Ho, ho, darn ho.
Everybody’s running around wishing everybody else a happy Christmas. I’m doing it too.
But deep down I find myself winding up into a ball in the corner of the room, rocking motion, because everything about Christmas hits the big red warning button of stress overload.
I love seeing my family, but during the year Wanda tells me to put my good pants on. We jump in the car and visit their house, where they’ve equipped their own rooms for small children to destroy.
This year, those same small children will be at my house, looking for new things to demolish. And I’ll be expected to smile and laugh while out of the corner of my eye a 3-year-old pulls at the lower limbs of a tree full of decorations we spent countless hours preparing.
Their parents are our children, so we love them dearly. But why is it they don’t seem to worry much these days about popping tiny fingers in light bulbs?
Fried child is an inconvenience, particularly on a public holiday. There are ambulances to call and all sorts of paperwork to fill out, so surely nobody wants that on Christmas Day.
From 3am, the pots start banging because Wanda’s starting to cook enough food for a small army. Any other time of the year she’s happy with a barbecued chook marked down near closing time at the supermarket.
At Christmas, she’s more intent on sleep deprivation so she can squeeze citrus up the rear end of a raw bird, firing up a roaster which hasn’t seen action since the previous year’s gathering.
I do recall asking at one point whether it might be more convenient to spark up the barbecue. True, it too has been a little out of practice, but at least it’s outdoors and takes only the time required to defrost some meat and a few prawns.
Wanda agreed. Which is why we’re now having chicken a la lemon bake, roast vegetables AND the barbecue.
She’s asked each of the children to bring a contribution to the meal, and I’m not referring to a cash donation.
One guest has been given the duty of preparing salad, another some fresh fruit and Christmas dessert, and the other two will be bringing some extra drinks and fresh seafood from the monger near their home who takes orders a week in advance so he can charge everyone double what he’d charged the month before.
“It’s Christmas,” Wanda reminds me. “It’s okay to indulge.”
Fair enough, yet I remain a little perplexed as to why three salad bowls are sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for recipes I’ve never seen or heard of before.
And why is it I queued for an hour and a half at the liquor store yesterday in order to top the fridge with beverages I don’t like?
Similarly, we stood at the supermarket checkout with smiles on our faces as we loaded up on – you guessed it – seafood, fruit, and $67 worth of ingredients for a cake – yep, 1kg packs of everything for a recipe Wanda’s found in the latest home magazine.
Fate would have it that they don’t sell 200g packs of cornflower, do they?
It’s times like these I worry we’ll end up forgetting to buy the one thing we took responsibility for in the first place – the meat. But Wanda’s had that sorted for months, filling the freezer with a new type of dead animal every week until the frosting spits at me when I go digging for an ice block.
With an oven and six other kitchen appliances in overdrive, I’ll sneak out to wish Geoffrey a happy day at the old people’s home, where he’ll knock over a bowl of festive custard and narrate the same stories he told me last week.
Poor chap doesn’t know it’s Christmas, but I must confess I like the distraction.
As Geoffrey tells me about the pass he threw to win the premiership in 1954, I’ll be thinking about the gift I’ve bought Wanda. Will it be enough? Will she like it? Oh no, I don’t think I’ve wrapped it.
Geoffrey my old mate, can you save that story for our next visit? The guests are arriving in an hour and I’m not sure I’ve checked the gas.
In the meantime, merry Christmas everyone. And a happy and safe new year.
