After the Day of the Dead, the weeks flew by, disappearing into the ether, gone without a trace. A certain insidious spirit suffused the streets, as if smoke kept seeping out of an old chimney. Life took on a somewhat sepia-like look.
In other words, it was that magical, mystical time leading up to Christmas.
Nacimiento, or crêche, scenes popped up in every street vendor’s stall. Even the Scroogy newspaper kiosk owner smiled when I bought the Mexican equivalent of Good Housekeeping, El Hogar. Skinny Santa Clauses ambled around town on equally thin donkeys, crêpe paper streamers festooned the doors of houses, and on December 16 people began preparing for the posadas.
In Spanish, the word “posada” means nothing more than “inn.” And every family, if they can afford to, prepares food and drinks for their neighbors, family, and friends who walk the streets from house to house in a celebratory mood. Posadas commemorate Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging. For nine nights before Christmas, processions of people (Santos Peregrinos) wearing biblical costumes and carrying candles and holy statues walk through the neighborhoods, knocking on eight doors where the inhabitants turn away them away, symbolizing Mary and Joseph’s difficulty in finding lodging just before Christ’s birth. Songs, prayers, food, dancing, and games all embellish these jewel-like evenings.
Family members took turns hosting these “posada” parties during the nine days prior to Christmas. Because of a new baby, my friend Celina’s family did not hold a party that year. But Tia Elena, her mother’s sister, said she would host the last posada at her house on Nochebuena, or Christmas Eve. This was remarkable, since Tia tragically lost her left eye in a car accident a few months earlier, thanks to her husband Jorge. He drank too much tequila at a funeral wake in Cholula one night and ran off the road where the curve snaked sharply to the left just outside of town. Tia slammed through the windshield, slicing open the left side of her face. And that’s how she lost her eye. Why she wore a stiff black patch over her eye, looking for all the world like a pirate queen.
First we attended midnight Mass at the Iglesia de Santo Domingo, the Baroque gold of the Rosary Chapel glinting and glimmering in the candlelight.
Afterwards, meandering through the dark cobblestone streets near the old church, I felt a bit overwhelmed as I contemplated the timelessness of the scene. The foot-worn indentations in the stone floors of the church, the cracks in the cobblestones, all these mute signs bore witness to long-gone souls seeking solace in ancient rituals.
And when we stood at Tia’s door, chanting the plaintive words of homeless ones seeking shelter, our song — representing the Otherness of the immigrant, the exile, the stateless person — would have melted even the iciest of hearts:
Outside singers:
In the name of Heaven
I beg you for shelter
My beloved wife
Can walk no longer.
Inside singers:
This is no inn.
Continue on your way.
I cannot open
For you may be a thief.
Outside singers:
Don’t be hardhearted.
Take charity on us.
God in heaven
Will reward you.
Inside singers:
Go away now-
Trouble me no more.
If I lose my temper
You will feel my stick.
Outside singers:
We are very weary
We have come from Nazareth.
I am a carpenter
Whose name is Joseph.
Inside singers:
I don’t care what your name is.
We only want to sleep.
I have already told you
The door will not be opened.
Outside singers:
Still I beg for shelter
Dear keeper of the door-
Just one night of rest
For the Queen of Heaven.
Inside singers:
If it is a queen
Asking here for shelter,
Why is she wandering
Alone in the dark night?
Outside singers:
My wife Mary
Is the Queen of Heaven
For she will be the mother
Of the Divine Word.
Inside singers:
Is it you Joseph?
Is it you Mary?
Amidst the other travelers
I didn’t know you.
Together:
Come in, little pilgrims
And receive this corner.
Tonight our home is yours
And so are our hearts.
Traditional Posada song
And with the last words fading and vibrating in our throats, the lights in the house burst on like fireworks. Tia threw open the wrought-iron gate, smiling, hugging each one of us, welcoming us. One by one we passed through the narrow gate into the light.
Sopa de Fideos (Celina’s Mama’s Pasta and Tomato Soup)
Serves 4
Like every Mexican ama de casa (housewife), Mama made this soup almost every day. It helps to fill stomachs and decrease the demand for the more expensive main courses to follow. As a sign of elevated social status, Mama employed one woman, an Indian woman, who helped her with all the household chores. I never learned her name, only knowing her as “la criada,” the maid.
3-4 T. peanut oil
4 oz. very fine vermicelli, preferably the kind formed into a nest shape
¾ lb. very ripe tomatoes or 1 16-oz. can diced tomatoes
1 clove garlic, peeled and finely chopped
¼ medium onion, finely chopped
6 cups unsalted chicken broth plus 1 cup water or 4 chicken bouillon cubes and 7 cups of water
¼ c. fresh parsley leaves, chopped
Heat the oil in a large pot until smoking. Add the vermicelli without breaking them up. Fry until a deep golden brown. Stir constantly. Drain off all but 2 T. of the oil and keep the vermicelli in the pan. Set aside off the heat for a moment.
Put tomatoes, onion, and garlic in a blender and blend until completely smooth. Add the tomato mixture to the vermicelli and continue cooking over very high heat, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan, until mixture is almost dry. Add the stock and water (or bouillon cubes and water). Stir in half the parsley. Bring the soup to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer soup until pasta is soft, about 20 minutes.
Ladle soup into individual serving bowls and sprinkle with more parsley. Serve with fresh, warm tortillas.
(To be continued on December 24, 2008 …)
© 2008 C. Bertelsen
CYNTHIA D. BERTELSEN 
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