Christmas Magic  

The school holidays had finally arrived, and with them, the excitement of Christmas was in the air. Christmas Day was fast approaching, and preparations were in full swing, filling our home with the promise of magic and joy. Mum had spread the dining table with tantalising ingredients, each more tempting than the last, fit for a king or, in our case, a Christmas cake worthy of the season. My brothers, sisters and I could hardly contain ourselves, sitting wide-eyed and eager, our mouths watering as we hoped Mum might share just a few scraps with us.

The table was a feast for the eyes, with raisins, currants, cashews, and glistening candied cherries all laid out before us like sparkling jewels. We watched in awe as the ingredients glimmered in the soft light, and our stomachs rumbled in anticipation. They were like a treasure chest we longed to dive into, but we knew better than to touch them without permission. Heaven help anyone who dared sneak a taste! Mum was the guardian of these precious ingredients and kept a watchful eye, knowing just how important they were for the Christmas cake. These ingredients weren’t just food; they were the magic that made the cake special. Many were rare and expensive, but despite the cost, my parents always ensured our home was filled with the Christmas spirit, even if money was tight.

Every year, Mum worked magic, combining these precious ingredients into the most delicious Christmas cake we could ever imagine. The thought of it: rich, fruity, and sweet made our mouths water all over again. The cake was a tradition, and we all eagerly looked forward to it, knowing it would be the highlight of Christmas Day.

I offered to help, as did my brothers and sisters, hoping that if we were lucky, a piece of cashew or a candied cherry might magically fall into our hands. Mum, constantly aware of our motives, let us help but would keep a close eye on us. We chopped and diced, pretending to work hard while trying to sneak a piece when Mum wasn’t looking. The family chatted around us, the kitchen filled with the sounds of the holiday season.

“Is Aunty Girlie coming for Christmas this year?”
“Dad, did you buy the fireworks yet?”

With his usual good-natured Christmas cheer, Dad stirred the thickening cake mixture, adding in the final ingredients none of us had the muscle to manage. As Mum added more raisins, currants, cashews, and even some exotic preserves, the mixture grew denser and thicker. Our little kitchen didn’t have an oven, and only the wealthy could afford one, but once Mum had mixed everything to perfection, she poured the cake batter into trays and sent it off to the local bakery. The moment the cakes came back from the bakery, our house was soon filled with the heavenly aroma of Christmas cake: sweet, warm, and utterly irresistible.

Meanwhile, the familiar sound of Dad working on the veranda filled the air on our veranda. An annual tradition to give the furniture a little love and attention before Christmas. He scraped the old varnish from our chairs and tables using razor blades or pieces of broken bottles with great care. It was a labour of love, one he took great pride in, polishing and rejuvenating the furniture in preparation for the new year. It was as though, in a way, he was scraping away the struggles of the past year, readying everything for the promise and hope of a fresh start.

My brothers and I tried to help, but after a short while, we grew bored and went off searching for more exciting things to do. Dad, however, was determined, and by Christmas Day, the chairs gleamed with a new coat of varnish, looking bright and shiny, ready for the holiday feasts and gatherings.

Inside, my sisters busied themselves with hanging up their homemade decorations. They created long chains of colourful paper loops, twisting and weaving them into garlands that stretched across the ceilings of the lounge and dining room. Twisted crepe paper dangled from light shades, swaying and turning with the breeze that swept through the house. The decorations came alive whenever the wind blew, dancing and spinning most festively. The house was a bright, joyful celebration of the season, filled with love and the unmistakable magic of Christmas.

For me, as a young boy who believed wholeheartedly in the magic of Christmas, this was the most enchanting time of the year. The days leading up to Christmas filled my heart with wonder, and I couldn’t help but feel the excitement building with each passing moment. The thought of Santa’s visit on Christmas Eve kept me awake at night, eagerly awaiting the special gift left at the end of my bed.

‘How does Santa know just what to bring me?’ I often wondered, wide-eyed with curiosity.

Every year, without fail, Mum would hand us a pencil and a piece of paper and make us sit at the dining table and write our letters to Santa. She encouraged us to think carefully about our wishes, and we always took the task seriously. I would carefully write my letter, taking care of each word, then fold it and seal it in an envelope. Mum promised to post it the next time she went shopping, ensuring our dreams would travel to the North Pole.

As Christmas Day drew nearer, the season’s magic-filled every corner of our home, from the twinkling decorations to the delicious aromas and the happy bustle of our preparations. It was a time of joy, love, and togetherness, and we knew that the magic of Christmas would always live on in our hearts, no matter what.