It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

One day every year my husband comes home in an unusually good mood. Bright-eyed, smiling, barely able to contain his excitement, he says, "Look what's at the grocery store!!!" He whips the grocery bag off of the mystery item to reveal . . . a panettone!?! And it's official; the Christmas season is here.

Surprisingly, this day came rather early this year as he brought home the hallowed item in mid-September. And although Christmas music, decorations, and festivities won't commence for another three months, we know it's on the way. What's so special about panettone, you ask? The truth be told--nothing. My husband would disagree, but he'll have to get his own blog to defend his beloved fruitcake.

A panettone is a tall, cylindrical, sweetbread filled with dried fruits. I believe it is a gift of Italian origin, and in my opinion, not one of their best. Here in Brazil, it is sold only at Christmas (or the four months before). I will, however, give a nod to one of the variations on panettone--Chocottone in which chocolate chunks replace the dried fruit.

My ambivalence to panettone might stem from my first exposure to it some 11 years ago. Nathanael and I had barely begun dating when he invited me to travel to Brazil at Christmas to meet his parents and get a taste of the country which had been his home since birth. Let me state here that in my lovestruck innocence, I didn't eat for the first two weeks of our dating experience. So, suffice it to say, meeting possible in-laws and going on a gastronomical tour of Brazil are not a good combination for someone whose nerves wreak havoc on the intestinal system.

Shortly into our visit, we traveled to a small mountain town and were warmly received by family friends of my in-laws, a Hungarian man and an Italian woman, who run a beautiful bed and breakfast. They invited us to a home-cooked meal in their Swiss-style home. At this point in the trip, I had hardly eaten--usually getting two bites into a meal before nerves and intestines overtook me, and I was forced, embarrassingly and rudely, to stop. Our animated hostess laid before us a feast of gargantuan proportions--the main dish standing out vividly in my mind as gnocchi with pesto sauce. Gnocchi, while delicious, might possibly be the heaviest pasta on the planet!

I managed to eat the first plateful, already experiencing the ominous rumblings from below, when a second serving was heaped onto my plate. The rest of the meal is a blur, including chocolate mousse at some point and an ever pressing need to excuse myself. Finally, pushing chairs away from the table, we commenced a long Brazilian goodbye, when the subject of panettone came up. And, wouldn't you know, she had one in the kitchen! "Oh, please, please, come and try it! You've never had it? Oh, you must have a piece!" And suddenly a formidable slice was shoved into my hand. Oh, the agony of consuming that monstrous, dry fruitcake cousin! In utter defeat, I ate two bites and looked pleadingly at my future husband and shook my head as if to say, "I can't do this!"

I'm not sure if it was my pale countenance or the desperation in my eyes, but he graciously got the hint, took my share, and devoured it, all the while paying compliments to the chef. I made it back to my private quarters, and intestinal difficulties did improve as the trip and relationship went on. But the panettone of '98 still haunts me. And while I don't anticipate the advent of the panettone each year as my husband does, it has become linked to holiday sentiments--and a sour stomach!