The Christmas Cake

Yesterday I made my Christmas cake. There may not sound anything so special and profound in that, until you read the story.

I can’t remember a Christmas without Christmas cake. And not any old Christmas cake, but one very lovingly made with incredible effort and special ingredients. My Sri Lankan cultural heritage comes to the fore in the event of the Sri Lankan Christmas cake.

I call it an event because that is, indeed what it has always been. Firstly there’s the purchasing of the ingredients, no small feat if you are not residing in Sri Lanka. Every year, about mid November, my mother would begin to suggest that she might not go to all the effort of making “the cake” this year, and every year we would all vehemently protest, and promise to help her. The ingredients would start to filter in, and eventually, some time after the Christmas Pageant and the Tree decorating ceremony, the day would come for the Cake. It was almost always on a Saturday, when we were all at home to help with cutting the kilos of preserved fruit – you needed lots of people when you cut every raisin and cashew nut into three pieces! And, to make matters worse for the cutters at least, mum always doubled the recipe because it seemed, that our family consumed one of the cakes by ourselves, even before Christmas. The whole idea, after all, is to give the cake away in beautifully wrapped pieces, as people visit your home for Christmas.

Anyway – the most significant part of the whole process was when we put in “the love”. The fruit and nuts all cut and generously drowned in delicious plonk of some kind, had to be added to the batter. It was not until I was married myself and made the cake alone for the first time, that I realized you don’t even need to add each spoon of fruit mixture individually. But since my first initiation into the ceremony, we had always done it like that. So each member of the family got to put in one spoon of love for anyone and everyone they could think of. It started as a bit of a fun activity I guess, but became a very significant part of remembering those who were far away, or had died.

So, yesterday, here in the remote jungles of Cambodia, I made my Sri Lankan Christmas cake. If ingredients are hard to come by in Australia, you can imagine the preparation and planning that went into its arrival here. Admittedly, much of it was available in Phnom Penh, and only traveled for 12 hours on a bumpy road. But some of the special stuff, was sent by Mum, all the way from Australia. The whisky was a little tricky, since I forgot to buy it in the city, and had to risk the suggestion that perhaps I was a secret drinker buy purchasing it in the local grocery store. Mind you, at US$1.00 for the 500ml bottle of local brew, it was almost worth the risk. I did tell my friendly store keeper that it was the secret ingredient in my Christmas cake. On reflection, I wonder if she’s ever heard of Christmas, and certainly had never heard of that excuse to buy whisky before. The mysterious chow chow had to be omitted, since even Mum had trouble finding it but no one out here would know I guess!

And then there were the eggs. Twelve in all – they alone would feed a small village here. And to make matters worse, I had forgotten to buy them, and asked my helper Rhee to wonder off with Esther to our local corner stall to collect them. When I said I needed twelve she just smiled at me, and repeated it as though by now nothing could really surprise her. I needed twelve eggs for my cake. Okay. She knew she was going to get her share too.

Instead of the hoards of people to cut, I had my lone little Esther, who at three years old was experiencing her very first Christmas cake ceremony. Thankfully for me, her cutting of raisins only lasted about 15 minutes, and with great enthusiasm, she had eaten more that she had cut, but the initiation was complete. She is a helper for life I think! When it came to putting in “the love” I have to admit I didn’t follow the tradition but the recipe. With a two handed heave I threw all the fruit and nut mixture into the batter at once, with a big sigh of love for all those who are far away from me. There was a second of regret as I mixed it quickly together – not for the love, but for the tradition, but I justified myself by the fact that I was the only one there – the rest of my family were busy with their own tasks. In fact, as far as love goes, my family actually did show me the best kind of love by staying away from the whole process! But then again, I only made a single recipe and the two hours of cutting and chopping was quite therapeutic as I relived Christmas cakes past!

So it’s done, and sitting in the oven ready to be neatly cut and lovingly wrapped in the pretty paper that is tradition. I will deliver them to my neighbors who, although unable to really appreciate all the work and history, will I hope, at least enjoy the taste. And anyone who comes to visit me will get a piece too. Hopefully, my loving little family will not discover my hiding place too soon and there may even be some left to enjoy after Christmas, when all the other delicious food is forgotten.

So with an immense sense of satisfaction I have fulfilled my cultural and family responsibility for another year. My grandmothers of generations past can smile on me. Great. I’m off to have a cuppa and a piece of cake then.