A Broad Reference

Every year or two we head off to our parent's place in Oz- a remote 2 acre patch of rainforest in Far North Queensland. This year we managed to get super cheap tickets from San Francisco to Sydney via Hawaii. Just as we start packing Gwynie is struck by a terrible stomach bug (in retrospect I think it may have been the Norovirus). We take the BART out to the airport in good time, but G is not feeling fabulous which bodes ill for the 37 hour journey we have ahead of us. The flight itself was uneventful, and the layover in Hawaii positively delightful. Everyone treated us as locals, going so far as to give us the Kamaiena (sp?) on our lunch. After another overnite layover in Sydney where G declared she was dying and and to just leave her, we finally arrive in the afternoon of 22 December and were instantly whipped off to dinner with friends of our parents. The mom is fijian-indian, dad an anglo-ozzie with two daughters of similar hapa heritage as us. It was all very pleasant and the food was terrific, but we were exhausted and Gwyneth miserably sick.

The next day Mom organized us into putting up the decorations and setting the Christmas table with her season theme colours. She'd bought all sorts of glittery gee-gaw from a trashy shop called the Warehouse where you can load up with all manner of Christmas cheer, made in China [where else?] There were gold candles, gold and white plastic poinsettias and gold bulbs to boost the cloisonne ones from Hong Kong. The candles were chopped in half to go into an antique dutch candle holder which was put on a brass plate with all the bulbs around it as table centerpiece. Then the white and gold poinsettias were ripped out of their sockets to be laid, looking quite alive despite such apparent cruel treatment, alternately, along and over the white table cloths, with their green leaves to provide contrasting colour. On both sides of the centerpiece were an assortment of candles and miniature Christmas trees and baubles collected over the years.

Mom has foodie connections that she has researched, investigated and developed over the years. It's like a seamless ballet orchestrated to require the most minimal amount over driving and only requires left turns (so as to not cross traffic). On Friday, Christmas Eve, we went shopping, yes, last minute mainly because mom has the smallest ever fridge. It's so blazing hot here that my mom plans to pack everything into 2 massive 'eskies' (aka coolers) over ice, she says in her dramatic way that "the heat in the tropics, as you know, can reduce all food within an hour to a fun fair for infectious diseases and a carnival for germs and sundry creepy crawlies". First we stopped at the local prawn farm to pick up 4 kilos of fresh fresh prawns: all fat and succulent cooked but firm from brining, ready for eating with fingers. Then on to Rusty's the local farmers market to get fresh produce for the salads, green and roasted varieties, of four kinds of lettuce, and to garnish, basil, parsely; to be roasted were eggplants, sweet peppers in green, yellow and red colours, courgettes, flat mushrooms . Since it was the last day before Christmas the pickings were a little slim, but we managed to cobble together a selection. She gets her batch of custom mixed/roasted coffee from the bean guy, and then we pick up a decadent orange and almond cake special ordered with the caption "Merry Christmas" emblazoned on the top from the Swiss cake shop on the corner which makes my Dad's favorite almond pastries (Mozart's).

Right on the fringe of the city Mom persuaded the wholesalers for the local restaurants and hotels to save ten spatchcocks (cornish game hens equivalents in Oz) which she got for the cheaper price. The cheese guy pulls out a large slab of Ozzie triple cream washed rind brie called 'Red Square', tremendously stinky which my Dad considers the best available outside of France (I've got to introduce him to the Cowgirl Creamery 'Red Hawk'). Last stop, the supermarket where smoked salmon in sliced slabs were on special.

Back home Gwyneth is banned from the kitchen and food handling in case she had anything infectious, while Mom unleashes a frenzy of unpacking, repacking, arranging and rearranging, in the fridge, in the coolers, in buckets of water. We agonize over the heads of lettuce dunked in the bucket to keep fresh until the next day "will they survive or surrender to the heat and wilt, shamelessly?" We take a chance. I prepare the top secret brine with a tropical medley of fruit juices, where the game hens have to soak on ice until the next day. Early in the evening their good friends Kim and Greg Haug arrive with three cases of bottles including the currently popular sparkling shiraz: their contribution to the Christmas feast as designated purveyors of fine wines, champagnes and liquors.

