So this is Christmas

The chicken is golden brown, covered with crispy rashers of bacon and surrounded by rich, meaty juices that will be drained later for the gravy.

I pick on the burnt edges and dip my finger into the chocolate ganache that is about to be poured on the chocolate cake. A last minute request from the kids. Mmmmm bacon and chocolate ganache - delicious.

Waking at 6am I have the list in my head for tasks required for the following three days:

• stuff, roll and roast Mum's Xmas chicken
• make Mum's classic apricot topped cheese cake
• chocolate cake for the kids
• remove bagels from freezer in preparation for Christmas Day breakfast
• change the sheets on the bed to make Christmas Eve feel a bit special
• help the elderly neighbour with his rubbish bins - putting them out and bringing them in
• hug the other elderly neighbour and check what he is up to on Christmas Day. Usually it is lunch at a local pub with his family and then a visit from his son in the afternoon. I think he is wearing his good shirt today
• wave to the young students renting next door and offer them more chillies from the garden. They are ridiculously hot and I can't keep up with them. The chillies that is, not the students. Although, they are lovely as well
• put my rubbish out
• pick more blackcurrants for the berry sauce
• wash clothes and prep my Christmas outfit
• shower - that will be the last task before visitors arrive this afternoon

That was last year's list which should have prompted this article to be published in quick succession. However, I balked - frozen with the unwelcome voices, thoughts and memories from past Christmases that left me a little sad.

So, I dust myself off and go again.

This time of year is a frustrating seesawing of melancholy and joy - a dash of social excitement and questionable hilarity, verging on hysteria to mask the aforementioned melancholy. Ghosts and festive memories whipping past bringing sorrow, excitement and a little regret.

The lead up to the big day as a 12 year old held many distractions. Last day of school, swimming with friends at Windmill Hill pool, shopping or gift making, prepping with Mum, digging potatoes, picking fruit and performing in the annual Gambit Youth Theatre Christmas play. For me this was the opportunity to write, rehearse and perform; a precursor to future scripts such as Sydney Snydebutt Gets Stumped - a rollicking melodrama I wrote and later performed in the lead, for one night only, to a packed house at the Deloraine Drama Festival.

Gambit's end of year performance was staged outside the Launceston Library on a grey, drizzling morning the week before Christmas. The streets were not full of the bustling crowds we see now, however, slim pickings did not quash our enthusiasm as we gathered to present our original play, Xmas is Cancelled. 

I don't remember any of the script, but the story ran something like this...

...people have lost the spirit of Xmas. It's all become too commercial. So Xmas has been cancelled.

Not sure who made this decision? God, Santa, the Prime Minister of the time? Either way it was cancelled. The climax of the show was the realisation that people were selfish, Christmas wasn't about gifts and excess but kindness and love. With a rousing version of Jon Lennon's Happy Xmas (War is Over) to clinch the deal. Forty years on that song transports me back to that chilly morning.

It all seemed so much easier when we were children. At home we were helpers without the responsibility of orchestrating the food, travel and clean up. Family adn friends of up to 30 would descend on the chosen destination; usually Nan and Pop's on the East Coast. Platters appearing and shared with an abundance of seafood and crackers. Crooked paper hats teetering precariously and threatening to fall into the gravy covered meats. Clinking of never-empty glasses and listening to the grown-ups recount childhood antics with increasing slurring and laughter. 

Mountains of gifts unwrapped, after the washing up was done. Each one announced and reponded to with 'oohs', 'aarghs' or laughter. Followed by snoozing in our tents as we flipped through our booty that included the latest comic, shoving choc Santa's in our mouths. Vowing never to eat again, slowly the zombies would return to the kitchen around dinner time plucking leftover cold vegetables, meats and sloppy, but still delicious, desserts.

Xmas as a child is dreamlike. It combines a bit of magic, colour and movement, prevents, bright twinkly lights and, like a wedding, can bring out the good will and love. Of course this is only one side of the coin that we hold onto. The other side is shoved away into the depths of our minds, along with all the other unpleasant memories from childhood.

When my mother died twenty plus years ago Xmas changed for me. Even as the adult of 33 I was not ready to take on the role of manufacturer of my own family's festive productions. There was something that Mum provided that was forever lost.

