Christmas, as far as I can remember, has meant one simple picture: My family (my father, mother and my eight siblings) gathered around a crowded table, plates touching, voices overlapping, and the night outside feeling quieter than usual. The lights on the parol would glow softly by the window, and somewhere in the background, an old Christmas song would play from a radio that sometimes crackled. But the real music was at the table—spoons against plates, small bursts of laughter, my Nanay Curing’s tired but satisfied smile as she watched everyone share a simple meal: Keso de bola, a small ham, spaghetti, bibingka. In those moments, it felt like the whole year led to this: To being together, to sharing food, to remembering that we belonged to one another.

As a child, I did not think much about the meaning of Noche Buena or the idea of family traditions. All I knew was the excitement of staying up late, the smell of spaghetti and ham, and the way my father would always call us to sit down before anyone took a bite. We would wait until everyone was at the table, even if one of us was still changing clothes or was still half asleep. Only when all the chairs were filled would we hold hands for a short prayer. That small act—waiting, holding hands—quietly taught me that no one in the family should be left behind, and that food tasted better when shared, not rushed. Well, sort of. As a kid, I would always rush to my favorite: ham and keso de bola in between two slices of tasty bread.

Even when I started my own family, I carried this tradition of eating together into our new home, almost like a quiet promise to my younger self. I made it a point that meals, especially on Christmas, were not just about filling the stomach but about sharing the day, the stories, and even the small worries that each of us brought to the table. Even when we spent the holidays in the US, we would gather around the fireplace or around the television watching some old comedy film, sometimes noisily talking or resting in comfortable silence. In keeping this habit alive, it felt like I was keeping my parents and siblings close, passing on to my own children the same sense of belonging and warmth that once shaped me.

I am certain that this Christmas tradition of gathering around the table is being repeated in countless Filipino homes across the country, from small bamboo houses in the provinces to crowded apartments and condos in the cities. In each place, families are laying out whatever they can—hamon, queso de bola, lechon, spaghetti, pancit, or even just simple rice and ulam—turning their tables into a space of warmth and togetherness. After Simbang Gabi or midnight mass, people sit shoulder to shoulder, share stories of the year, and laugh over familiar jokes, finding comfort in the same rituals their parents and grandparents once kept. Even if the menu changes with time and budget, the heart of it stays the same: Christmas is celebrated not alone, but side by side, with food passed from hand to hand and love quietly passed from generation to generation.

As the years passed, these scenes inevitably changed. Some faces grew older, some chairs were left empty, and new ones were added. The dishes changed too—sometimes there was lechon, sometimes just simple pansit and bread, or food ordered via Grab—but the feeling of sitting together remained. Around that table, the stories of Filipinos are told: how parents met, the struggles of a family member in school or in love, the funny mistakes made as children, or blunders committed by grown ups. It is important to share and listen to these stories because through these tales you begin to see yourself as part of a longer story, one that started long before you and will go on even after you are gone. In a profound sense, the table is where you learn that being Filipino is not just about language or place, but about shared meals and shared memories. (To be continued)

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