In the evening in Kuranda an Indonesian dutch commune hosts their renowned Christmas Eve party. All the women are elegantly beautiful and everyone is welcoming. There are prolly 150 people including kids (all extended family at this point), and they all have presents for each other and us, even for people they don't know, they're that well organized. It's an Indonesian style potluck feast: there is so much food, the tables groan and sag. We pile our plates high, sampling everything and tuck in to an array of Asian and European delicacies, as if we hadn't eaten for days. We talk to so many interesting and kind people, who have stories of WWII and the hardships back in the day. I'm still jetlagged, and start to fade early.

Christmas morning we have breakfast and Mom spends a good 30 minutes talking us into going to church with them. I feel bad and relent, agreeing to participate but feel like a total hypocrite. Still it's a big part of their lives and I respect that, just don't chose it for myself. It's hot and crowded with folk, all the ones who don't normally attend are out in force, making sure they've covered all their bases.
We languish thru the service, the dull tedium broken by the funniest reading of the service proceedings (where someone read the hymn's name and the instructions in its entirety- "lullay, lullay: pronounced loolie loolah"- only no one else seemed to think it was funny). Afterwards we meet everyone and get rock hard Christmas cake (I think longingly of Mrs Peter's amazing baking in JA- all else pales in comparison)

The fiery inferno of the afternoon finally breaks with a steady downpour of tropical force. The wet is early this year and everyone is all grateful and marvel that at last the drought is broken. I wonder if they realize that the surprise is repeated annually- they never seem to tire of it or consider it too obvious to warrant a reprized performance. There must be some atavistic summons to a seasonal ritual as traditional as Christmas. But the rains can not to be taken for granted because without them we would swelter in the heat. The Christmas before it was so hot that I basically sat on the tiled floor in front of the fan while everyone sang carols. In some ways there should a sense of dissonance, after all all the traditional scenes are pictured snowy and fur lined. But growing up in Jamaica, it was never colder than 75 degrees, with people pulling on down parkas. So this feels normal. We head back to the ranch to prepare for the party, mom has invited 16 but she expects a couple extra folk and the numbers are up around 20 now.

Christmas day and we are quite calm. There is no panic. Mom has a plan of action, and we perform our assigned parts without hurry and with precision. Gwyneth is in charge of finishing the table decorations, including the cutlery and the chairs. Dad has been press ganged into assembling the cheese platter as HIS contribution to the food. I do all the cooking. We've got the games hens grilling on the Barbie and I prep everything else. Meanwhile Mom and I discuss the merits of grilling as opposed to roasting the vegetables in the oven but it's too hot for the oven and she does it her way: stove top, on high heat and very quickly. The kale leaves bought to decorate the plates have expired their last droop in the heat and cannot be pressed into service. What to do? Quick as a bunny Mom is out in the garden foraging with scissors and brings back large papaya leaves. Perfect- they're not poisonous-in fact sometimes they're used as wraps to tenderize meat.

Dusk falls, the sun disappears and the flies go to sleep, we light the candles awaiting the arrival of the guests. They don't disappoint. They come bearing gifts, full of bonhomie and goodwill. We eat and chatter and are very content with the success of the meal. Mom has prepared a little pamphlet of readings and carols, and she pleads with them to join her in some table fellowship. The guests are an international bunch from India, Malaysia, USA, England, and Oz, who join in with feeling because they like us, are products of colonial life the world over. They all know the tunes of all the carols and have no difficulty singing them. At this point I'm so tired I have to go to bed and miss the rest of the party, which lasts until the wee hours.

The next day it's all cleaning but in the early evening we've been invited to yet another event. It's Mom's friend's Boxing Day dinner. The entire meal was scrumptious and each course paired with a sparkling wine of some sort. We enjoy ourselves tremendously, the company is witty and interesting, but I'm still on California time and I fall asleep immediately after dinner, exhausted from the cooking and cleaning that I've been pressed into.

High on the success of her Christmas party, Mom invites another 12 friends to dine. I set to work and prepare the food again, Mom flits around remarking how easy it is to entertain if you just plan right. The five days we were in Australia, were spent visiting friends, shopping, eating, cooking, going to church, cooking, cleaning, visiting friends, cooking and cleaning. We fly out early on Tuesday, 28 December exhausted, but fortunately Gwynie is finally recovered and the trip home is quiet. But I definitely needed a vacation from our vacation. And since I was so super busy- no pictures!