My Mother’s Christmas Cake
Love is a cake of mixed fruit
Once again, Christmas is on the horizon of our Beijing life, and with it comes excitement but also a deep sense of melancholy.
This morning, I slid a large glass bowl from the refrigerator. It was brimming with dried fruit—golden Chinese sultanas, currants, raisins, cranberries and candied peel—shiny with cherry brandy. I lifted off the wrap, stuck my nose into the bowl and inhaled deeply. The aroma reached my toes.
I placed the bowl on the kitchen bench where the winter sun made it warm, then slid a large spoon down the side of the bowl, lifting the gleaming fruit up and over, fruit tumbling and rolling, drunken, fat and glistening like a bowl of precious, aromatic jewels. This motion affects my heart.
I then put on Christmas music, tied on an apron, lit some incense and began talking to my mother.
As I do each Christmas, I told her how much I’m missing her—still so terribly, even after almost eighteen years. Then I told her, as I always do, how surprised I am that she never met my children and that I’ll have to spend the rest of my life without her, as though I’ve only just realised this. Then I told her about the kids and my husband and about our lives, and I talked to her of my ups and downs and successes and losses and I asked her advice, as though she were sitting opposite me, tilting a warm cup of tea to her lips. If I closed my eyes, I could see her sipping.
Then I put the kettle on and made a cup of tea, then my legs gave way and my head slowly lowered until it reached my knees and my heart got crushed from the motion and I wept onto my jeans.
After a while, I stopped and wiped my eyes because Mum’s Christmas cake needs joy mixed into it, not sadness. I stood and put my hands on the kitchen bench and the glistening fruit giggled at me in the bowl, still drunk and happy. I eyed off the cherry brandy for a brief moment, then poured myself some tea and stirred the fruit once again.
Next, it was the flour, powdery and light, sifted with allspice, cinnamon and baking soda. I banged the side of the sifter with my hand and watched the flour pouf in white clouds before settling into dust.
In another bowl, the butter had been resting, melty from the sun on the windowpane. I plonked a cup of tightly packed brown sugar into the yellow nest and whipped till creamy, then added eggs, one, two, three, four. Mix, mix, blend, all the time thinking of the end result, the tang on my tongue, the sweetness of the fruit, the roundness of the spice, the fragrance of the brandy—I can still taste my mother’s Christmas cake, even decades after my very last mouthful.
I can remember sneaking into the pantry, quietly prising open the big square tin, breathing in the blend of fruity aromas and metal, feeling the tang in my nostrils, the release of saliva under my tongue. Then, peeking around the door to make sure no one was coming, I’d snaffle a small slice with the tiny knife Mum left in there—a small slice so she wouldn’t even know a wee cake-nibbling mouse had paid another visit.
It was a joy to me, that cake. It typified my mum and who she was. Always sunny, always warm, always rich and fragrant and smelling of face creams. Feeling that fruitcake spread across my tongue, even just remembering that taste, evokes such strong memories of my mother, coupled with the unforgettable wonder of childhood Christmastime. The memories induced are so strong and so precious, it’s like I’m ten again and she’s standing right next to me.
Our family will have a slice of The Cake with coffee under the tree on Christmas morning and we’ll offer slices to friends and neighbours who have the capacity to truly appreciate what this cake means to me. The kids will snaffle it, too. Both of them devour it, as though it’s infused with my mother’s spirit. It brings me such joy to see them savour it and treasure it the way I do, especially as my mother died well before they were born.
Life has an entrancing way of blending elements together so that even if we miss each other on this earthly plane, we carry within us the memories, the genes, the instinct of those who have gone before us. Memory comes from scent and thoughts and sights and beliefs and Christmas cakes. They amalgamate. They become one. And this is how a daughter can place so much importance in a Christmas cake—an unparalleled way to hold Mum close, and in this way, keep her alive forever.
I’m off to stand in the kitchen, right near the warmth of the oven, and sniff the fragrant air. Happy Christmas, darling Mum.
