Figgy Pudding time
It's begun, of course. The lights are up in the streets, the municipal nativity scenes are in place, Mariah is singing and Lidl Christmas adverts are on the telly. But the festivities haven't really begun yet—if we don't count the work shindigs and the end of course meals for clubs and classes—because, as you know, any Spanish event, to be worthy of its salt, has to involve eating. Go to the beach and you need a picnic with the rolls wrapped in albal silver paper. Go hiking up a mountain and there may be no mention of stout shoes but there will be a three line whip on taking your almuerzo (late morning snack). Christmas is the same. Until the first meal on Christmas Eve it's just ticking over.
If you're Spanish you may have a tree; lots of families didn’t but the US influence means that they are more and more usual. You may have a nativity scene—a belén—and there may be the tradition of buying new figures for it each year. You won't have cards unless you know a foreigner who sent you one—but then nobody sends cards anymore—and you will, very soon, have thousands of gif‑loaded messages making your phone ping all the time. There are no Christmas crackers. You will have a gaudy Christmas pullover.
There's an argument that says Christmas begins before the first meal. That it begins with the Christmas lottery, El Gordo. There's no doubt that El Gordo is inextricably linked with Christmas, but it seems to me to attract less chatter than it once did. The draw still makes mountains of money—ticket sales and prize totals rise every year—but it feels like less of an “event” now. Of course, you’ll need a décimo or two: one‑tenth of a ticket costing 20€, or maybe 23€ if bought in support of a local club or association. You might swap décimos with workmates or family, or have participations—fractions—from your garage, your son’s scout group or a friend’s bar. But the sing‑song chanting of numbers by the schoolchildren isn’t quite the soundtrack to the morning of the 22nd that it once was. You rarely hear it spilling from car radios or open windows. Even the annual TV advert, once a talking‑point in itself, seems to have lost relevance. Everyone still dreams of winning, but most of us know we’re far likelier to end up among the millions of losers than the handful outside the lottery offices swigging cava. I wrote about the lottery last year
In UK terms I'm thinking tangerines, twiglets, unshelled nuts, inedible dates. Foodstuffs associated with Christmas that don't form part of the main meals. The edible extras temporarily resting in our homes before, uneaten and unloved, they make their inexorable way to the rubbish or, for the right‑on, the compost bin. For Spaniards it's polvorones and mantecados—lard‑flavoured cakes—and turrón—the soft and squishy Jijona type or the brittle, tooth‑threatening Alicante type—and maybe some of the marzipan shapes.
So, the beginning: the 24th, for dinner—the evening meal. There's nothing specific. It's going to be a big meal; it will be family, but, unlike the UK, there's no agreed, fixed‑by‑time menu. If your family likes roast lamb or grilled beef then roast lamb or grilled beef it is. One treat that many families splash out on, if the budget allows, is a whole cured ham. It’s more than a centrepiece—part decoration, part snacking station—and it will reappear throughout the holiday, carved wafer‑thin for tapas or as the first thing set out on the Christmas Eve table.
There's a royal speech too. The King does a televised speech on Christmas Eve. It's analysed on the news and, apparently, around a third of Spanish households tune in to watch, which surprises me. Nobody has ever said anything about it to me in all the time I've been here.
Of course, if you're religious, or if you're keen to rerun the same Christmas routines year after year, you might go to midnight mass—la Misa de Gallo. If you're a bit renegade, a bit modern, a bit too influenced by foreigners, you may have Papa Noel (possibly Santa Claus but never Father Christmas) bring some gifts for the youngsters as Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day. The gifts are likely to be those gifts that aren't really gifts: the nice warm coat, the leather jacket, the new school backpack. It's very unlikely that it will be the new Nintendo or the bike for Christmas Day morning. That comes later. Up in the Basque Country of course they have their own gift giver, Olentzero—a coal merchant—and he does deliver the good stuff overnight on the 24th/25th and, again, the US influence may mean that Santa is ousting the traditional Kings as gift givers in the big cities.
