The Christmas Kola Tonic Tried to Ruin – by Susan Forde

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but for me, scent is what carries memory. It slips through time, uninvited and undeniable — and sometimes, it ruins Christmas.

That Christmas was ruined by Kola Tonic.

The succulent aroma of ham — soaking up pineapple juice, brown sugar, and clove — should have been the star of the morning. It should have wrapped itself around the house, clinging to curtains and drifting softly under doors.

Instead, it was buried. Buried beneath a nauseating odour.

The sweet smell of fluffy, buttery old-time pudding suffered the same fate, overtaken by this strange, intrusive scent that seemed to move with intention. It didn’t just sit in the room — it travelled. It slipped through walls. It crept under doors. It found me.

What kind of drink does that?

What the hell was a kola nut, and why had my father chosen this morning — of all mornings — to introduce it into our home?

And how dare he conspire with my menstrual cycle to ruin my Christmas?

It was 1988. I lay on my little twin bed, curled slightly, half in pain and half in protest. The mattress was thin, the kind that reminded you of every spring beneath you, and I remember staring at the ceiling, willing my body to behave itself.

This was not the plan. Christmas morning had always followed a rhythm. A sacred one. There would be laughter in the kitchen, the clatter of pots, the low hum of conversation drifting from room to room. The air would be thick with promise — of food, of joy, of indulgence.

And always, there were the familiar comforts. Port wine. Falernum. Sweet, warm, known. Not this. Not Kola Tonic.

Even now, I can recall the exact moment the scent hit me. It wasn’t gentle. It didn’t arrive politely. It announced itself.

Sharp. Sweet. Medicinal, almost. A smell that didn’t belong to celebration, but to interruption. To something foreign. Something that disrupted the order of things. It felt like betrayal.

Christmas, after all, is not just about food. It is about expectation. About tradition. About the quiet agreements families make over time — this is how we do things, this is what this day means.

And in that moment, those agreements were broken. By a bottle.

But memory is a curious thing. What feels like ruin in the moment often becomes something else entirely with time.

I cannot think of Kola Tonic now without smiling — just a little. Because what I remember most clearly is not just the smell, but the fullness of that morning. The way the house was alive. The way my younger self felt everything so deeply — the disappointment, the discomfort, the drama of it all.

Even the indignation. Especially the indignation. Food has always held stories in our Caribbean homes. It is never just about what is on the plate. It is about who made it, how it was made, and who is gathered to share it. It is about the way scent moves through space, calling people together before a single word is spoken. It is memory, made tangible. And sometimes, it is disruption too.

That Christmas, I learned something I did not have the words for then. That tradition is not fixed. That new things enter — uninvited, unexpected — and shift the story slightly. That even in resistance, memory is being made.

That one day, the very thing you questioned… you will remember. I still remember the ham. The pudding. The irritation.

The injustice of it all.

But most of all, I remember the Kola Tonic. The scent that dared to interrupt Christmas — and in doing so, secured its place in it forever.