All By Ourselves
Our very first solo family Christmas
We’ve had some fabulous Christmas celebrations in Beijing. We’ve enjoyed wonderful feasts, glasses of bubbles, Christmas cake, laughter and memories we’ll never forget. But we lost a lot this year. Friends, I mean. And although plenty of new people have taken their place, we’re feeling a little sore and tender. We’re also missing our family and old friends more than ever before.
So we’ve decided to do it alone. Yes, we are having our first Christmas dinner as a complete, nuclear family (Jie Jie and Smoothie are away). We’ve got pop-in drinks booked at various houses for the afternoon, but the morning and the roast lunch will be us and us alone. It feels weird, it feels strange. And it also feels absolutely wonderful.
I get to do it all. I get to peel spuds, I get to roast, I get to dust the Christmas cake with icing sugar. I get to choose dessert and chill the bubbles and fold the napkins and decorate the table. I get to choose the music and the Christmas movie to chill with post-feasting. I get to smile proudly around the table at this beautiful little family unit Xiansheng and I have created.
I’m also nervous about it. I’m nervous about looking around this carefully decorated Christmas table and seeing the empty chairs. I’m nervous about how quiet it will be. Sure, I’m nervous about the continued absence of Nanny to slice up her Christmas cake and of Granda to top up the wine glasses, but I’m also nervous about craving my mother-in-law’s tender turkey joint and love-infused meal. And thumping my brothers-in-law in the arm after a particularly bad joke. And nattering with my sisters-in-law about the Christmas sales and school issues and Jung. And clucking with my gaggle of nieces over their pretty presents.
I’m really nervous about it. Sure, Christmas is all about food and sparkles and pressies, but without sharing, without the people you love ... well, it’s just all pretty wrapping paper.
May your Christmas Day be peeled of wrapping paper and stuffed with people you love.
Raising Vegetarian Kids
But Mum, I don’t like eating fluffy chicks...
What would you do if your seven-year-old announced they didn’t want to eat animals anymore?
Let me set the scene. I don’t eat red meat and haven’t for over twenty years. It’s not an ethical thing (though with the current ecological orbit this planet is on, perhaps it should be), but rather a very personal belief that it’s just not good for human bodies. I do eat seafood and occasionally a few shreds of pork or chicken. I’m not a vegetarian and I don’t whack other people over the head with a celery stick if I see them munching on a cow patty.
Sure, meals in our house don’t ever centre round a sheet of meat or half a carcass in a pot, but my kids are consistently exposed to a variety of animal flesh. So, why my daughter recently testified she didn’t want to eat animals anymore, I cannot really say. Perhaps it was the large, pink chunk of salmon swimming on her plate that did it. Or could it have been the trip to the Beijing wet markets? The pigs’ heads, the pongy fish, the racks of dismembered carcasses? What?
Casting my mind back, I do actually recall the look on Ella’s face when she made the connection that bacon is actually slices of pig. And that fish is actually, er ... fish, like those that swim in the ocean, wet and slimy. I have no idea what she thought these were before she made this connection, but I do remember it happening. It also happened with chicken. When she realised exactly what she was eating, she stopped chewing, and I could clearly see the feathery white clucker pecking at the seeds in her mind.
So, I didn’t know what to say when Ella made the anti-animalingestion
announcement. I think I muttered something about salmon being so expensive and that she would just have to finish everything on her plate, young lady. She hasn’t brought it up again and I’m hoping she’s forgotten all about it—at least until she can make a more ‘educated’ decision on why she wants to forgo eating animals. In the meantime, I’ve started conjuring ways to hide salmon, pork, chicken and other snippets of animal tissue in her meals.
But am I doing the right thing? If I have made the conscious decision to forgo red meat, why shouldn’t my daughter skip salmon and other meats of her choice? But she just seems so young...
Recently I had lunch (salmon, actually) with a woman who told me her daughter also announced, at seven years old, that she no longer wanted to eat meat. Instead of deciding this was in the Too Hard Basket, this woman said, ‘Okay, darling’ and went about finding ways to make this work for a body so young.
