Pass the pernil. Save room for the tarta.

CAMBRIDGE -- ''¡Hola! ¡Hola!" Kiss-kiss-kiss.

It's 11:30 a.m. on a Sunday before Easter and Fátima Serra, Douglas Massidda, and their two children are the first arrivals -- and only 30 minutes late. Fátima balances a large, flat copper pan with steam escaping from under its foil cover, which is keeping warm a Spanish omelet. Douglas carries a tureen of bean and littleneck stew, a shopping bag filled with assorted Spanish liqueurs, and a box of Dominican cigars.

Their children, Marina, 10, and Enrique, 6, and our three daughters, Amalia, 10, Dalila, 3, and Eloisa, 2, disappear into the living room. We know we won't see them again until the egg hunt. Grown-up shoulders relax. With a nod to parental responsibility, someone shouts after them, ''¡Español, por favor!" (''Spanish, please!") Then we follow the scent of hot fat into the kitchen, where my husband, Jorge Antonio, who is from Cuba, is working intensely making tostones, double-fried green plantain slices.

Our group of Spanish-speaking families, which has been meeting for almost 10 years, was formed so that our children would hear our native language spoken outside the home. From the beginning, we've had two simple rules: No English, and families must take turns organizing the monthly gathering. This month, Jorge and I are hosting an Easter potluck at our house in Cambridge. There are 30 people (slightly more than half of them under the age of 10) representing professions as diverse as music, advertising, academia, and finance, and places as far-flung as Argentina, Cuba, Chile, Panama, Puerto Rico, and Spain, as well as some who, like me, were born in the United States.

WHAT IS YOUR FAMILY'S EASTER TRADITION? Lamb? Goat? Chocolate-filled eggs? Tell us what happens around your table at www.boston.com/dining.

The food will be as varied as the company -- a happy mix of traditional Spanish fare, itself a cocktail of southern European and Islamic cultures, and of Latin American cooking, a result of recent encounters among Spanish, African, and indigenous American traditions. None of the dishes is especially linked with the Easter holiday, although the buffet will include a famous almond cake made for over 500 years by the Order of Saint James of Compostela in Spain.

The kitchen is getting too busy for conversation, but that's OK. We have a pitcher of frosty mojitos-- rum, lime, sugar, and spearmint -- to console us while we're entertained by Jorge's plantain production line. It's a complicated procedure. Peel the thick-skinned vegetable under running water. Cut into chunks. Submerge in simmering oil. Fish out. Smash. Fry again. Fish out. The last stage is the most difficult; the crispy disks require round-the-clock protection. Survivors will be piled on a plate with a sprinkle of lime juice and kosher salt.

The doorbell rings again. A small phalanx of Tapiero children rushes the doorway at heights varying from knee (Lukas, 2) and waist (Nicolas, 6) to chest (Christina, 10). Their mother, Lisa, staggers in under the weight of three bulging Shaw's bags, then her husband, Eddie, enters holding something in a big roasting pan.

''Is the oven hot?" he shouts, wrenching open its door and shoving in a half-cooked piece of meat. This was supposed to have been a pernil, or roast leg of fresh pork. But at 8:00 the night before, Eddie had called, sounding somber. ''I'm at the Brazilian butcher's in Somerville," he said. ''Guess what? They sold my pernil to someone else." Pernil is traditionally eaten during the holidays in Latin America; it is not carried regularly at supermarkets or specialty butchers here, so Eddie had special-ordered his earlier in the week.

Even at that late hour, we tried to find one. Jorge headed out to cruise the meat cases of nearby grocery stores. I hit the phones, trying to sweet-talk local barbecue joints into selling me a spare hog haunch on a busy Saturday night. Eddie, meanwhile, began negotiations with the shop owner, and they solved the crisis. Two pork shoulders will take the place of the hind leg.

As the pernil bronzes in its garlic, soy sauce, and orange juice marinade, Eddie turns his attention to the preparation of lagarto, or alligator. This isn't real alligator meat, but rather a flank steak slit down the middle and stuffed with bacon and the spicy sausages, chorizo. The graphic name comes from the resemblance to an alligator's stomach after a good meal. After he assigns Douglas garlic duty, a responsibility not to be taken lightly in Latin cooking, Eddie tenderizes the meat by pounding along to a CD by Ruben Blades, his Panamanian compatriot.

Other families straggle in, herding children and bearing their culinary contributions. The Fernándezes, both language professors, with 5-year-old Mariel and baby Lukas, carry a trio of Spanish desserts. The Amadors, musicians, and their twin 9-year-old girls, Sonia and Alisa, offer red chili enchiladas from Brian's native New Mexico. The Wheeler-Lópezes, financiers with 10-year-old Alejandro and 8-year-old Sarita, arrived with that old Cuban standby, black beans and rice. The last to ring the bell is saxophonist Pati Zarate with toddler Daniela, baby Carolina, and her Chilean cousin Felix Díaz, who is at Boston University studying law. Their offering: four hearty appetites.

But first, the egg hunt. Before we can count ''uno, dos, tres," the children have descended on the muddy yard and are combing every square inch of ground, bush, and tree for foil-wrapped chocolate eggs and cascarones, confetti-filled egg shells, a tradition borrowed from Mexico. Smash! Sonia cracks an egg on Marina's head. Smash! Marina cracks one on her mother's. A cascaron hunt combines two kid-pleasing activities: finding stuff and breaking stuff. In no time at all, the yard is strewn with colorful bits of paper and eggshell and everyone is laughing.

When we open the back door again, a garlic-infused cloud escapes. The pernil is done. Cooks cram into the kitchen to primp their dishes. Fátima ladles creamy stew into cups, topping each with a few mahogany littlenecks; she slices the omelet and drapes it with melting strips of roasted peppers. Brian broils the cheesy top of his enchilada casserole. Alba López stirs the black beans and samples white rice from the pot. The tostones (what's left of them) are escorted to the dining room.

Pernil and lagarto, both dripping with cooking juices, are carved. On the sideboard, Marisol Fernández fiddles with the placement of a cross-emblazoned tarta de Santiago, coffee flan, and lemon yogurt cake. Wines from Spain, Argentina, and Chile are uncorked, fruit juice is sloshed into paper cups. People spring into position around the buffet.

All our parties end the same way: out in the yard, huddled around a table littered with sticky glasses, watching the darkness descend. Douglas is master of ceremonies, distributing cigars and pouring brandies and liqueurs into his traveling snifters. After seven hours of fiesta we still don't want to stop. At this point, we indulge in a recurring collective fantasy -- a trip together. Where we would go isn't important. Italy? Panama? Mexico?

''Let's advertise," suggests Eddie, ''for a Latino with a yacht. But seriously, this year, let's make it happen."

''Let's go to Martha's Vineyard," says Rosi Amador, our resident realist. Nacho Fernández pulls out a dollar to start the vacation fund.

''Got your guitar?" Eddie asks Brian. Brian shakes his head. A lack of instruments is no impediment. With Rosi leading us off, we launch into an original rendition of ''El Cuarto de Tula" (Tula's Room), the Cuban classic recently revived by the Buena Vista Social Club.

''And [she] didn't put out the candle," we wail happily. The singing drifts up into the quiet Cambridge night.