In my first family gathering that I can remember, when I was five years old, my parents gave me a piece of Pan de Jamón to eat. At first, I had a few doubts, but then I smelled it and tried it. The first time I ate Pan de Jamón, I loved the taste of the bread with hot jam and cheese. The bread was well cooked, with a sweet flavor coupled with the ham. After the celebrations, I had to wait another year to eat Pan de Jamón again.

My father was always the one who did most of the work to prepare and cook Pan de Jamón. He learned how to do it when my mother was pregnant with me, in New York. Sometimes I would help him in the preparation if he needed it. I brought out the jam and olives and put them in the bread before he rolled it up. After that, he put the bread in the oven for forty minutes. After thirty minutes in the oven, I could smell that the bread and ham were almost ready to eat. I craved eating the Pan de Jamón at the first moment I could.

Pan de Jamón was a family custom. When we lived in the state of Valencia, in Venezuela, every Christmas and New Year’s, my father’s side of the family— my dad’s brothers, their children and wives, and the grandparents—all gathered together at my house to celebrate with a lot of food. My parents always prepared more than five Pan de Jamón before the special days to have the bread filled with ham, cheese, and olives fresh with the best smell and taste for everybody. During dinner, Pan de Jamón was the food that everyone grabbed the most, especially children—although children, including me at the time (and even now), removed the olives. 

Everybody always congratulated my father for the taste of bread and jam, although he was always modest. After the dinner concluded and everybody was preparing to go back to their homes, there was usually still Pan de Jamón on the table, so my parents would give it away to everybody to keep eating over the next few days. Even after we moved to Costa Rica, my family kept the custom, gathering together with my uncle and my grandmother from my mother’s side in my uncle’s house.

Now that I am in New York, I can’t keep the custom going because I don’t know how to make Pan de Jamón like my dad makes it, and my parents aren’t here with me. I feel nostalgic about those times. I miss them often, but, most of all, I miss getting together with everyone. One of these days, I think I will buy one for myself and eat it with the few family members I have here.

I hope in the future to continue the custom with my own family in New York, to remember the old days and keep family ties. Pan de Jamón is food, but, more than that, in my memories, it is what brings us together, what connects us. Even though I could go to a store and buy it, cooking it with my dad is what makes it special.