For as long as I can remember, Christmas has meant homecomings. Until I turned sixteen, home was wherever my parents and I were. But Christmas itself belonged to my grandparents’ house. It was there that the whole extended family gathered, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, filling every corner with noise, colour, and joy. After I left for college, that house continued to draw us all back for the holidays, its familiar courtyard echoing with carols and chatter, the kitchen overflowing with the fragrance of spice and cooking.
Those childhood Christmases shimmer in memory; the thrill of star-shaped lanterns swaying from veranda roofs, the rustle of new dresses, and the slow walk back from Midnight Mass. But those early Christmases were only the first chapter in my story. The next began when I married and came into another home. A home that for the past thirty-four years has been the heart of all my Christmases.
In Kerala, it is a cherished custom for married sons to return to their parents’ home for Christmas with their families. My husband Manoj’s ancestral house, anchored by my father-in-law Prof. Sunny Thomas (“Daddy”) and mother-in-law Prof. Josamma Sunny (“Mummy”), became our gathering place. What joy it was each December to see that big, welcoming house come alive again. Every bedroom filled, voices ringing from dawn till late night, and the smell of cooking drifting from the kitchen. Mummy and Daddy were the soul of it all: two of the most gracious, affectionate, and hospitable people anyone could meet.
Mummy ruled the kitchen with quiet authority and endless love. She took such delight in feeding everyone. Every year, she would plan the Christmas menu with care. Cutlets, biriyani, appam and chicken curry, fried fish, rich plum cake, caramel pudding... Her warmth radiated far beyond the food; it was in the way she noticed who hadn’t yet eaten, or slipped an extra cutlet onto your plate. In her bustling, fragrant kitchen, love took on the shape of simple service, echoing the Lord who came “not to be served, but to serve.”
Daddy complemented her with his sparkling personality. A professor of English and the National Coach for the Indian Shooting team that shone in the Olympics, he was a gifted storyteller, witty, sharp, and irresistibly engaging. Evenings often ended on the verandah with him regaling us with stories from his youth: mischievous college adventures, tales of Christmases long ago, and reflections that made us laugh and think in equal measure. He had that rare gift of turning ordinary memories into moments of gold.
One particular tradition stands out for me, the making of beef cutlets. It was a ritual every Christmas and Easter, one that symbolised both celebration and togetherness. On the very first Christmas Eve I spent in my husband’s home after marriage, Mummy was in the kitchen mixing the ingredients for the beloved cutlets: cooked minced beef, mashed potatoes, finely chopped onions, green chillies, ginger, curry leaves, and just enough garam masala to awaken the senses. The mixture would be shaped into oblong cutlets, dipped in beaten egg white, rolled in breadcrumbs, and tucked away in the fridge to be fried crisp and golden the next day. As we worked that evening, Daddy wandered in from time to time, claiming to “check if the seasoning was right.” In truth, he was happily sampling generous spoonfuls of the mixture each time! I remember standing there in that warm kitchen, listening to their loving banter, feeling utterly enfolded by love. In that moment, I silently prayed that God would grant me many years in this home, kneading, shaping, laughing, and living like this.
God did answer that prayer. For thirty-four years, I have been blessed to return to that same kitchen for Christmas and Easter, shaping cutlets side by side with Mummy, sometimes joined by daughters-in-law and grandchildren as the family grew. That small tradition carried with it the scent of continuity; proof that family love can pass down through something as simple as a shared recipe. It also became, for me, a kind of domestic liturgy: the breaking, shaping, and sharing of food mirroring the Eucharist that nourished us at the altar, reminding us that Christ is present both in church and around our table.
But this last Easter was different. Daddy had been diagnosed with kidney disease, and we all knew he had to follow a strict diet without red meat. Yet, as always, when Mummy, my sister-in-law, and I were making the cutlets seated around a table, Daddy came up to us, pretending to be helpful. “Shall I lend a hand?” he asked the first time, eyes twinkling. We laughed and said no. Ten minutes later, he reappeared: “Are you sure you don’t need some help?” We laughed again. When he came a third time, asking if we were tired, I saw the longing in his eyes and said, “Come, Daddy, join us.”
He smiled like a happy child and plunged his hands into the bowl, shaping a perfect cutlet, then, of course, “tasting” a little of the mixture. We chatted and laughed as we worked, Mummy pretending to scold while he winked triumphantly. My daughter-in-law, Cassandra, amused by the scene, clicked a picture of us laughing together. None of us knew it would be the last photograph we’d ever take with him.
Not long after Easter, he passed away, quietly, unexpectedly. As this Christmas approaches, I find myself returning to that kitchen in memory. The cutlets will still get made (more carefully now), and when I shape them, I will feel Daddy’s laughter hovering close. The scent of frying cutlets will fill the air again, carrying with it a tenderness that words cannot capture. In faith, there is also a quiet consolation: the trust that Daddy now celebrates the heavenly banquet, in the presence of the One whose birth we rejoiced in each year on earth.
Christmas this year will be gentler, perhaps tinged with tears, but also threaded with gratitude, for the years God granted, the love that deepened with time, and the priceless heritage of family. In the end, it isn’t just the festive meals or the decorations that make Christmas sacred. It is the love that continues to feed us, year after year, even when the hands that once shaped the cutlets are no longer there, their warmth forever lingers in our hearts. And so, around our humble table, we will once more welcome the Christ Child, asking Him to bless our memories, heal our grief, and keep our family united in His love until we meet again in His eternal home.
