It’s September — and for me, that means Christmas has begun
In the U.S., September means fall — crunchy leaves, pumpkin spice lattes, flannel shirts, and people getting weirdly excited over gourds.
But for me, a Filipino born and raised in the land of “it’s either hot or hotter”, September means one thing: Christmas has begun.
Back home in the Philippines, we don’t have four seasons. We have two moods: hot and soaking wet. Sometimes both. But once the ber months arrive — SeptemBER, OctoBER, NovemBER, DecemBER — something magical happens, and it’s not the weather.
Suddenly the air (even if it’s still 90°F) starts to feel festive. You hear Jose Mari Chan’s voice echoing through every mall. If you don’t know who he is, imagine if Michael Bublé, Santa Claus, and your favorite uncle merged into one velvety-voiced Filipino man who only exists from September to December. He is the sound of Filipino Christmas.
Plastic parols (star-shaped lanterns, some strung with blinking lights) hang from windows. Christmas songs blast from jeepneys, tricycles, and sari-sari stores (tiny corner shops). Store clerks hang tinsel while sweating in 80% humidity. And no one complains — we love it. We dive headfirst into a four-month celebration. And we are not subtle about it.
Fall here, fiesta there
Meanwhile, over here in the U.S., people are still hung up on Halloween. Don’t get me wrong — I’ve grown to love some fall traditions.
Have you ever had a fresh apple-cider donut at Apple Hill in Camino, Northern California? I could live there. (We actually lived near there once — close enough that I was guilty of eating more donuts than any healthcare professional would approve.) I’d hoard those donuts and jugs of fresh cider by the gallon if my hips and glucose levels would just behave — and yes, my hips don’t lie, Shakira-Shakira!
I love the fall colors here — the reds, oranges, and golds that make every drive look like a postcard. Those golden aspens, flaming forest in the sun — we’d drive just to see them. I love picking out and cutting it yourself a real pine tree from the Christmas farms in December, the kind that fills the house with that forest magic. Until, of course, it starts drinking a gallon of water a day, dripping sap on the floor, and ruining the ornaments I proudly found on clearance at TJMaxx.
It’s beautiful here. The food is amazing — especially when your husband happens to be an excellent chef who makes smoked prime rib so good it deserves its own chapter in a cookbook. (Don’t worry, I’ll share his secret soon.)
But no matter how good the apple pie is, there’s nothing like home.
Where everyone belongs
Back home, the holidays are loud, messy, and chaotic in the best way.
It’s not just about the decorations or the music. It’s the food, the gatherings, the laughter, the noise. From neighborhood parties to company Christmas blowouts (complete with raffle prizes and sometimes full-on talent shows), there’s always something happening.
Every tita (auntie) has a dish she swears is the best. Every lola (grandma) is already hoarding ingredients for her kakanin — bibingka (rice cake baked in banana leaves), puto bumbong (purple sticky rice steamed in bamboo), kutsinta (brown rice cake topped with grated coconut). Every tito (uncle) believes he’s the lechon (roast pig) carving master, even though you’ve watched him destroy that crispy skin every single year.
We don’t do quiet, sit-down dinners where everyone politely waits to be served. Filipino parties are potluck feasts where the host still cooks enough for an army — not because people eat a lot (though, yes), but because everyone brings Tupperware. It’s tradition. It’s expected. It’s love in leftover form.
And the viands? Lumpia, pansit for long life, menudo (not the Mexican kind), kare-kare (oxtail in peanut stew), embutido (our version of meatloaf), and of course, lechon (whole roasted pig). Sweet Filipino spaghetti with red hotdogs that confuse foreigners but comfort every Filipino kid alive. Don’t come at me with your marinara; I want my sauce sugary and unapologetically neon.
Back home, everyone is welcome — even the ones who weren’t technically invited. Bring your cousins, your neighbors, the family friend you bumped into at the market. No one minds. The host will still apologize for the food being “not enough” while serving you a second plate the size of your face.
Here, it’s different. Here, I call ahead — to be polite, to “check first.”
Once, I even showed up with flowers for my mother-in-law, just to say hi, maybe do her laundry, because that’s how we show love. She wasn’t thrilled. She said she didn’t want visitors without lipstick. It stung — not because of vanity, but because in my world, you never need lipstick to be loved. You just show up. You bring food. You bring yourself.
The smell of dawn
One thing I miss deeply is Simbang Gabi — the traditional nine-day dawn masses before Christmas Eve. Yes, we wake at 4 a.m. It’s sleepy and solemn and full of light.
But the best part? The vendors waiting outside the church, selling puto bumbong and bibingka. The smell — coconut, burnt banana leaf, butter, smoke — that’s the scent of Christmas itself.
Here, there’s no Simbang Gabi unless you drive an hour and know the tita who knows the priest who knows the schedule. And even then, it’s quiet. No vendors. No chatter. Just the hum of longing in your chest.
Between two worlds
Here in the U.S., the season feels quieter. People are kind, the lights are pretty, the traditions are lovely — but it’s more… compartmentalized. There’s Thanksgiving first, then the tree goes up, then Black Friday. Christmas doesn’t really start until after all that.
And I get it. It’s the rhythm here. I’ve learned to love pieces of it.
But my heart still clings to the chaos back home — where Christmas starts early, ends late, and fills every corner of your life. Where carolers knock on your gate with homemade tambourines made of bottle caps, and you give them coins even if they’re gloriously off-key.
Where titas bring trays of kakanin, kids eat more cheese than should be legal, and neighbors drop off pansit or spaghetti in borrowed containers you never return. Where uncles sneak pandesal into bags para sa aso (“for the dog”).
And yes — the traffic. The hours of crawling through Manila roads that could’ve been a 45-minute drive on a normal day. I don’t miss it when I’m sitting here in peace… but I also kind of do. Because that traffic meant something was happening. Malls are crowded with never ending Christmas shopping. Someone was celebrating. Somewhere, someone was happy.
To all of us away from home
So this is me, sending love from far away — to every Filipino who knows that September isn’t just “fall”… it’s the beginning of everything.
The laughter, the music, the food, the mess.
The joy that somehow still shows up even when you’re broke, tired, and stuck in a jeep in a monsoon.
To all of us living abroad, craving lechon and karaoke and that one cousin who hogs the mic during “My Way”:
I see you.
We might be thousands of miles away.
We might be eating apple pie instead of buko pie (coconut pie).
We might be married to people who don’t understand why we start playing Christmas songs when it’s still 90 degrees outside.
But we carry it.
It’s in our stories, our kitchens, our jokes, and our hearts.
And no matter where we are — we always start Christmas in September.
Because we’re Filipino.
And this is how we love.
P.S. If you’re already in the Christmas spirit (like me 🙋🏻♀️) and want some early gift ideas, check out the holiday goodies I’ve been working on:
My Etsy shop: https://chucklesanddagger.etsy.com
