Mood Swings A Coptic Christmas carol By Sherif Milad Stepping out of the house on the eve of 6 January was no ordinary task. A lot of work would have been put into the preparations, and this would continue until we locked that door behind us. All had to look perfect before getting into the car to drive to the Church of the Archangel Michael, in Deir Al- Malak, to attend midnight Christmas mass followed by dinner at my aunt's place. During the long preparations for this day, my brother and I would have visited Monsieur Hassan, the tailor, several times to be fitted for new suits, and we would have watched them evolve from sleeveless, buttonless, contoured wraps, to the perfect suits we are now wearing. Mother would have visited Sami Hammad's salon to have her hair done; and she would have had a few seamstresses on the verge of a nervous breakdown before producing the perfect dress. My father would finally have agreed to wear a tie, after putting up the usual annual resistance. Perfume would have been sprayed liberally in order to out-wit and out-last incense or any other odoriferous substance, and finally, the mirror in the elevator would have reassured all of us that not a hair was out of place. Approaching Al-Qobba Gardens, mother always pointed out houses where friends and distant family members live, or have lived, followed by a brief update on their news, and the question of whether or not they will be in church tonight. Upon reaching the church, we entered through a crowd of children, street vendors, and beggars, hoping that the occasion would yield a higher return than usual. Mother saying, as always, that it is a blessing the church is over-flowing with people, makes the sign of the cross, and charge on. At the door, the old attendant of the church upon seeing my mother ran, as always, to get us some of the special church bread, qurban (offering bread). This is bread we share with each other after mass, the bread being a symbol of the body of the church and of love for one another. This man has known my mother, and her family, since her childhood. When she was four years old, her father was the presiding priest of this church, and her mother was the reigning matriarch. People still remember them. This is the church were my parents got married and where I was baptised and named after its patron saint. After going in to pray, there was always a quick survey to see which other family members were there; usually a lot. It was always hard to get further in the church through the crowds of people, all -- like ourselves -- dressed up for the occasion. And so, we would remain near the entrance until it was time to leave, after wishing half the crowd a very merry Christmas. Back at Aunt Alice's place, the final preparations for the festivities were well underway. All the tiers of the chandelier, as well as the other lights in the house, would have been switched on, slipcovers removed from the furniture and piles of formal china in different shapes and sizes and tall glasses placed on the table. In the kitchen, grandmothers, and some three housemaids -- some of them borrowed just for the occasion -- orchestrated the movement of food in and out of the oven, and stovetops; timing is of the essence. The guests would arrive in groups depending on who drove whom this year. Some of them, depending on their status, were greeted on their way up, two landings below. There were always hugs, kisses, and some serious handshakes for the boys to test their physical strength. Everyone would be dressed in their finery in suits and ties, long dresses and glittering jewellery. After the crowd moved to the living room, the guest of honour would appear on the coffee table, namely Mr Johnny Walker himself. The bottle was offered back and forth as a gesture of honour for one of the guests to crack it open. The ice is in the bucket, drinks all around. An ambassador of the living room crowd always tried to negotiate the early release of some kofta and vine leaves to go with the drinks; very often he would succeed. The guests, after a few sips, would slip into well-rehearsed conversation, accompanied by plenty of "I assure your excellency, I know! I know!" In the background, oval and round, flat and deep serving dishes migrated towards the kitchen. A good sign. Roast beef, kofta panne, a meat loaf with boiled eggs in the centre, stuffed vine leaves, chicken or turkey, rice, Salade Russe, veal cutlets and tasty sauces, and most of all two trays of roqaq, filo, one with cheese and another with ground beef, took their places on the dining table. Time to feast. My aunt would then stand and smile, raising her glass towards all present to propose a toast to their health, friendship, and happiness. New flannel pyjamas were waiting on our beds at home. They helped us get out of the new suits and go to bed fast to start the whole thing again the next morning. Christmas day. The entire crowd from last night would reconvene at our house for the big Christmas lunch. My brother always welcomed them with firebombs (firecrackers), throwing them from our balcony on the 6th floor. We thought this was great fun, the guests, funnily enough, did not. Then Uncle Maurice would show up, and looking at us with a big smile, would reach into his pocket and produce a bunch of brand, spanking new banknotes, the 'Eidiya! The thrill, of course, was holding this brand new, freshly minted, razor-sharp money. After all, Christmas is about new life. Along with the new clothes and new money, the whole year is a new chance to do better and full of promise to fill it with new and happy memories. Merry Christmas! This week's contributor is an Egyptian expatriate living in New York.
