Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

This is the year my baby sister came to visit. I say baby sister because she continues to remind me how my brother and I used to bully her on account of being 5 years younger. The reality is, I often feel like she’s wiser and older and alot of the time, I’m in awe of what she achieves in life- she runs marathons in weird places like Lake Constance where runners cross 3 countries, or Istanbul where 3 countries doesn’t suffice, but 2 continents is l’ordre du jour. In the last year, she got divorced which shocked the family into last century, she hiked beautiful South African ‘bergs and beach trails, slept under the stars and got washed out of beach hiking cabins, did a podcast series, travelled Istanbul and Cappadocio on her own and then came to spend a week with us in Strasbourg. There is not much I can teach her (barre how to take photos in better lighting and post on her newly created instagram account), and while I am that insecure among my talented siblings, I am wise and wrinkled enough to not let it get to me. For the most part.

Her trip to Strasbourg was mostly due to not wanting to spend Christmas with her kids’ family, and thus we happily swept in with an offer of a bed and to keep her company over the week before Christmas. I was fortunately able to take leave- approved well before the expulsion of the sticky-fingered director after Halloween festivities, and even before the fall-out of my colleague in his Millennial display of a break-down. Her travels was dampened by a cancelled flight and she thus missed a day in Paris (don’t worry, Paris will always be there, I said while trying to navigate a busy last Saturday at work as she received the news of the cancellation), and the knock on of that cancellation was a twice-changed train ticket from Paris – oh the nerves, and dismay of incurred charges.

And, as some families are, we spent a fair bit of time eating, cooking, planning to eat and cook, planning on where to eat, and what to cook, and perusing all the food shops. I’ve never had the delight of sharing my own French food related views with any visitors- it’s not something that would have been a point of conversation with other family members who have stayed with us- and such is connection between my sister and I that it dawned on me that a lot of our approach to meal times comes from our shared childhood experiences and the reality of a Mom who didn’t approach meal times with disdain. Granted, Annah did cook a fair portion of our family meals up until my late high school years if memory serves me right, and boarding school also played a part- not having to feed a family for 5 days of the week takes a fair bit of pressure off, and I know this well given my kids (used to) get a hot cooked cafeteria meal at school.

And while my sister (and brother) are brilliant and insightful and a-type personalities, I hover at the nostalgic sentimental creative end of the gene pool, and food is a deeply evocative space for me. This week spent with my sister rendered many memories and conversations and I was literally scootched aside a few evenings as I became the stagière and she prepped some meals. Obviously the reason for this is not a-type personality cause , but more a nod to how our Mom would cook our meals and serve it up to the rest of us who had not lifted a hand in the effort to put food on the table. A remembers back to our Christmas times where Mom would hover in the kitchen flushed and expiring with heat, peeling and boiling potatoes, glazing the gammon and stuffing a humungous chicken before hurrying off to splash on some lippy and a slightly smarter outfit to go to out to the Christmas Eve church service before coming back for dinner.

I suspect Mom’s hours spent ‘slaving’ over Christmas and family meal times has sat with A for many many years. I’ve noticed how much of a meticulous planner she is, I guess to ensure minimal time in exclusionary role and then directing others onto shared tasks, again to ensure the bulk of the catering doesn’t fall onto one person- as well, perhaps- as to the cost of it. 

When I eventually sat down the day before the long weekend started and I needed to go shopping, and planned a menu for the various meals we would be indulging in, A was more than happy to add her own tasks to the list: chocolate dipped and decorated Oreos, sweet-potato ‘sliders’ for Christmas Eve apéro, pavlova ice-cream with chuckles and an egg-nog to use up the yolks. She was a little surprised when I mentioned the lamb leg that Anton would be cooking on the kettle braai: she’s happy to skip Christmas mince pies and fruit cake, but heaven forbid a Christmas passes without a glazed gammon. As was custom in our own childhood. (Alongside a steamed pudding, a fruit cake and mince pies). 

Our little family has spent 9 Christmases in a country that isn’t our own, without family to align our traditions to. On one hand, its sad not to be around our loved ones at this time, but it does have its’ own benefits: we can shed those ideas and notions that we don’t particularly enjoy, we adopt those from our French lives that we like, and we can build our own, without pressure to conform from anyone. As it is, Anton and I come from different origins, and even my own family has evolved from one set of habits to another, it simply makes sense that we do too. And I love being able to acknowledge the habits and traditions of our friends. This year, for Christmas Eve, as we tend to, we invited friends over apéro. Apéro is a space in time as opposed to a form of eating I guess. It’s cocktails and sundowners all in one moment, and often if you’ve been invited for apéro, you will leave to go and eat a bigger dinner somewhere else, or it will prelude a dinner party. Which will end very late anyway.

A and I were reminiscing with a friend during apéro of traditional family dinner. My sister only has memories of sitting down to a hot meal with tender roast farm hen, glazed gammon spuds and all the trimmings, after the church service, not too dissimilar to a French Christmas Eve dinner.

There are 5 years between us in age, which is almost a lifetime in our shared memories and she was too young to remember there used to be a time where Christmas Eve dinner was not the elaborate affair it became in the ‘90’s, while the one certainty was that we were always at home. (Dad would never leave the farm at Christmas- staff were never reliable).

Around the time the ‘80’s became the ‘90’s, we had new neighbours move into the small holding across the river- a Maritzburg family with a accounting professor dad, a German sounding mom, a handsome older brother and Meg, their daughter my age who shared my love of reading and writing. Our little hamlet of a village was filled with families who had all grown up together. We were very tight knit and may have been a little less welcoming of newcomers for a while but Meg found a neat spot in our community and we’ve been friends ever since. Her Mom Barbara was of German descent and at some point in our childhood friendship I discovered that their Christmas Eve traditions involved a hot roast meal and opening gifts on the Eve of Christmas. I was probably just coming in to the realm of cooking at that stage in my life, and I was totally enamoured with the magic of a dinner party – something that my parents would do occasionally while we were at boarding school, but the lure of crystal glasses, silverware and laughing conviviality was like a dream to me. If I could impress upon my Mom I would help with preparing dinner, surely she would consider changing our own traditions?

2014 was the last time I’ve sat with my Mum, Dad and siblings for that carefully glazed gammon, with more roast potatoes that any child could count. I have photos that I can rely on for memories- we never anticipate those last occasions enough to try savour every moment. A friend of Mom’s had supplied a steamed fruit pudding that we flambéed and I hope that it was Andrea and I that took up the bulk of the cooking that day. We ate carrots and green beans that came out of Dad’s new little veggie garden. Mom was undergoing chemotherapy at the time, it was her last Christmas.

As the adage goes, time waits for no man, and here we are, the 12 days of Christmas spent, the tree has been removed and all the Christmas chocolates and biscuits are finished. Winter sits deep this week and we’re all back on our little hamster wheels. It was truly magical being able to share this season with my sister and I know my girls really loved having her here. Thank you darling- if you’re reading this- for making our Christmas a little more memorable this year.

Et, à tous mes amies, and to my friends, I hope that you were able to create magic of your own. I know some of us have had a difficult year, a common thread for so many. I find I need to reflect on my own goals although what I would really like is a fairy godmother with a magic wand to make decisions for me. Truth be told- we create our own magic. For 2024, I wish magic and witchery aplenty. And some hard work. Obviously and disappointingly.

My love and wishes to you all,

Until next time.

GC

Xx