I have Jewish friends who spend every Friday night with their family eating Chicken Soup, lighting candles and telling amusing stories about angst. I know British people whose fathers tie bells around their knees, stick coloured flowers in their hair and dance around the village in the style of someone called Morris. Japanese people bow at varying degrees to express their gratitude and Greeks throw plates in celebration. French people scowl at everyone, authoritative, religious, capitalist, monarchist, royalist, humanist, in fact ‘the scowl’ is the facial component of their traditional national costume. Tradition is born of generations, of ages, of repetition and of cultural singularity.
Native of a country that celebrates its 225th year (of white settlement) this week, I always find it hard to describe what it is to be an Australian and what cultural traditions define Australianism. But I can easily list what we are not.
We are not a nation of people who kill crocodiles for fun or even for a living. We are not a landmass of 7,692,024 km2 with 25,760km of coastline filled with 25 million souls who know instinctively how to surf. We are not little men in green who grant wishes to shoe fetishists named Dorothy; Oz is a fictional character, not a place. We are not savages, we are not Bushmen, we are not servants beholden to the Queen, we do not all live on a street called Ramsay and we are not all related to a Minogue.
What I am is the daughter of an English immigrant whose ancestors were Irish. I am the granddaughter of a family of German origin. Married into or breeding with our family there are Poles, Argentineans, Northern Irish, Christians, Catholics, Smart People, Less Smart People and even people who do not like the Beatles. Those last ones don’t survive very long at family barbeques.
From such a young and new family, from such a young and new place, I’ve always been jealous of everyone else’s traditions.
When I was a girl, I wished that I were from a religious family, not because I especially wanted to go to church, but I believed it would have been enriching to do something consistently, every single week, aside from take the piss out of each other. I wished that I had a Greek father, like Veronica Papacosta, so that we’d eat special food at Easter. I wished that I had a Pakistani father like Tayyab Madni so I would be given special clothes that tinkled with glass beads. I wished that I were South African like Natasha Kleinveldt so that I could talk about how my family escaped Apartheid. I wanted to have a story, I wanted to be interesting and I wanted traditions.
This past Christmas, I was in Sydney. I spent two weeks with myriad members of my immediate and extended family. I ate, I drank, I celebrated, I laughed and I cried. After two weeks it became clear to me that, while not born of an ancient and singular culture of millions of people who once carved their pictograms in a cave, my little family has become rich with traditions, rituals and festive rites…even if they mean absolutely nothing to anyone else.
The first is that one must play Happy Christmas (War is Over) on Christmas Day, at least once, preferably first thing in the morning with the volume turned up to 11. Dad loved John Lennon more than life itself, so we weren’t given much choice in the matter.
After we cleansed our ears of Yoko’s whining, it is time for brekkie*. In our house, Christmas brekkie is the same every year, Croissants with Bacon ‘n’ Eggs. I am not sure how this happened, Dad being a POM could lay claim to the ‘full english’ element of this traditional repast but the croissants may have been introduced by me, the French exchange student, or even Jesus Christ from Switzerland, our Swiss exchange student. We’ve been doing it for so long, I actually can’t remember. This year, the Art-sist-ologer put on the brekkie*. She can’t eat eggs or dairy because Squeal doesn’t like it in her milk, but the rest of us tucked into our buttery eggy golden deliciousness while she watched. Tradition 1 – Food Allergies 0.
After brekkie, it is time for presents. At this point, we engage in the tradition of taking the piss out of me. Do you like your Christmas present?
Many years ago, as a gift for Motherbear, I arranged for us to get professional photos taken at a local department store. We waited a week to get the prints, prints that included an especially ridiculous photo of me, grinning like a character Jim Carrey might have played, they were really quite hideous, I was desperately disappointed. Convinced she was trying to be kind and craving reassurance, I asked Motherbear over and over again if she liked her present. A gift has not been given our family since without someone staring at me asking “do you like your Christmas present?”
After the traditional piss-take we’ve all worked up an appetite. The annual gorging of the intestinal tract begins. It’s lunchtime. AG’s lemon slice, my Parmesan & pear salad, Gramma’s coleslaw, the corn relish and cream cheese dip, Big Al cremating something on his barbie, a kids table and an adults table. Every year, we do the same thing. Every year we say we’ll eat less next year. Every year we don’t. Tradition 1 – Blood Sugar 0.
Like storytellers of aboriginal tribes squatting around their cremated kangaroo, traditions and knowledge are passed on to the next generation in practice, sharing recipes, sharing stories, and perhaps, if they’ve got a bit of English in them, taking the piss out of the gawky one who can’t throw a spear straight. I don’t have kids, but I am determined to pass on what I know to the young and impressionable people of Paris.
Any excuse to cook, dinner at my place, Australia Day, 3 French Diners, a menu filled with traditional Australian fare, make sure you bring an open mind.
As I put each plate on the table, I explained where it came from, why it was important to me, why I wanted them to taste it. I did everything just the way my family have done it for as long as I can remember. They ate, they enjoyed, The Painted Saint even asked for seconds.
The only thing that wouldn’t translate was The Castle…
What’s that Darl?”...”but what did yer do to 'em?”
* All words in Australian can be shortened to anything endings in –a or –ie. I ate Veggie for brekkie. Shazza’s gone to Macca’s.
# Nicknames, another great Australian tradition. Mine is Rissole. Thanks Motherbear.
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