"But dad! Santa doesn't like Diet Coke!"

As one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, I don't celebrate Christmas, Easter, or any other major holidays. This being the case, I wasn't born a Jehovah’s Witness and before my mom and I started studying with them we did celebrate Christmas for the first eleven years of my life. During those eleven years never ONCE did my family and I ever leave out cookies and milk for "Santa Claus." Our Christmas tradition was a little more original.

Our tradition included spending all day Christmas Eve making a feast of enchiladas, and then leaving some out for Santa with a tumbler of Diet Coke. This tradition came about because of my mother’s Mexican heritage. Her father (my papa) passed down many secret recipes from the days when he owned his own restaurant. This included a delicious enchilada which my mom makes beautifully. Since this enchilada was one of my dad’s favorites and because he was the real Santa, he decided to break the mold of milk and cookies. So one day before Christmas he told me: “Mandy, I’ve had a talk with Santa Claus, and he told me that he would appreciate something other than milk and cookies. He wants some meat and protein! We are going to mix it up, and give him some variety. He told me that he sees us eating mom’s enchiladas and he wants some! Then to wash it down, we will leave out some Diet Coke. Sound Good?” I remember my child sized voice rising in panic going: “BUT DAD, SANTA DOESN’T LIKE DIET COKE! HE WANTS MILK AND COOKIES! WHAT IF SANTA DOESN’T LIKE ONIONS OR CHEESE?” As I started to cry, my dad took me in his arms and told me that nobody could resist my mom’s food. He said that Santa would probably send bigger presents because he liked it so much. This of course, stopped my protests and that year our tradition began.

As anybody who has ever made authentic Hispanic food before knows, it is an all day project. To keep ourselves busy through the seemingly never ending hours of Christmas Eve, we would make our feast of Mexican food. Early in the morning we would head to the grocery store and gather all of the ingredients needed to make the delicious food. The four of us would go and split up into twos to gather all the necessary items. I remember racing my younger brother through the isle’s to get my ingredients before he did. I usually won.

Part of the enchilada tradition was not to eat a real meal all day but just lightly graze instead. So after the grocery excursion we would set out some home-made salsa, chips, and plain tortillas on the table. Then it was time to get to work making the real feast. The actual cooking memories are a little fuzzy now, because the many hours of cooking were my least favorite part. My job was to layer the pans of tortillas with shredded cheese. My real goal was to sneak as much cheese into my mouth when my parents weren’t looking.

We would make three giant pans of enchiladas. There would be one beef with onions, one chicken with onions, and one chicken without onions for my brother and me. Then after what seemed like days of waiting dinner-time would finally come. At this point we were all starving! After all, salsa and tortillas can only keep hunger at bay for so long. My brother and I would set the table, then we would all sit down and eat, and eat, and eat. Pretty soon you could see the bulge of our bellies, and we would sigh and talk about how good of cooks we all were. We would speculate a bit on what Santa might bring. Then my little brother would start to nod off, and our parents would put him to bed. I would clear the table of the half empty enchilada pans and help my parent’s wrap up the mounds of leftovers. Then without being told, I would get out the plate, the fork, the knife, and the glass with ice and set them on the table. My dad would drop a generous amount of beef enchiladas (his favorite) on the plate, with a dollop of sour cream on top. He would fill the glass with Diet Coke, and then we would all head to bed.

Every year I would get so stressed about Santa not liking the food, but every year the plate was scraped clean and the glass empty with a thank you note lying next to it. Then I would wake up everybody in the house, and then go wait by the tree. Looking back, I have no idea how my dad could force down more enchiladas and lukewarm soda. He did it though, up until we stopped celebrating the holiday for religious reasons. For awhile we kept up the tradition in the summer time, but it eventually waned off. So while I don’t miss Christmas, I miss this tradition more than anything.