Christmas Carol

When I was a child Christmas was about the smell of pine needles in the bush as they roasted in the blistering heat of an inland Australian summer. We knew we would have long summer days walking to the pool as the concrete pathways buckled under our feet, and we bought slices of watermelon to ward off our thirst. There was no sunscreen, no skin cancer council warnings, no UV alerts. We baked ourselves along with everything else, covered in coconut oil. Glistening little roast potatoes. And when we were overdone and had to don real clothes, we were basted with tea and vinegar and coated in protective cotton wool. 

From her childhood my daughter recalls the smell of old fashioned Christmas paper that her grandmother used to wrap presents . While everyone else was ooing and aahing at their gifts, she was busily sniffing. Grandmother is now in her 90’s, still lives independently, and never misses the girls with a card and a crisp banknote  for Christmas. My daughter still loves the smell of paper. Give her a new book and the first thing she does is open it up and put it to her nose. 

For a large part of my adult life I lived on the coast. It calls to me daily. Here were new Christmas traditions.  Breakfast at the beach with children and friends, fresh damper and fruit followed by a dip in the ocean.  Lunch was seafood and all the trappings, usually with a friend and her family - mother in her seventies and eighties who had been an Olympic class diver in her day, brother often visiting from the USA with a daughter who found us all mundane and uninteresting.

We tried to make each Christmas lunch notable. I think we topped it with our beach front adventure. No picnic baskets and blankets. No cross legged in the sand with grit in the food. This was full on white tablecloth and all the trimmings. We removed all the outdoor furniture from home to the shelter of the she oaks and set up the best restaurant in town. Smells of sea salt dropping on to our skin, sounds of waves running over tiny pebbles and shells.  A view you couldn’t buy – and it was all ours.

I’m back in the inland – don’t ask how that happened- but for the time being this is it. It brings great advantage of proximity to immediate family that for most of my grown up years was impossible. And it’s been a time to grow a new set of Christmas rituals, particularly as it started with a small grandchild.  

I have open house on Christmas Eve – that is until 8pm when Santa throws you out. My friends joke about the deadline, but they dutifully abide. It’s just the family members that linger, and that’s OK.  We have fun.  Christmas Eve in my house as a child was always tears and turmoil. 

Though we are all grown up – my granddaughter is now mid teens – we still hang up our santa sock and wait for early morning goodies. Once it was just me filling them as everyone slept , now everyone sneaks around all the bedposts depositing their fun presents- buzzy whistles, ring puzzles, zodiac predictions for the coming year, tacky plastic animals, fridge magnets, and always chocolate coins. We must look hilarious to circling aliens.

The damper and fresh fruit breakfast remains. I tried to change the Damper recipe last year and met with thunderous outrage from the girls. 

Lunch is with the extended family. We rotate the venue at our houses taking turn about each year. We all pitch in, and when the whole crew arrives it is noise and laughter from beginning to end. We start with barbequed prawns - another recipe that has disallowed variation. I thought a couple of years back that I would  try something I had found in the street markets in Hanoi: chargrilled prawns with a dipping sauce of lime and pepper -  but that got the thumbs down as well. 

My brother proposes every year that we finish lunch by 2pm. We all nod wisely and agree that he has a great idea.  

Desert never makes the table before 4pm.

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Art Work of the Week

Merry Christmas. Acrylic on canvas 1200x910 mm