blamebrampton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blamebrampton) wrote2008-12-26 08:46 pm
blamebrampton) wrote2008-12-26 08:46 pm
On the second day of Christmas, blamebrampton gave to me ...
Christmas in another country!
(Well, not for about 15 people on my flist, but for the rest of you ...)
For someone who grew up with sleety Sussex Christmasses, Australia is a strange place to spend Yule. For a start, this is what the weather looks like on most Christmas Days:
So instead of roast goose, we tend to have smoked salmon or barbecued scallops on a bed of salad with lime dressing for Christmas dinner. Whenever I have worked on food magazines in this country, the Christmas issues are filled with seafood and barbecues, and all sorts of lovely chilled salads. Because Australians like to approach the season sensibly.
Well, theoretically. What actually happens is that from the start of November until December 22, everyone who will be dining together says 'Why yes, we should have a cold meal, it's ridiculous to do a roast. Only a madman would wish to eat hot meat in the muggy heat.'
On December 23rd, someone will spend too long looking at cards featuring roast birds and lashings of veg, and will say 'You know, it's not that hot this year ...'
On December 24th, an attack shopping run will be committed and some form of poultry will be purchased, along with lashings of veg.
Depending on the weather and the custom, the supplies will be cooked up into something splendid on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or possibly Boxing Day (after spending the big day snacking on gelato and saying 'We'll worry about dinner later'.)
Subsequent to this, everyone sits around in front of fans or by a sea breeze saying 'Uggggggghhhhhhnnnnnnnnn ...' When night falls, or the mosquitoes become too vicious, we move inside and watch a long DVD. This is why sales of Pride and Prejudice, Titanic and Lord of the Rings have always been unusually high in Australia.
Interspersed in there somewhere are exchanges of gifts, chats with the neighbours, visits to the family or friends, often a screaming argument somewhere in the vicinity, and constant warnings over the radio and television to slow down when you're driving, and swim between the flags (not at the same time).
Boxing Day sees the sales in major shops, and on the day after, most people pile into the car and drive up to 1000 kilometres to 'the holiday place' somewhere between Sydney and Brisbane or Melbourne. They do this with a maximum of three stops for snacks and urinating.
Australians even have their own carols. I sang I Saw Three Ships last night, and J looked at me blankly, then declared he'd never heard it before. 'That's because your childhood was filled with Rolf Harris,' I replied. 'Too right,' he grinned.
What Rolf Harris you may ask? This Rolf Harris --
(Well, not for about 15 people on my flist, but for the rest of you ...)
For someone who grew up with sleety Sussex Christmasses, Australia is a strange place to spend Yule. For a start, this is what the weather looks like on most Christmas Days:
So instead of roast goose, we tend to have smoked salmon or barbecued scallops on a bed of salad with lime dressing for Christmas dinner. Whenever I have worked on food magazines in this country, the Christmas issues are filled with seafood and barbecues, and all sorts of lovely chilled salads. Because Australians like to approach the season sensibly.
Well, theoretically. What actually happens is that from the start of November until December 22, everyone who will be dining together says 'Why yes, we should have a cold meal, it's ridiculous to do a roast. Only a madman would wish to eat hot meat in the muggy heat.'
On December 23rd, someone will spend too long looking at cards featuring roast birds and lashings of veg, and will say 'You know, it's not that hot this year ...'
On December 24th, an attack shopping run will be committed and some form of poultry will be purchased, along with lashings of veg.
Depending on the weather and the custom, the supplies will be cooked up into something splendid on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or possibly Boxing Day (after spending the big day snacking on gelato and saying 'We'll worry about dinner later'.)
Subsequent to this, everyone sits around in front of fans or by a sea breeze saying 'Uggggggghhhhhhnnnnnnnnn ...' When night falls, or the mosquitoes become too vicious, we move inside and watch a long DVD. This is why sales of Pride and Prejudice, Titanic and Lord of the Rings have always been unusually high in Australia.
Interspersed in there somewhere are exchanges of gifts, chats with the neighbours, visits to the family or friends, often a screaming argument somewhere in the vicinity, and constant warnings over the radio and television to slow down when you're driving, and swim between the flags (not at the same time).
Boxing Day sees the sales in major shops, and on the day after, most people pile into the car and drive up to 1000 kilometres to 'the holiday place' somewhere between Sydney and Brisbane or Melbourne. They do this with a maximum of three stops for snacks and urinating.
Australians even have their own carols. I sang I Saw Three Ships last night, and J looked at me blankly, then declared he'd never heard it before. 'That's because your childhood was filled with Rolf Harris,' I replied. 'Too right,' he grinned.
What Rolf Harris you may ask? This Rolf Harris --
no subject
But - back to the Sydney tradition - in the afternoon on Christmas Day, after lunch started digested, we would all troop down to the CYC and visit friends etc who were gearing up for the Sydney to Hobart. Even if we hadn't all had lunch together, we'd end up bumping into various uncles, aunts and cousins as we wandered along the piers. Actually, going back even further, we would have already attended the CYC kids Christmas party in the park at Rushcutter's Bay the previous week - where Santa arrived in a motor punt from somewhere mysterious across the water.
Before the CYC became a hotbed of yuppiedom and the new parts were opened up, children weren't allowed inside the premises ever, and in some areas women weren't allowed either - so we would eventually get parked somewhere safe with mum while dad went inside for a 'drink or two with the boys'.
I'm doing the hot roast turkey and pudding thing tonight (sans sixpence - I suspect one of the cousins pocketed those years ago, never to be seen again).
ps. I kind of love Six White Boomers - it's one of those songs that just makes my insides tingle with memories of childhood.
no subject