A lot of people have flocked into the nearest supermarket for the Christmas season. Mama wasn’t fazed by a number of people flocking the shelves, as it was another normal grocery day. She slowly handpicked the ingredients and other goodies that she needed for our family gathering, as she hums to the tune of Andy Williams, which she heard over the radio. The store slowly grew crowded as if ants were coming, left and right, scrambling for food.
It was Christmas Eve. Not even a trace of cold air had touched the city. Not even a trace of rainfall. Only the sun’s warmth and light kept the busy city alive during the month. The sidewalks were filled with people, walking past the humongous facades. Car horns were heard everywhere as well. Every supermarket has mothers and their children, spending time picking what the children want from the shelves. As for Mama, all she brought were her shopping list, her posh Louis Vuitton bag, and her love for her youngest son.
As she trotted along the Christmas themed shelves, pushing the heavy shopping cart, she quickly remembered what she didn’t put on her shopping list.
Queso de Bola. My childhood fancy.
I remember when my paternal grandma used to send me one of those every Christmas Eve when she came home from the province. I could not forget how that big ball of Edam cheese, wrapped in deep crimson, tasted. It was properly aged, awash with mild pungency and chunkiness beyond compare. It was total bliss to the palate.
Mama then picked one and neatly placed it in her cart. Then, a long line of Christmas shoppers greeted her from the rows of cashiers. Other shoppers slithered through the crowd like snakes passing through.
A lady in her late fifties, with short, blond hair and wrinkly skin, along with her husband and children, fell in line behind and greeted her.
“Julie! Long time no see ah!” she spoke with a Fookien accent.
Mama then switched to their usual Fookien dialect. Auntie Cynthia and Mama were high school classmates before. They stayed in contact for years when cellphones are continually innovating and are the norm. It seemed like they haven’t met for months since last year’s reunion party.
“Where’s your son, by the way? Didn’t you always take him all the time?”
“Well…”
I was lying on my sickbed, sweating, zipping my sweater as the pain in my head grew more excruciating. This bad fever had me for days and the medicine the doctor prescribed did not really work at all. Light behind heavy, billowing clouds passed through the tinted glass of our sliding balcony door, behind the peach and white colored curtains. Beside me was a coffee table made of mahogany and a marbled top, and placed there are my leftovers, a pitcher of water and my medicine.
I sighed. If only Grandma was still here.
But her very old age and a serious sickness led her to an untimely fate. It was a long time that she brought those special queso de bolas from the province. More than a decade, in fact, that my craving for Queso de Bola has ended ever since.
It was six in the evening. I heard someone unlocking our door. Following the unlocking sound is the clinking of the chimes as the door opens.
Mama got home with lots of grocery bags, along with Papa, who drove her to the supermarket and back home.
She then brought along slices of bread to my room and, surprisingly, the particular Queso de Bola that Grandma always bought. I did not know that they were being imported here in the city. She did not mind the leftovers as she swaps them with the bread and the ball of cheese.
“Are you hungry?”
I still feel full, but I nodded. As she opened the tough red packaging, she sliced the cheese in half, then a small thin slice using the bread knife. She placed it atop of the bread slice, folded it, and gave it to me.
There was this sense of nostalgia as I take the first bite. It was the same old taste as the last time I have enjoyed it with Grandma. I could not control my facial muscles as I ended up with a small grin on the face.
I was 14 back then.
Photo Courtesy of EnglishChannel.Com