Most families in Bermuda have their own special traditions at Christmastime; whether it’s viewing the annual parade of festive boats in Hamilton harbour, or preparing a feast of well-loved dishes, such as cassava (or farine) pie. In my family, one tradition was having Christmas dinner together each year at Grandmother’s house in Somerset (although, there were certain relatives I really wished wouldn’t attend; namely, my three aunts, Esther, Mae and Rosa).

My aunts didn’t always agree on certain things, and their competitiveness and squabbling hadn’t, thus far, been influenced by the spirit of goodwill that was supposed to prevail during the holiday season. Christmas dinner with my aunts was one tradition I dreaded and they always took it for granted that they should help out in the kitchen.

My Grandmother was a traditionalist (and one of the best chefs on the Island) who always prided herself on fixing the best Christmas dinners for her family. The kitchen was her area of mastery, and she certainly didn’t need anyone’s help preparing a Christmas feast, although she often let me be her assistant. However, my aunts also thought they knew a thing or two about cooking, and trying to keep them out of the kitchen was simply impossible.

One Christmas that I remember well, my aunts descended on Grandmother’s kitchen, anxious to add their culinary “expertise” to the Christmas dinner, yet again.

“Do they have to help?” I grumbled quietly to Grandmother. She merely winked and gave me a conspiratorial smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said confidently. “I have a feeling things will work out okay. Those three will get along very<$> well this evening.”

I didn’t quite know what she meant, but I knew the rest of the day was going to get very interesting, if she had something special planned!

The old saying that warns against having “too many cooks” in the kitchen is so true; my family was a living testament to that. Aunt Esther liked the more traditional Bermudian Christmas dinners, but Aunt Mae and Aunt Rosa were completely different. Aunt Rosa had once spent a year living in the Orient with her husband, and she had learned practically everything about Indian and Turkish cuisine. She insisted that our regular Christmas dinner needed an extra flair, and firmly believed that baklava <$>would be a much better dessert than the traditional fruit cake or Christmas pudding.

Aunt Mae, on the other hand, had absolutely no talent in the kitchen, and couldn’t even boil water without burning it. But she was determined not to be left out of the holiday cooking preparations, and no one could persuade her otherwise.

So here were three ladies who were destined to clash in any kitchen you put them in. Their malice toward one another could put a sour flavour in even the best Christmas dinner, if not for Grandmother’s intervention (and she always knew how to handle a family squabble).

“Now”, said Grandmother, taking stock of the food preparations, “I want to start with something special: a nice soup.”

“And I’ll do the turkey”, volunteered Aunt Rosa. “It would taste wonderful if we flavour it with some of my curry powder.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Aunt Esther exclaimed. “You put curry in chicken, not turkey! Don’t ruin the Christmas dinner.” And so it all started.

Grandmother, however, went blithely about her business, fixing her recipe for her special “soup”. She seemed unconcerned about my aunts quarrelling over the correct way to slice the roasting potatoes, or whether the vegetables should be steamed or boiled.

Grandma Raynor’s soup began to interest me. She worked so effortlessly and diligently, like Rembrandt creating a “magnum opus”. Her ingredients were lined up like soldiers on the kitchen table: onions, celery, cloves, and split green peas, with all the necessary spices for flavouring. But there was one thing I noticed that was very strange, one particular spice I had never seen before.

Having been Grandma’s helper in the kitchen many times before, I was quite familiar with all the different types of spices and herbs, such as marjoram and thyme. But this particular spice, in an odd, unlabeled bottle, I had never seen before.

“What spice is that, Grandma?” I asked. “Are you planning to use it for your soup?”

She looked at me for a moment, and her eyes began to twinkle like a mischievous old elf. She nodded toward my aunts, who were now arguing over who was to blame for messing up the turkey stuffing.

“Do you believe in magic, child?” she asked in a low voice. From the way she glanced at me, I knew she was serious.

“Of course not!” I scoffed, determined to convince her I was beyond the age of fairy tales and legends.

“Not even at Christmas?” she asked insistently. She was holding the bottle of spice in her hands, though cleverly concealing it from my view.

Continued on Page 15

<$>Perplexed, I went back to my task, which was mixing the garden salad. My family would enjoy this Christmas dinner, if my aunts’ bickering didn’t give everyone indigestion.

Grandmother continued with her soup, which by that time, was bubbling and boiling on the stove, and sending forth the most delectable fragrance. Even my aunts stopped what they were doing to compliment Grandma on her Christmas soup, although none of us had tasted it yet. Still, just from its pleasant aroma, you knew that it would be the best soup you ever tasted.

Grandmother always said that soup was very special food, that it nourished you, mind, body and spirit. Good soup, she said, was almost like manna, when it was prepared properly. I asked her once, what was the proper way to prepare soup?

“With love, of course.” Grandma had insisted. That was something she always knew about and shared with others, especially with her family, and at Christmastime.

Everyone was famished, and the dinner was nearly ready. I watched Grandma stirring her soup at the stove. With her spoon, she tasted it, and nodded approvingly. Then, unknown to anyone else but myself, she reached over to that odd bottle of spice, and with liberal doses, flavoured her soup with it. She turned to me, her co-conspirator, and winked. It was a wink that said, “You wait and see what happens.”

Sitting down to the meal, we all relished our Christmas dinner, with each of my aunts encouraging everyone to taste her own particular contributions. Thinking back, I can see that it was truly amazing how the flavour of the Orient met with the traditional Bermudian dishes at our table. It was like the east meeting the west, and I began to think what a shame it was that my aunts couldn’t come together in the same way.

But Grandmother’s soup clearly outshone everything else at the table. Everyone raved over it, as she served out the rich, steamy broth, and it was only a short time before the soup was emptied from everyone’s bowls. That was when I noticed the transformation. That is the only word I can use to describe it, for there is no other way to describe how three women, who were so contentious toward each other only a brief time ago, could now be treating each other in the most sincerely affectionate manner that you could imagine.

There was no more arguing to be heard from any of my aunts for the rest of the evening; they complimented each other on the work they had done, and as everyone left for the night, they hugged and kissed goodbye, promising to see each other again soon. I looked suspiciously at my Grandmother, but she merely gave me a satisfied grin, and I knew that she had succeeded in working her “magic” from the kitchen.

No, it must have been the spice that caused the change; Grandma’s mysterious spice that she had used in her soup. I never saw her use it again, but I do know that it certainly had long-lasting effects. My aunts remain the best of friends, even today. It has often been said, that loves comes in many different forms. But love couldn’t possibly come in the form of a single, odd-looking bottle of spice. Or could it?