I was impressed. And also a little bit ashamed that I hadn’t also taken on this Herculean (in my eyes) task for my daughter. So I’m thinking about it. I’m going to wait and see what unfolds and hopefully I’ll be better armed to deal with this highly inevitable possibility when Ella brings it up again, probably over a plate of mutilated salmon.
Meanwhile, I’m off to find me some fried chicken. Cluck!
More Ayi Problems
I think I want to sack my ayi II
I must be a sucker for punishment. Either that, or I’m unbelievably stupid. Or too kind. Probably a blend of all three.
I’m really nice to her. She has a good, easy job. I’m not overly fussy or pedantic. Her duties are light. It’s a nice, calm house, without drama or acrimony. She hardly ever has to sit the kids (which is not her favourite thing to do). We’ve been consistently generous with her. We give her lots of time off. We give her liberal overtime. We explain things clearly to her and I honestly feel we don’t ask much.
Yet, my ayi continues to repeat the same old, same old misdemeanours that drive me absolutely and totally up the wall. And it’s not as if they’re inconsequential things, either—they’re things that really affect our lives. Like thawing meat on the bench in the stink of summer. Like leaving serious stains on clothes and not treating them as asked, over and over and over, ad infinitum. Like mixing up clothing so we can never find anything and subsequently run late for school or work or very important meetings. Like doing half-arsed cleaning and dusting so that items have become permanently damaged.
Small things, maybe, but when committed repeatedly and then backed up firmly with a stinky, shitty attitude, it’s really exasperating. Then there are the lies. The teensy white lies that may be of little consequence to start with, but then escalate and become surprisingly problematic (don’t they always?).
Every time I go to sack Ayi and start to look for another, Xiansheng convinces me it will be more trouble than it’s worth, and we’ve only got around a year to go. I tell him I’d rather not have an ayi than continue to put up with this drama. Xiansheng reminds me that my magazine work is getting even busier and it would be a lousy time to lose an ayi now. I tell him I don’t care. He nonetheless tells me to sleep on it.
Ayi must have an in-built sacking radar. Either that or the house really is bugged. The very morning I decide I want to get rid of her, for absolute certain this time, she comes in all fabulous and sunny and excels at everything and even does things with initiative. I even tell her off for something and she still smiles and says, ‘Mei wenti, furen!’ No problem, Madam!
I baulk. She cooks another great meal. I falter. She cleans out all the cupboards and lines up all the food tins and finds all the long-time-missing school swimming caps and takes out all the dry-cleaning and darns some socks. All without asking. I weaken. I acquiesce.
She’s staying.
It’s solely the drama of finding a new one that gives this woman 900 lives with our family; another chance she quite simply does not deserve. Let me just say this: I’m actually pining for the day I have to scrub the loo myself.
Temple Fair Crush
Our last Chinese New Year
Our favourite time of year in Beijing is wintertime. This is not only because of the ‘fresher’ air, the snow, the skating and the snuggling, but because of Chinese New Year. It’s such a vibrant, exciting time. There’s a festivity like Christmas, and coupled with the Olympic Games buildup, it’s just such a great time to be here.
We’re getting out and about this New Year more than any other year, and our fireworks arsenal is truly mind-boggling. We’ve even gone in with some friends and neighbours and amassed a really decent stash to set popping come New Year’s Eve.
Despite the excitement, no New Year’s Eve in China will be like the one we experienced two years ago. Now that the fireworks ban has been lifted and exploited, things have calmed down considerably and new rules have been set in place. There are strict hours and dates for firework cracking and, like the fine citizens they are, the Chinese pretty much obey. So, our hunger for the calamity of this festival has been a little under-fed since that first momentous one.
As a consequence, we decided to risk life and limb by nipping into a Temple Fair at Ditan Park the other day. Xiansheng wasn’t in the least bit interested and the kids would have got lost in the mash, so it was just me, Jie Jie and Smoothie that went in the end. And boy, was it worth it. Uncomfortable, sure. At times even a little scary, but so worth it.
