A Filipino Noche Buena Story
A story about a night of food, family, karaoke, and staying longer than planned.
There’s a chill in the air. A chill not even the typhoon season brings. It calls for the season of sweaters and hot chocolate, and the smell of something deliciously sweet clings to the air at all times.
Already, you hear bells chiming in the distance. Fireworks fill random spots in the night sky as multicolor lights start to sparkle out of the corner of your eye at every intersection. And as if the streets aren’t filled with enough people, you notice even more of them.
In the neighborhood, at the mall, and even in the comfort of your own home, where you hear voices from the living room of relatives you only hear through video calls. Moments later, the sound of laughter and karaoke bounce through the walls of your house and mixes in with the loudness of the next-door neighbors.
And for all the noise, the lights, and the jokes about Christmas starting far too early, it eventually gathers around a single moment Filipinos wait for every year. Close to midnight, a long table fills up, food set out for everyone to share.
And for most families, it starts in the morning of the 24th of December.
Kitchen Duty and the Work Behind the Feast
My mother delegates one job per family member during this time. Mine always happens to be finely mincing an ungodly amount of onions and garlic. These are to be used as the backbone of every dish she will whip up from here on out.
The sweet and savory staple that is Filipino spaghetti.
Her kare-kare, infamous for hypnotizing guests into zombies digging into their third plates before midnight.
The sisig that is a staple at any party regardless of who and what we’re celebrating.
Sometimes she stops here and lets the guests bring in their own share of the party. But more often than not, it is in our home where we host these parties.
Noche Buena is the same in our household, regardless of where we are in the world. For the past 12 years, my family and I have spent the season like this in Calgary. But this year, we’re celebrating it here in the Philippines.
This year, I’m absolutely thrilled to be shedding tears (of joy?) for the fifth ball of onion I’ll be dicing.
When Everyone Finally Arrives
Friends and relatives usually start to trickle in at dinnertime. They bring in their own share for the long table. One friend brings their special seafood boil – huge prawns, cut up corn cobs, sausages, and potatoes in this sweet, spicy, and addicting garlic sauce. An uncle brings in laing – because what’s a meal without vegetables? But this one isn’t really the kind you avoid at parties. Taro leaves drenched in creamy coconut milk and chili, with some pork and shrimp bites of surprise? Say less.
The rest of the guests bring in the crunchy lumpia (arguably the most important Christmas dinner guest, if you ask me), the fruit salad – a concoction of fruit cocktail with jelly submerged in cream and condensed milk, the soda, the rice, the booze…
This is the pre-game, where we warm up by stretching out bellies with the first plate of food.
Our family members gather from all walks of life.
A nanny for one of my more well-off relatives’ kids goes straight to the karaoke machine, minding her own business while gracing us with Whitney Houston.
A group of uncles form around a table outside the front door with cold bottles of beer and stories I could barely understand. (When I was little, I was told not to listen in on grown-up conversations. Now that I’m a grown-up, I’ve unintentionally kept the habit and still stay out of them).
My mother, my aunts, and a few family friends are scattered in the kitchen and living room, forming their own conversation bubbles that fill the air with jolly noise.
The children have started playing tag in the street in front of the house, where there is no shortage of adult supervisors keeping a watchful eye, while also holding their unfinished paper plates of food.
Every year I see mostly the same family members for this dinner party. Every year, I witness everyone grow just a little bit older, including me. And every year, new family members are born and introduced, while others can no longer join us.
We all meet annually for Noche Buena and celebrate each other’s presence over our family’s own version of recipes for the season. Food is undeniably the one thing we all share other than our blood lineage.
Before the Clock Strikes Twelve
When it’s almost midnight, most of us almost forget. Until my dad calls on everyone to gather around the long table. He does this strategically – about fifteen minutes before the clock strikes. We’ve all done this one too many Christmas seasons before. It takes a while to collect the children running around the streets, the uncles around beer to stand upright, and for the nanny to notice the room getting a little too quiet before she reserves her next song on the karaoke machine.
Once we’re all gathered, the prayers begin. My family is mostly Catholic. The rest of us who are not (me being atheist) don’t really mind the prayers. What matters is we all collectively bow our heads in agreement as one uncle who doesn’t drink alcohol leads the prayer. He enumerates everything we’re all thankful for — the family we’ve all gathered for this night for our health and happiness…
…and for the food that gathered us all here for this one joyous night.
Once we unanimously announce “Amen”, the night continues loudly. More plates are passed around; games are hosted by the richer aunts who don’t know what to do with their money. The nanny finally shares the karaoke machine with others and grabs a plate for herself. And in the middle of the happy chaos, mother finally brings out her secret weapon – buko pandan. A dessert that makes my knees weak. I would fight my only son for the last bowl of that dessert. (Just kidding… or am I? 👀)
When the Night Finally Winds Down
Noche Buena has this weird way of making Christmas day feel too quiet in comparison. Because after midnight – after that burst of loudness from the clatter of cutlery, laughter, song, and chaos – comes the inevitable end of the night.
Some relatives start by saying hushed goodbyes and thank yous to my parents, as it’s almost always embarrassing to be the first one to leave such a happy evening.
The nanny gulps down her soda and reluctantly says goodbye to the karaoke machine. She knows her voice will take a day off the next day.
Mother brings out another weapon in her arsenal – take-out containers. With all the food that has already been consumed, there’s still too much on the table for us to keep to ourselves. And so, the rest of our guests grab a couple of food items to go – the last bit of Noche Buena to keep the party going, even after the night is long gone.
A few cousins don’t go until after they help out with cleaning up, and I’m more than grateful for this, because the house at this state looks like my son spawned ten other versions of himself and wrecked the place.
When the house is mostly clean, and the long table is folded, we all change into our pajamas and pambahay, and finally decide to call it a night. Noche Buena was a huge success – as it usually is every year. We brush our teeth and climb into bed, resting into Christmas day.
… Except, there’s a little rustle in the kitchen, as my husband digs the fridge for another plate of pancit.
By Christmas day, everything feels quieter. The loudest part of the season has already happened the night before, around a long table where food is meant to be shared and time is allowed to stretch. Noche Buena isn’t polished or perfectly planned.
It spills into containers meant for the next day and lingers in kitchens long after midnight. This is how many families in the Philippines welcome Christmas. And if you ever find yourself invited to one, you don’t need to bring anything except an appetite. There will already be more than enough.
Maligayang Pasko, everybody! Wherever you’re celebrating from, may your table always be full.