Every family has its Christmas traditions. These are manifested in the way the tree is trimmed, who trims it and with what; how and when the house is decorated; and whether new curtains are bought or old ones recycled.

Some are time traditions and involve whether the house is decorated on December 1, December 15 or on Christmas Eve and at what time the Christmas dishes that can be prepared beforehand, should be made.

The food traditions include when and from where the ham is purchased; sourcing authentic casareep; what meat goes into the pepperpot; setting the ginger beer and sorrel and baking the Christmas black cake. And when it comes to Christmas cake, forget the recipe books. No true Guyanese Christmas cake is baked based on any instructions about cups of flour and sugar.

There are just four musts for traditional Christmas cake. It must have adequate quantities of fruit, which would have been soaked in wine or rum (nuts are optional). It must be dark and moist. It must be of sufficient quantity to cater for children who are at home all day and as a result eat all day; visiting relatives and friends, who must be offered generous slices; and the ‘gift-away’ – pieces for folks to take home, just as they will wrap pieces of theirs to ‘gift’ you. It must not run out before the season ends.

My grandmother was a great keeper of traditions, particularly where cake was concerned. She so loved black cake, that once as a young woman at the wedding of a relative, she said she took pity on a table at the reception which was groaning under the weight of over 20 pounds of cake. A small round cake, with the word ‘Happiness’ written in icing on it, was perilously close to the edge. She removed it and took it to the back, but there was no one to receive it and nowhere to put it down. She took a walk with ‘Happiness’ and returned filled with ‘Happiness’ some time later to find the speeches still in full swing. Neither she nor the cake was ever missed.

As an adult, my grandmother’s Christmas-cake tradition began as early as July or August, when she would purchase a five-pound tin of salted butter. Muriel Shepherd abhorred cake made with margarine. Some years later, when butter was not available at all in Guyana, she stopped baking cakes altogether and had to be coaxed to take a slice when anyone offered her some.

But even in those days, butter was not inexpensive, which is probably why she bought hers early. All I could remember was that the tin was gold-coloured; I think it had the picture of a woman on one side. And for some reason, known only to her, she would roll it under her bed.

A little later on, a huge covered ‘Dutch’ jar would appear in the kitchen. In it would be the currants, raisins and mixed dried fruit soaking in red wine, brandy or rum. When you passed near it, you got that heady aroma of fruity liquor. If ever you opened it, everyone would know as the smell of the liquor-soaked fruits lingered for quite a while.

Two days before Christmas, I or one of my two sisters would be sent to retrieve the butter and my grandmother would inspect the tin carefully. If it had dust, it meant we were not sweeping under her bed the way we should. It never did; not because we had swept under the bed carefully, but we always dusted the tin, so she wouldn’t know. Nevertheless, she would wash the tin carefully and cut it open to reveal the rich reddish salted butter inside. She would pour this into a large bowl, cover it with clean water, and leave it overnight.

The next day, this water was poured off and the washing of the butter began in earnest. She would pour clean water in the bowl and then stir it into the butter with a wooden spoon. After a while, she would carefully pour this out and begin the process again. She did this continually, but rested in between and did other things as well so that by evening, the butter was a creamy gold with no salt taste and the five pounds would have “yielded” just over seven pounds with which she expressed satisfaction.

The cake making would begin in earnest on Christmas Eve, along with a dozen other things. The washed butter would be transferred to a huge tub or bucket purchased specifically for this purpose and the sugar would be added. The creaming, surprisingly, took just a short time. Soon it would be time for the eggs, fruits and the homemade caramel; the sifted flour and baking powder. Oiled and flour-dusted cake pans stood at the ready, and just outside the back door, the ‘box oven’ with its pot of glowing coals at the bottom awaited the “test pan.”

Once the “tester” was baked, the oven would be adjusted either by adding more coals, removing some or placing a pan of water on the last ’shelf.’ Soon, the aroma of baking cake joined all the other smells pervading the house – pepperpot, ham, cook-up rice and floor polish.

As children, we marvelled at, but never really grasped, all the work that went into the Christmas cake and used to beg for a chance to stir it. Even using both hands, it took all our strength to turn the spoon a few times after which we willingly handed it back.

Over two weeks ago, I watched as two women bought huge plastic washing tubs to mix their Christmas cake in.

I imagined those tubs filled with pounds of creamed butter and sugar, more pounds of wine-soaked mixed fruit, dozens of eggs and pounds of flour.