She loved Christmas and was the beacon who brought us all together to cook, laugh, dance, eat and play cricket in the paddock. Days before the big day we would gather to prepare for the feasting. This was my favourite time.

Champagne poured mid-morning while Neil Diamond serenaded us as we peeled, cut, stirred and boiled. We all had our specialities and jobs; chocolate ripple cake, pavlova, summer pudding, rolled turkey with children and duck. The sauces and condiments. Table settings and decorations. The installation of tent city to accommodate the kids and willing adults. A freshly mowed cricket pitch. Perry Como replacing Neil. The occasional slip or cut in the kitchen after my third glass of bubbly. Still sporting that scar all these years later.

The menu was extensive but so was the crowd. Up to 25 or 30 on Xmas Day, some there for days before and after. Boxing Day, my favourite day, required decent leftovers.

In-between feasting, laughing, dancing and batting we gathered around the TV to watch cricket like sun soaked seals on hot rocks. Dozing, rolling and rising for intermittent mouthfuls from the fridge.

When my kids were young I got to create the magic for them. They distracted me from the loss. I loved watching them respond to the magic, the morsels and festivities. Now the kids have grown up I struggle to find the wonder and joy at this time of the year. I force myself to decorate the mantelpiece. Battery operated Santa that once belonged to Mum, sits central to the parade of baubles, tinsel and figurines. Waiting for the festivities to begin, the joy to seep in. Ever hopeful.

Mum's photo sits in the kitchen. She's looking at me as as a 19 year old. Optimistic, naive, hopeful. I talk to her often; asking her questions and waiting for guidance. This time of the year is difficult. December 10 is her birthday. Xmas was her favourite time. She loved seeing her children and grandchildren gather. She loved the preparation. I loved the preparation. To laugh and cook together like so many generations of mothers and daughters before us. Gathered in kitchens, making something out of nothing. No matter the income or the ingredients.

Her garden provided the staples; peas, raspberries and pink eyes. My garden now providing fresh herbs, beans and cherries.

And after all of this it is the four of us that remain glued together. We gather once a year with our children, our families. I prepare at home alone taking my time to make Mum's recipes. Bone the chicken, make the stuffing, fill and tie, wrap in bacon. Gravy with cherries and a hint of chocolate. Just the thought of this process - as I write the words I am buoyed. I feel my mother beside me at the bench. Cutting, sauteing, sipping on her champagne and laughing.

I thought this year that I would change the rolled chicken recipe a little. Maybe remove the bacon, pistachio and pork stuffing and go with mushrooms and nuts, but now that prep day is here I think not.

We make of Xmas what we can to make it our own. Creating our own rituals. Babies are born, children move away, people leave us while others are welcomed into the chaos. And we make the best of it all.

I have found a work-around with Christmas Day. A slight adjustment that takes the emotional potency out of it and enables me to breath.

A few of us gather for a simple breakfast of bagels, cream cheese and champagne. We call relatives and unwrap presents.

A bit of last minute cooking in preparation for Boxing Day before hopping on the Triumph Bonneville for a gentle afternoon excursion. Then home to rewatch Die Hard and couch sleeping with my Pete.

Boxing Day is the major event, where we gather to feast, laugh and play; transforming into our 12-year-old selves to speed down the 80 metre water slide that has been lovingly built by my industrious brother. Weeks of digging, smoothing surfaces and testing results in a playground fit for all ages and one that brings immense laughter and joy.

Our platters of food cover the large table, filled with a variety of succulent meats, crunchy salads and delicious desserts. With plates on laps or squeezed next to each other on outdoor tables we eat and discuss water slide techniques while complimenting the cooks.

And finally we raise a glass to those who are absent and holdback the waves of sadness and nostalgia; opting instead for a glug of champagne and large scoops of creamy tiramisu before yet another run down the slid.

Christmas Day Menu (my contribution to the table)

Rolled chicken with herb, pistachio and cranberry stuffing with choc cherry gravy

Happy salad - my take on an Asian coleslaw that makes my tummy smile

Mediterranean salad of cucumber, red onion, black olives, tomatoes and olive oil. A nod to my Pete's Italian/Greek heritage

Crunchy Asian rice salad - a funky, tangy salad to cut through the richness of the menu

Tiramisu

Lemon cake