Boxing Day had fallen on a Saturday that year, and the last of our guests had departed on Sunday morning. It was the first time we had had any quietude for many weeks, so in the afternoon I went out to swing in my hammock and meditate upon things in general. Taking with me a bountiful supply of figs, apricots, and mulberries, I laid myself out for a deal of enjoyment in the cool dense shade under the leafy kurrajong- and cedar-trees.
My Brilliant Career, Miles Franklin
Like most people I know, my Christmases have always been steeped in ritual and routine. Each year, we went to Midnight Mass, singing carols with gusto as our sweaty thighs stuck to plastic seats, and sneaking out after communion to eat mulberries straight from the churchyard tree. In early December, we clipped together a gloriously fake fir tree and we spent every Boxing Day in the pool, clutching drinks that perspired with us in the heat. Christmas was heat and dust – the Australia of My Brilliant Career, The Magic Pudding, and Seven Little Australians. It was the smell of summer rain falling onto hot, sticky roads. It was cooking out of doors, or as little as possible, subsisting on tropical fruit and zingy salads.
When my stepfather woke us up each December morning with Bing Crosby singing songs about snow and roaring fires and roasting chestnuts, he was singing of a world that felt like a fairy tale. Our Christmases weren’t like the ones I read about in my favourite stories – we didn’t wassail through the snow like the March sisters, or wrap scarves around our throats like Bob Cratchit – but our rituals were comforting in their familiarity and consistency. Instead of stuffing, bird, and roast potatoes, our dinner plates were piled high with prawns, salads, and cold meats. We made an ‘English Christmas’ concession only for my great-grandmother’s pudding; served in small slices beside the ubiquitous white cloud of pavlova.
The meal that follows takes advantage of the best warm-weather produce, and would work equally well as a non-Christmas meal in the height of summer in the northern hemisphere. It’s been ten years since I have celebrated Christmas in Australia, but when I eat food like this I think of Franklin’s Sybylla Melvyn, lying in the shade on Boxing Day with her bountiful supply of fresh fruit.