The story of my family begins in Bilbao, 1936—a city between Spain and France, where my grandparents, proud Basques, found themselves caught in the storm of civil war. They left their homeland for survival, crossing the Atlantic to Venezuela—a land of sun, oil, and hope that offered freedom. In 1954 they arrived in Caracas by boat. 

There, they built new lives but never quite felt at home. The Basque diaspora clung to itself like driftwood—helping each other find housing and work, yet building invisible walls around their world. My mother was thirteen when they arrived and never went back to school, working instead to support the family. They lived behind an appliance store, saving so my aunt could study pharmacy. My mother became a secretary and later married my father, another Basque immigrant. Inside our home, everything was Basque—our food, our songs, even our silences. 

Then one Christmas, something shifted. My mother learned to bake Pan de Jamón—that sweet Venezuelan bread with ham, raisins, and olives. She made it her own, using Serrano ham and creating the first bicultural loaf. I grew up loving that bread—the way it told our story of exile and belonging. 

Now, in Massachusetts, I make my version with challah dough, turkey, and cranberries. Each holiday, as the bread bakes, I think of generations crossing oceans, blending cultures one meal at a time. 

Pan de Jamón is more than bread—it’s survival, adaptation, and love. Enjoy, and Felices Fiestas.

– LB

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant