The Immaculate Conception
When we arrived from Canada to Malta back in 1992, it was a culture shock to say the least. We would often come for summer holidays and those would be a whirlwind of relatives, friends and nearest and dearest who all want to see you in the three short months that you’ll be around. It’s very different from living here, going to school here and living your daily life on this little island in the Mediterranean.
We were living in Bormla at the time and it was really quite wonderful. There were two little grocers, one owned by an Australian-Maltese guy and the other was called ‘Mizzi General Store’ or something like that and a small stationery called ‘Troisi Bazaar’. Now, almost 30 years on, these are normal mundane things but to the girl who was used to Safeway, Toys R Us and Canadian Tire they were exotic and new and weird. Everyone was so nice to us and treated us so well. And everything was so personal and insular which was also quite new and weird.
But what was also new and very weird was what would happen in Bormla on the 8th of December. And that would be the day commemorating the immaculate conception. More popularly known in Bormla as ‘il-festa’.
I had no idea what was a festa. No idea whatsoever.
So my dad decided to rectify this situation by telling me to grab my coat because we were going venture out into ‘festa-land’.
I was almost 7. I was very tiny and very quiet. The festa was not tiny or quiet. As soon as we hit the principle road, there were people everywhere, shouting, singing and drinking. Out of nowhere a man with a tuba blasted a cacophony in my ear. Then an entire marching band materialized there, in the middle of the road. Kids were everywhere, running around and shouting, holding clouds of pink candy floss. Crowds of people chanting something in Maltese.
It was really something. I had never seen anything quite like it. It was quite an experience.
I didn’t know it at the time but my dad was on a mission. While away from under my mother’s watchful eye, my dad approached a cart which seemed to be selling oblong, beige bricks with nuts in them. He bought a particularly large brick, asked for an opaque plastic bag to hide this thing from my mum and brought it home, grabbing my hand and rushing as it had started to rain heavily and none of us had an umbrella.
Once in the safety of the kitchen my dad unwrapped the brick and sliced off a piece and proceeded to chew it exclaiming ‘oh how I’ve missed this!’ He then proceeded to cut off a slice for me and told me that this was going to be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I looked wearily at the slice of chewy brick, which by then I had been told that it was nougat. This was not the first time my dad had told me that something was going to be the best thing I’ve ever tasted and it turned out to be horrendous: kippers, anchovies, picalilly to name a few.
And this was no different. So sickly sweet and nasty. Another shock to the system. My dad was devouring the brick with gusto. I wasn’t so keen, to which he replied ‘ok! More for me!’
Back then everything was so wonderful and new. Every day was an adventure and a learning experience.
And every time the 8th of December rolls around I feel nostalgic and warm and happy.
So I wish a really happy feast to all those from Bormla today. Maybe you can’t go out and celebrate due to these scary Covid times, but I hope you can get the feeling in your hearts that I have on this day.

Slight edit: the Australian grocer was not Australian at all, I’ve been informed…his name was Karmenu and he was actually Maltese-Canadian, like me! He had run a corner shop in Mississauga before coming to Malta.