Christmas Day is a repeat of Christmas Eve in many ways—not quite as important. Probably the same family members but maybe in a different house and certainly for lunch rather than dinner. The turrón and the mantecados will be there and the food can be anything that the family goes for. It's usually a traditional meal in the sense that it will be traditional to the family whether that be sea bass, paella or even meatballs. The only food that seems to be almost universal is what I would call prawns—langostinos or gambas—and, of course, the ham, the full leg, which may be new or it may have been deflowered the night before.
Christmas Day done with, you’ll probably go back to work until New Year's Eve—just Cataluña and the Balearics take the 26th as a fiesta day. The New Year is a bit less family orientated than the other notable days. The norm is still the big family meal that you interrupt at midnight to watch the broadcast from the Plaza del Sol in Madrid, to eat your twelve grapes to the rhythm of the twelve chimes. Maybe you'll wear red underwear or drop something gold into your celebratory cava. Oh, and of course you'll have a comment for Cristina Pedroche's mad Christmas dress. If you're young, when that's all done you may go out, probably around 2am, to get a bit of partying in. As I said, New Year's Eve is a bit less disciplined than the other family dos. You might, for instance, go out to a restaurant to eat—they'll give you a cotillón, usually a bag full of hats and whistles and poppers and those delightfully named screechy things like blow‑up tongues that are called "mother in law killers" here—matasuegras.
There are towns which have the tradition of people gathering in the streets at midnight to eat the grapes, to drink cava and maybe to dance to loud music. I suppose, among the young, there may be hope of helping someone remove that lucky New Year red underwear too.
We're down to the last couple of events now. First you have to watch the Cabalgata, the parade of the Three Kings through the streets on the evening of the 5th of January. The Kings can arrive in your town by any number of means of transport—from traditional camels and horses to turning up in speedboats, helicopters, or having made a parachute jump. Lots of places have customs to supplement the Kings' arrival, like walking down a mountain with a procession of burning torches or attracting their attention by whirling smouldering esparto grass around your head.
The 5th is the day, especially in the big towns and cities, when the Royal Pages collect the last letters asking the Kings for Christmas gifts. It's one of my favourite days, when whole towns are in movement as people do their last‑minute Christmas shopping. The streets often smell of roasting chestnuts and Christmas spices in the build‑up to the parade. During the cabalgata you will, most likely, be bombarded by sweets thrown from the floats. Younger children bring plastic bags to carry away their haul. As the music of the street parade fades away it's time to go home to eat. The new gastronomic offering of the evening is the Roscón de Reyes, the doughnut‑shaped cake with hidden figures that bring luck—or lumber you with buying the next one. Normally the roscón won't be eaten till breakfast time on the 6th, maybe with hot chocolate but not everyone can wait. Some families have big meals, but most don't.
Late in the evening, while the adults finish off the brandy, the youngsters head to bed, leaving carrots for the Kings’ camels and a small snack for the Kings themselves, often involving a drop of booze. Traditionally, instead of stockings, children leave out their shoes to receive their gifts. With a bit of luck, overnight Melchor, Gaspar and Baltazar will reward the good boys and girls with proper presents; the bad ones, of course, get coal. So, assuming everyone has kept their side of the bargain this year, the morning should bring real treasure: Labubu dolls, bikes, Gui Gui slime kits, scooters, manga figures, unicorns, Jurassic World Primal Hatch sets, Lego, radio‑controlled cars, drones and the latest Barça or Real Madrid strip.
On the morning of the 6th go for a walk in the park—or wherever the locals stroll—and you will see all those new roller skates, dolls, prams, costumes, and gadgets getting their first airing. Then comes one last push, one final meal at lunchtime and the demolition of the roscón: to eat up the last of the walnuts, and to decide whether or not to try the new‑fangled panettones or stollen. Because tomorrow, it's back to school, back to work, and back to lentejas or pasta with tomato sauce.
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