In my defence I state that I refuse to be hoodwinked by all the commercial razzmatazz that has completely overwhelmed this festival.

There are times when I'm quite happy to play up to the Scrooge status, especially when it comes to Christmas decorations. When I first came to Portugal, a few decades back, one of the things that I found most attractive at this time of the year was that shops didn't start to parade Christmas under your nose until about the week before and that street decorations – if there were any at all – wouldn't appear until about the same time. I have to admit that this all fitted in with my own childhood experiences: we used to put up the decorations at home on Christmas Eve, to the sound of the Carol Service from Kings on the radio (or live, if we opened the window). Of course, all that has changed and now, instead of it being a gentle time about peace, harmony and the slow changing of the seasons, it's all about maxing out the credit card while being blasted with trashy muzak amidst blinking lights.

Unless you stay at home until all the nonsense is over, that is. Once the tinsel and the glitter start to disfigure the centre of town, I prefer to keep away. No point in disturbing that hard-won inner tranquillity by venturing into streets filled with crass symbols, which are only there to make you spend more. That, and hearing 'Little Drummer Boy' sung by a loop. You only have to catch a snatch of that kind of thing to turn you instantly into a Grinch. You need to anticipate any seasonal shopping and get it all done before the lights are turned on as anything that needs to be done after that dismal day can only be achieved with earplugs and dark glasses. I'm all for having a discrete and tasteful display at home, mind, but don't even think about putting any decs outside the house. A few candles, some greenery, a little glitter around the house can be delightful, as long as it is restrained and not overdone.

Food

Then there's the food and drink to consider. Me, I love a table groaning under the weight of Christmas goodies, with a gaggle of people sitting around it, eyes shining in anticipation. However, what I do find difficult to adjust to is the Portuguese traditional Christmas Eve fare, a consoada de Natal. It is, after all, the main family meal of the year and, you would think, it would be memorable. Actually, I do usually find it memorable, but perhaps not in the way intended. There are, they tell us, 365 different ways of cooking bacalhau, many of them culinary works of art. So why oh why do they choose the blandest and, frankly, least appetising way of preparing it for Christmas? Yes, I've heard all the paeans sung extolling the beautiful simplicity of gently poached cod dribbled with top quality olive oil but in the end it's just boiled fish - and boiled fish is simply dull.

Then there is the veg. Boiled cabbage to go with the boiled spuds to go with the boiled fish. Not just any boiled cabbage either. Back in the day, my mother would start making the Christmas puddings way back in the autumn, while the trees were still changing colour. My suspicion is that this tradition is perversely kept alive in Portugal by people who start to boil the poor innocent Christmas brassica round about that time, ensuring that a once fine couve penca becomes a veritable gloop – the kind of gloop that could be rented out to film studios making sci fi films.


I quite enjoy rabanadas to follow, though aletreia and bolo rei both leave me numb with boredom. You can imagine what a delight I am to have at your consoada de Natal, can't you? My late sogra, bless her, knew of these character flaws in this peculiar foreigner her daughter had married and she did her best to compensate. I would be the only one at the table, for example, to be given fried bacalhau (of which I am fond) though she did give me about a kilo and a half of it, all piled up in front of my plate. She would then watch eagle-eyed during the meal to check not only that I was eating it, but enjoying it too. I learned coping techniques, boosted by the knowledge that my in-laws were looking out for me with seasonal compassion – and that their spartan idea of Christmas decorations made mine look decidedly excessive.


The tragedy of the bacalhau turns into a delight the following day when it is served up as roupa velha, a sort of fishy version of bubble and squeak. That's almost worth waiting for. Almost. And I have to admit that my tuga family have taken very well to my homemade mince pies, so that is worth celebrating too. I'll even raise a glass to that – but not a moment before the right time and the right time is Christmas and Christmas starts on December 24th and no earlier.

Bah! Humbug!

Author

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell