Christmas cakes, wine and family

To an elder like me nudging 79, there’s nothing like Christmas to make old and long forgotten childhood memories surface nostalgically and graphically.

With the festive season approaching, Mum would purchase a large quantity of purple grapes to be fermented and brewed into homemade wine. It was an annual ritual of sorts. My brothers and I (a congenitally mischievous quartet) would sneak into her ‘cellar’ now and then to sample the brew, prematurely but appreciatively—with one of us keeping cave! It was a popular aperitif for the elders during the Christmas lunch—”Maud, could I have another glass of wine, please?” was an oft-heard request.

Helping Mum knead the batter for the Christmas cake was a chore we boys enjoyed, though we often exasperated her in the process. “Wash your hands well before touching the dough!” she would chide us. “And don’t lick the batter off your fingers!” But, with such palatable stuff, how could one resist doing so?

Two weeks before Christmas, we would be marched off to the tailor’s to be measured for new clothes. “These boys are growing fast – so make their clothes a bit loose and not too fitting,” Mum would instruct him with an eye on economy rather than fashion. Practical to a fault, she brooked no pleas from us to the contrary. So, perhaps, we did look a tad dowdy on Christmas day—with half-sleeves extending beyond our elbows and shorts drooping below our knees!

In those distant days of the 1950s, the radio reigned supreme in drawing rooms. The inimitable Jim Reeves would croon Christmas carols with tenderness, his rich baritone mesmerising listeners. And braving the biting cold, carollers would come calling at midnight, making us rub the sleep out of our eyes. Their old-time favourites still ring mellifluously in my ears.

Another ritual was hanging up stockings before being shepherded off for the Christmas midnight mass. We preferred to use Dad’s stockings since they were roomier than ours and could hold more toys.

And, of course, Christmas morning would be punctuated with squeals of joy upon finding the stockings bulging promisingly with goodies.

Unsurprisingly, we often dozed off during the lengthy sermon, forcing dad and Mum to repeatedly nudge us awake, lest perhaps we embarrassed them by snoring aloud! However, when the collection box came around, we were usually wide awake, unobtrusively slipping in 25-paise coins to ensure that our friends didn’t see our meagre offerings!

As that lovable old ditty goes, “Those were the days, my friend. We thought they would never end!” But, sadly, they did—and all too soon!