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At the end of last century, I had the pleasure of working with a staff that used to come together just before the Christmas holidays and reflect on the year.

One of the traditions was to gather in the school kitchen and bake.  The students had finished.  Exams had been completed and teenage sneers and laughter were mere echoes through the hallways of the great old place.  Almost half the (large) staff would meet in the Food Technology centre in the last week of work, grab their Christmas cake tins and start mixing.

We were lucky to work with a motivated colleague who, despite the craziness of November, would organize all the ingredients, the facilities, the Christmas carols and champagne.

The tradition was about more than mere cake baking.

On Wednesday, I decided to recreate the atmosphere of the 1998 workplace in our own home.  Pip and Pop were on hols, the smell of cinnamon, mixed spice and brandy had hit the air and it was morning time.  We set up the kitchen island bench with butter, sugar, alcohol-injected dried fruit and tins.  I put on some Christmas carols.  The oven was pre-heating and I had decided to be very zen about brown sugar on the floor and butter smearing stainless steel.

The first step was the wondrous melding of butter and sugar into a light, fluffy goo.  In an instant, I was transported back to the fun and frivolity of the workplace Christmas.  The champagne was lacking, but hey?  I’ve a good imagination and an alcohol-encyclopedic brain.

Where I used to whip the butter and sugar into a frenzied stupor while chatting to staff friends and reflecting on the year, Pip decided to start a fight with Pop about the order of operations, who would be better at mixing, why she should be in charge of fruit, how the wooden spoon should be held.

Being quite fiery, Pop smashed the wooden spoon against no-longer pristine island bench, flicked the butter and sugar amuck and started rebutting all of Pip’s arguments about who, what and where.  Pip became snooty and sanctimonious.  Pip retaliated by raising all the wrongs that had occurred between them over the last month and a half.  Pushing ensued.  Hair pulling resulted.  Butter, sugar, mixed fruit, brandy?  Forgotten and strewn.

All the while, Hi 5 were singing a lovely rendition of ‘Silent Night’.  I seemed to remember that ‘all is calm, all is bright’?  Oh, hang on!  That was way back in the 90s, before these spawn were born!

It’s appropriate to say that the atmosphere was ruined.  Snatching up things, the Mother Lode cracked it.  Big time.  Channeling my own mother, I blurted stuff like:

‘I don’t even know why I bothered!  Don’t even think about getting me a gift for Christmas when ALL I WANT IF FOR YOU TWO TO STOP FIGHTING!  YOU?  YOU CAN GO TO YOUR ROOM!  This experienced is ruined!  The mood is destroyed!  My Christmas hopes and dreams for this family occasion are vanquished.  And it’s your fault!  Get outta my sight while I rant, grab a cuppa and lie down, head ‘neath a damp flannel.’

I didn’t overreact.

Yanking the cord out of the CD player, the Christmas music was as dead as the Festive Bake Off, yet I rejected the urge to stand at Pip & Pop’s bedroom doorway and yell ‘Merry f*cking Christmas, you cutters!’

Because I’m just a little too classy

One of the challenges as parents in this day and age is to teach our children about giving.  Not  materialistic giving, as such, because they are so used to the disposable, plastic, monetary, I-want-it-now ethos of our society.  About giving of themselves.  Their time.  Their gifts.

I was lucky enough to attend some of the girls’ school choir performances in the local community as a parent helper.  Their music teacher believes that the choir visits to local hospices and elderly resident homes are far more important than getting the choir up on stage to perform.  The kids walk to the venues – yep, even in the heat – and sing to the elders and those feeling less able than themselves.

Watching the older people sit and listen to the songs (many with eyes closed, some getting very emotional) has been the best experience of this season.  Such a simple activity.  The pure strains of children’s voices filling the air, bringing some joy, eliciting the memories for those in the gathering.  It was beautiful.  It was an example of basic giving without a $2 shop or App store in sight.

I hope the girls and their school will elect to do this next year.  The bake off?  I’m not so sure about.

Merry Christmas, friends and family.  Fangirl Sings the Blues is back after the writing break with some changes for the new year.