts. And Christmas traditions are still heavily marketed by the industry, like everywhere else.  

In Florida, where I have lived for years away from the family I was born into, I still look forward to the rest that the season brings.  I cook “healthier” food that brings back memories of childhood. But I have also stopped asking myself what Christmas–the food, rituals, and traditions–really mean. I simply enjoy what I can.