O, Christmas Tea

A farm Christmas party means cake, surprise wine, and a rooster spared the chop

- Paulette Whitney

I never met Grandma Peggy. She was a breeder of racing greyhounds, a wearer of pearls, a chicken farmer and a wonderful cook. I feel I should wear white conservator’s gloves as I open her copy of The 21st Birthday Cookery Book of The Country Women’s Association in Tasmania. It was once spiral-bound, but each time I open it another batter-stained page works itself free.

I try to divine things about her from pages made brittle with years of floury fingers and stray drops of lemon juice. The biggest mystery being which of the equally stained fruit cake recipes was her favourite. The page I’ve contributed the greatest patina to is the shortcake – a buttery thing cooked in a pair of shallow tins and sandwiched around whatever takes your fancy. I bake one, filled with lemon butter, for our tiny staff Christmas party – just Matt, my husband and farming partner, our mate Jess who comes weekly to weed and eat excellent lunches, and our two girls who’ll join us when the school bus arrives.