14. December began with shopping by L Kiew

 

December began with shopping

L Kiew

for the exotic: mint and apple sauce,

imported rosemary, cranberries, candied

peel and blocks of English butter.

It began with baking, the Christmas cake

drenched daily with dark brandy

until it oozed from the lightest finger-flick

and emptying jar after jar

of Robertson’s mincemeat into pastry.

Cinnamon gold-dusted everything.

After the final Advent window,

we opened all our doors,

welcoming hungry occupants, their cars

filling up the driveway, aunts and uncles,

cousins in greater and lesser iterations,

the generations dressed in batik, bearing gifts.

The kitchen was ever at the heart of it.

My parents cooked together.

Crackling, perfection an inch thick

on the side of pig that Dad roasted

while Mum beatified the oven-pan,

red wine gravy, bliss of roux.

Cheerful, family sat where we could,

plates heavy in heady heat, heaped

meat, golden potatoes, peas, carrots too.

Our hands were full. Still there was more,

glasses, cups, Anchor beer and Sunkist,

hot kopi, Cointreau, joyful chatter,

mince pies with cream, walnuts

to crack and chocolates to unwrap.

Dad asked again, again and

again if we’d enough to eat

until decidedly replete, my extended family

levered to their feet, departed noisily.

Day cooled to a close. Dusk drifted quiet

through rooms to settle on stacks

of washing up glinting in the sink.

It was always good, that stillness,

sky kissed with flecks of light,

night unbuttoning its mysteries.