Getting into the ‘hallaca spirit’ of Christmas
Wednesday, December 4, 2024
Silvia Cusati
If you've ever spent Christmas in Venezuela (or have a Venezuelan family), you know that the holiday season is really all about the food. And by that, I mean hallacas. If you’ve never had one, let me paint the picture: Imagine cornmeal dough filled with a mix of pork, beef, chicken, veggies, olives, raisins, and spices, then wrapped up in plantain leaves like little festive gifts. It’s like the world's most delicious mystery package. And trust me, the smell of hallacas boiling on Christmas Eve? Heavenly.
For me, though, hallacas aren’t just about filling your stomach, they’re about memories, tradition, and family. My mom was the undisputed champion of hallacas. Seriously, her hallacas were so good, people would line up like they were waiting for Black Friday deals. All my family would sneak into the kitchen to get a taste before they were officially ready. It became a competition: Who could grab the first bite without getting caught? (Of course, I always got caught, but it was worth it.)
After my mom passed away, Christmas changed a lot. The house felt quieter, the kitchen felt emptier, and the smell of hallacas, which once filled the air, was missing. But here’s the funny thing: Despite the sadness, something magical happened. I found myself in the kitchen, kneading dough and stuffing leaves, trying to bring her tradition back to life. The first batch was... well, a learning experience (my dough looked more like cement than cornmeal), but with time, I learned that the real gift of making hallacas wasn’t just about getting it perfect. It was about the love and patience you put into it. And that’s when the faith part of it hit me.
Making hallacas isn’t a quick, grab-and-go affair like picking up takeout. It’s a journey. You knead the dough, layer in the fillings, wrap each one carefully, and then you wait. You wait while they cook, while loved ones gather, and, finally, for the big Christmas Eve celebration. To me, there’s no better way to capture the essence of Advent.
Advent is a time of waiting. Waiting for the birth of Christ, waiting for peace and joy to enter our hearts. And like making hallacas, it requires patience. When we’re rushing around buying gifts or trying to make everything "perfect" for Christmas, it’s easy to forget that the waiting, the preparation, is what matters most. The season isn’t about the hustle; it’s about creating space in our hearts for Christ to come. And if your Advent feels rushed or chaotic… you need a bit more hallaca spirit. Slow down. Take the time to appreciate the process.
My mom taught me that. Yes, she was a perfectionist (which meant she’d never let anyone wrap a hallaca without a little "guidance"), but what I remember most was the joy we shared while making them together. It was a time for conversation, for laughter, for coming together as a family. Even when things didn’t go according to plan, we had each other. And that’s what Advent is all about, preparing for Christ’s coming, not just through big gestures but through everyday acts of love and patience.
Making hallacas is a family event. Trust me, no one can make hallacas alone. It’s like an Olympic relay race: one person spreads the dough, another fills it, someone folds the leaves, and another one ties them up. Everyone has a role, and you need each person to make it all work. Hallacas are made better when everyone pitches in, just like any community is stronger when we all come together.
In the same way, Advent is a reminder that we’re not in this alone. We’re part of something bigger, a community that prepares together for Christ’s birth. In our family, that’s what hallacas represent: coming together, helping one another, and sharing what we have. Whether it’s a meal or a moment of prayer, the beauty of Advent is found in the way we share our lives with others, just as Christ shared His life with us.
I think my mom knew that better than anyone. She didn’t just make hallacas to feed us; she made them to bring us together. It wasn’t about who could make the best ones; it was about sharing the work, the laughter, and the love that filled the room. Now, every time I wrap a hallaca, I think about how I’m passing on more than just a recipe, I’m passing on a piece of my family’s heart. And that’s something I hope my kids will carry on too.
Hallacas are full of everything: meats, olives, raisins, vegetables, and spices, rolled up into one dish. The layers of flavor remind me of something else: the richness of Christ’s love. When He came into the world as a tiny baby, He didn’t just bring one gift, He brought the fullness of God’s love, grace, and mercy, all wrapped up in humility.
Just like the many ingredients that make a hallaca special, Christ’s coming brings an abundance of blessings into our lives. His love doesn’t just fill us up, it transforms us. And no matter how messy the kitchen gets or how “imperfect” your hallacas turn out, the spirit of love, generosity, and hope is what matters most. Advent teaches us that Christ’s love is available to everyone, no matter how much we “deserve” it. Just as we share hallacas with family and friends, we are called to share Christ’s love with the world.
So this Christmas when you’re making your own hallacas, or any other tradition you hold dear, remember that it’s not about perfection. It’s about the love, the unity, and the patience that go into creating something beautiful. And while the perfect hallaca might be a mystery (I’ll never get it just like my mom), the true joy is found in the process, in the shared moments, and in the anticipation of Christ’s arrival.
Advent is our time to prepare our hearts, just like we prepare our kitchens. So slow down. Laugh. Share. And make room for the greatest gift of all: the love and hope that Christ’s birth brings to the world. And if your hallacas end up a little lopsided? No worries, mine always do too. As my mom would say, “It’s the love that counts, not the wrapping.”
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