“Merry Christmas!”
Our hosts greeted us warmly at their Christmas Day lunch 16 years ago. As neighbours turned friends, we were looking forward to our first full-on ‘Down Under’ festive celebration since arriving in Australia.
Our gifts of wine and chocolate were gracefully accepted and in return we were handed a large bottle of sunscreen. Suitably lathered, we walked out into the spacious sunny backyard, greeting people lounging in camp chairs, recliners and picnic rugs, eskies strategically placed within arms reach.
The atmosphere was cheerful, boozy and chilled. ‘I’m gonna love this,’ I thought.
The kids instantly abandoned us for their friends, shrieking in delight under the sprinkler set up in a corner of the yard, and fielding the odd ball that came their way from older kids playing cricket.
Not a mobile phone in sight. Ah… those were the days!
The dining room was a celebration in itself. Tables festively decorated with green, red and gold were loaded with a stunning array of food, from cold cuts to warm curries, cheesecake, cookies, fudge - all my favourites. Baguettes jostled with salads, there were no vegan options or kale. Ah… those indeed, were the days!
At the exact centre of the tables stood a huge bowl of punch, ice cubes and fruit swimming on its surface, while guests frequently poured in generous dollops from varicoloured bottles beside it. Keeping the bowl company was a huge, happy pavlova filled with fruit of every colour. Tons of gaily wrapped presents stood under a well-ornamented Christmas tree. I sighed in delight!
As the sun went down and the day grew cooler, eskies and the punch bowl emptied and we got more mellow. Sausages and bacon sizzled on the barbie and when we left by late evening, our children were happy and tired and we were in a state of blissful contentment.
So unlike the Christmases of my childhood.
On 1st December for as long as I could remember, my dad would officially open the festive season by playing Christmas carols at full volume at 6am in our predominantly Catholic neighbourhood. The family jury is still out on if this was a manifestation of Fernandes’s eccentricity or just done to annoy the neighbours.
And while his kids cringed under the bedclothes, he would strut around proudly laying out decorations and unpacking the tree. Which invariably meant that if you didn’t get out of the house fast enough, you would be helping him put them up!
Being Catholic, Christmas was always flavoured with religion and was the most important celebration of the year. A nativity crib would be constructed after hunting for last year’s statues and inevitably realising that a crucial piece was missing. The house would be decorated, stars would hang in each balcony festooned with lights. Then there were evenings around the dining table making homemade sweets of every shape, size and colour. Lovingly blended, battered, rolled, tweaked and fried, their artistry peppered with gossip.
We diligently went to Mass, either the longer midnight one which culminated in a community gathering where plum cake and port wine were served. Morning Mass meant rubbing shoulders with hundreds of people but enjoying a parade of frills and bling – and if of a marriageable age, your mother seeking a good but unwary Christian match.
Wishing was always after mass, air kissing numerous acquaintances and masking impatience to rush home to open those tantalising presents under the tree. And sampling the myriad homemade sweets after days of waiting.
Christmas lunches were huge family gatherings and because our cook was the envy of the neighbourhood, my family invariably hosted. The event could morph from a huge heavy lunch to a dance party with guests still refusing to leave at 7pm. My Mum would smile and mutter unkind things under her breath, desperate to get ready for the Christmas Eve dance.
Boxing Day was a chill day to recover from the rush, bustle and excesses of the festival and finish leftovers, if any. And after another brief spurt of madness on New Year’s eve, we could settle down until Easter.
Living in the Middle East for a couple of years before meeting my partner, Christmas was a time of nostalgia and loneliness, but also appreciation for warm memories and good times. You value it when you miss it I learned, and have never forgotten.
Now we have our own Christmas traditions at our home, an Indo-Aussie blend of cuisine and cheer. Our tree is resurrected from hibernation by grumpy teenagers and adorned with decorations and lights I’ve had for years. It’s untidy, cheerful and proud, a mishmash of memories with no theme.
We go to morning mass on Christmas Day to give thanks. Family and friends visit, everyone brings a plate and I cook a few dishes. We have an array of sweets – mostly store bought, as I am a notoriously bad baker.
True to tradition, we overindulge – but it is Christmas, after all! The brave ones who have imbibed my husband’s adventurous versions of a bloody mary and sangria provide entertainment and impromptu dance performances. I love seeing the kids' faces light up when opening their presents. It's a trek to the shop and brain-numbing effort in choosing the right gifts, but always worth it!
And finally the day comes to an end with not much clearing up thanks to enthusiastic helpers, we wish our guests goodbye and let the dog out to explore the house for intruders.
Through the years, Christmas to me has become a special time of hope, giving, comfort and contentment, beyond tradition, belief or religion. Its wonder lies in the cheer of family and friends, with gratitude for all that we have and remembrance of good times. Feliz navidad!
Sheryl Fernandes Dixit is a marketing professional with a passion and flair for writing. She enjoys creating stories from memories and life. People, animals, emotions and humour are her forte and she truly cannot bake.
