Unbound Series - an Unravelling reclaimed: A Post-Christmas Weekend

There are weekends that gently land you back in yourself.
And there are weekends that remind you exactly who you’ve been — whether you meant to remember or not.

This one did both.

I spent the days after Christmas and New Year with my wickedly funny bartender daughter — the same daughter who now manages the backend paperwork that keeps the never-ending drama of a Sydney-based patriarch safely above reproach. She does it all from the comfort of her own home now, after years of working for them in varying capacities.

She started out as a barmaid — courtesy of her 18th birthday present from me: her RSA and RCG certificates. I wanted my only daughter to have skills that matched her already well-honed autonomy. Freedom I wasn’t granted — until I granted it to myself, much later.

Pubs, Bloodlines, and Long Memory

My baby sister was there too — also service industry — and she once worked at the very same pub my daughter later looked after. Back when my daughter was still in nappies. Back when my cocktail-slinging days had been well and truly erased by motherhood.

The same pub where I had my first legal drink, long before the new millennium came roaring through Western Sydney.

That town — with one of Sydney’s oldest continuous publican licences — somehow manages to pack six pubs along a five-kilometre stretch of main street. Back when you could still do a decent pub crawl without being refused service, it was a rite of passage for many of us.

The venue is closed now. Finally. Sadly.

Which made the reminiscing sharper.

My sister and daughter swapped stories about characters they knew — characters who also populated my teenage years — and I watched them become equal parts gobsmacked and mildly horrified.

I think they’re finally seeing the darker edges of me.

My daughter’s response, as always:
“How?”

As in: How did you stay so long?

She’s old enough now to understand that sometimes it’s easier to make yourself small than to let the people you love feel sad. That it’s possible to love someone and not respect their behaviour — and still stay.

Not my best choice.
But it was the choice I made then.

Now? That’s a different story.

Gatekeepers, Protection, and Names

I’ve brought my siblings — relatively safely — into their adult lives. I’ve raised my children to understand that love does not require approval. That’s the biggest win.

I don’t regret it.

Yes, I could have left sooner.
And yes — I tried. More than once.

But there were gatekeepers everywhere. Uncles. Their mates. Men who knew me by name alone. Their reach spread across Western Sydney, the Gold Coast, Eumundi, even Perth, Fremantle, and Adelaide in the late ’80s.

I couldn’t outrun the web.

Now, decades on, the gatekeeping is lighter. My favourite uncle has passed. There are fewer old protectors left to bump into. I no longer use my birth name — even though it’s now far more common — and fewer people connect “Di Anna” to that girl.

Thank God.

And Still… I Unravelled

Despite all that — I unravelled.

Spectacularly.

Half a small plum pudding soaked in alcohol-laden fruit.
Half a bucket of crispy southern fried chicken.
An indecent amount of Cadbury Caramilk slice (damn my daughter — she’s a feeder like me).
A full big breakfast — and we’ve established how much I love a big brekkie.

Then the teenagers entered the scene.

My 15-year-old son and his two musically gifted cousins — their grandfather (my first step-dad) was an immensely talented singer and guitarist, who also liked to place a few bets between gigs — discovered the lolly shop.

Not a shop. A warehouse.
A sugar shack.

They returned with kilos of confectionery.

It took me eight hours the next day to reach a state fit to drive home. My blood had become literal syrup by then — once the dull headache from the alcohol-soaked pudding subsided.

Worth it.

A Reclaimed Recipe

That pudding recipe belonged to my grandmother. She made it every Christmas. It was good to reclaim something from our recently lost festivities — even if it was a week late.

Here it is, lightly translated:

Plum Pudding (Half Batch) [Halve it for Quarter Batch - to fit into a standard Pasta Pot]

• 250g butter

• 250g brown sugar

• Spices to taste (I favour ginger, turmeric & nutmeg — cinnamon and I have a complicated relationship -my head does not like it, nor does my head like the charred bourbon barrels)

• 1 tsp salt

Cream butter and sugar well.
Add 5 eggs, mix thoroughly.
Add generously: brandy, sherry, green ginger wine — about 2 good glasses’ worth total. (I use a trusty 80's size wine glass - you know the ones you refill less!)
Let rest 1–3 hours.

Meanwhile sift:

• 50g plain flour

Toss fruit thoroughly to coat,

In a separate bowl, mix (we just use 600g plain flour at this stage) but my Nan's version calls for:

• 250g Breadcrumbs

• 350g Plain Flour

Then combine slowly with the wet mix & floured fruits, in cup by cup measures until combined.

Prepare a floured, damp calico cloth. Do this by soaking the calico square in boiling water, immediately use plain flour to coat one side of the cloth. Sit cloth floured side up into an empty mixing bowl. Spoon mixture into centre, tie securely with cotton twine, leaving a little space for expansion.

Be sure to add a loop to the cotton twine - you'll thank me when it's cooking and when it's done.

Boil gently for 4 hours, turning every 30 minutes. Keep water topped up. (2.5 hours if halving it)

When cooked. use your wooden spoon handle to retrieve the bundle from the boiling water and place into a colander. Cut the string - careful not to cut the cloth so you can re-use it. open the steaming calico bundle being careful of the steam! place a large plate across the top and flip the pudding onto the plate. Remove calico covering immediately. Set aside to cool. Refrigerate for up to week and it will form a skin.

This is not a delicate pudding.
It’s a commitment.

Note to the wise: Growing up with food means we Do Not Measure wisely - we add, adapt, 'needs a pinch of', 'it could do with a shot of', and that works for us - so tread carefully with our old recipes. They have been passed down on snippets of old paper from weathered hands who knew how to tweak every batch to suit the weather, season & tastebuds.

Cocktails, Memory, and Standing Upright

It would have paired beautifully with Highlands of Jalisco (page 197, The Cocktail Diaries). I needed salt. My first drink at what I now call our pub was a double screwdriver.

I started strong — and stayed standing.

My first true hangover was tequila shots. You’d think I’d learn.
I did not.

Agave syrup is still delicious.

I might add more recipes to these posts moving forward.

Because food, drink, memory, and truth all live at the same table for me.

And sometimes — after a weekend like that — the real victory is not staying perfect.

It’s staying upright.