It began at the Mount Maunganui camping ground, where the smell of brandy and fruit drifted from the old caravan kitchen while Christmas carols played. Grandad stirred the cake, Nana lined the tins, and another Christmas tradition was underway.

Those summers meant cake after dinner, laughter, someone always sneaking an extra piece, sandy feet, paper plates and that unmistakable smell of brandy-soaked fruit. The cakes themselves have their roots in my family. Nana adapted her nana’s original recipe, and over the years it became part of our family Christmas.

Because for me, the best food always has a story behind it. Spirit-kissed. Handcrafted. A little bit mischievous.

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