I have a bit of a queue phobia. When we pulled up in a taxi and saw the crush of people around the entrance to Ditan Park, I started hyperventilating a little, so we grabbed each other’s arms and did the Chinese thing: we charged right on in. And, bizarrely, we got our tickets in a matter of minutes. It seems the crush was just for hanging-out purposes—maybe waiting for other family members, maybe waiting to catch a breath before heading on into the fray, we will never know. But we walked up, got the tickets, smooshed through the crowd and went straight in.
You must go! We loved it all, from the endless strip of stalls selling carnival kitsch to the stages spouting acrobats, singers and dances en masse, their brightly coloured costumes popping against the grey sky. We loved the crashing music, the calling marketeers, the clattering bamboo wind catchers and sparkling flags, the crazy carnival rides and processions of faux emperors in yellow robes, toted high above the heads of the thronging crowd.
We loved how we were pressed, bodily, against the next person, like jiaozi in a bamboo steamer—so tightly, the laughter was crushed from our lungs. We couldn’t move a muscle and if we’d lifted our feet, we would have been carried along in the throng, a thousand-headed swarm of black hair with two blonde heads in the middle (and one grey Smoothie beanie).
We only lasted about an hour and twenty minutes but the buzz lasted for days. We returned home with loudly clacking wind wheels and sunglasses in the shape of 2008, and a bear hat for Riley and a rat baby for Ella (a baby doll dressed unnervingly as a rodent; well, it is the year of the Rat, after all).
What a China experience. These are the moments when you truly understand you’re an outsider, that you are a guest clinched in the history of another land. These are the times you rise above the filth and the frustrations and give thanks for your temporary Beijing life.
My Big Girl Birthday
And to think I still feel fifteen
I’m definitely the kind of person who creates fuss and hoo-ha for everyone else. I’m a hoo-ha giver, not a hoo-ha taker. I love to give presents, throw parties, organise special moments for people and make them feel really squishy inside. I do it all for selfish reasons: it makes me happy.
So when Xiansheng asked what I wanted to do for my Big Birthday last week, I told him I wanted to go to Paris. When that didn’t work out, I told him that if we didn’t have the time nor wherewithal to go to Paris, then there was nothing else I really wanted to do. And I really meant it. I wasn’t being one of those scratchy tai tai, attempting to send a shirty message. I really, really meant it.
So I didn’t do anything e
xcept a teensy lunch with Jie Jie and a lovely friend on D-Day and then we drank champagne that night (perfect!) and then Xiansheng said, ‘Please go and buy yourself that digital SLR camera you’ve been drooling over for X amount of years and get snapping.’ So I did.
And that was my Big, Fabulous Birthday.
I’ve since been snapping, snapping, snapping. I love taking photos, and it’s fun to be able to use them in my work, too. You see, I recently decided now that I’m a big girl that I no longer have any excuses left. I have been writing for local magazines and websites with much success, but I now have to get completely off my arse and do more. I have to do more.
I have promised Xiansheng that if I’m not in a position to earn a decent full-time wage with my writing by the time we leave Beijing, I will get a job in an office.
Yes, that’s right. An office.
Now, let me clarify: there is absolutely nothing wrong with working in an office, and there are many sensational and varied roles undertaken in such spaces. I just don’t want to do it. Not any more. I’ve done it for long enough, and now that I have kids and dictionaries of words bursting from my head, I’m determined to make sure I utilise every possible working moment to further my fervent desire to write.
The thought of having to return to an office in Australia has scared me into a self-confidence and drive I never knew I had. I have no excuse; I can’t be scared any more. I can’t procrastinate. I can’t blame my failure on anything other than my total lack of tenacity.
I’m going for it, lock, stock and smoking laptop.
Bagging a Greenie
How large is your eco footprint?
Beijing Tai Tai Page 16