Christmas Dinner, Queensland Style - “Maybe Christmas doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas… perhaps… means a little bit more.” — Dr Seuss

Christmas will probably always feel a little unfamiliar to me.

Not in a bad way. Just different.

Where I grew up, Christmas dinner meant cold weather, heavy coats, and food designed to warm you from the inside out. Turkey and pheasant sat proudly at the centre of the table, surrounded by roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, stuffing and gravy. Everything was formal. Everything happened at the dining table. Winter pressed in against the windows, and Christmas very much belonged indoors.

Christmas dinner in Queensland is another story entirely.

Here, it’s usually thirty-five degrees. Bright, sunny, and unapologetically hot. Coats are replaced by sunscreen. Gravy gives way to cold drinks. And instead of bracing yourself against the cold, you’re more likely to be planning a swim before lunch.

For a long time, that contrast felt strange. Christmas didn’t quite feel like Christmas.

There’s something deeply ingrained about the Christmas you grow up with. The temperature. The timing. The rituals that quietly anchor the day. For me, Christmas at home followed a very specific order.

We weren’t allowed to open our presents until after the Queen’s Speech at three o’clock. That rule was non-negotiable. The entire day built towards it. Three pm arrived, the television went on, everyone behaved themselves long enough to get through the speech, and only then were the presents allowed.

After that came Christmas dinner.

Not lunch. Not nibbles. Christmas dinner, served after the speech and after the presents. That was the rhythm. That was the tradition.

It was structured. Predictable. Very much of its time.

Moving to Australia dismantled that structure almost immediately.

Here, Christmas arrives in shorts and sandals. Lunch happens at one o’clock. And nobody is waiting for a royal broadcast before tearing into wrapping paper.

Australian Christmases have their own rhythm, and once I stopped comparing, I realised how much I actually enjoy it.

These days, Christmas morning starts slowly. No alarm. No rush. Presents are opened casually, coffee in hand, with cats circling suspiciously, convinced every box might be theirs.

Then comes the swim.

Always before lunch. Either the beach or the pool, depending on the day. Back home, the idea of swimming on Christmas Day would have been unthinkable. Here, it feels almost essential. Like the day doesn’t properly begin until you’ve been in the water at least once.

Lunch is at one, eaten indoors in the air-conditioning. Queensland heat and heavy cooking are not friends, so Australian Christmas food has well and truly won me over.

I cook a roast ham, glazed with my own secret glaze. I won’t be sharing that recipe. Some things should remain mysterious. Alongside it, there are prawns, salads, and pavlova. Often more than one, because pavlova has a habit of multiplying at Christmas.

It’s relaxed. People help themselves. There’s grazing before, during, and long after lunch has technically finished. Plates are abandoned and returned to. Conversations drift. No one is watching the clock.

I’ll usually be semi-casual. Nice dress shorts and a good blouse. Put together enough to feel polished, comfortable enough to survive the heat. A far cry from winter layers and formal dining tables, and something I’ve grown very comfortable with.

I still notice the contrast every year.

Cold mornings and winter light sit somewhere in memory alongside sunscreen, bare feet, and the steady hum of air-conditioning. Christmas never quite feels the same here as it did growing up.

But I don’t need it to.

Some of my favourite Christmases haven’t followed any tradition at all. One year, I spent Christmas in New York with my nephew and his wife. No expectations. No attempt to recreate the past. Just walking the city, eating well, catching up, and enjoying each other’s company.

Another year, my sister was still alive and we went out for Christmas dinner at a five-star hotel. No cooking. No cleaning. No pressure. Just getting dressed up, sitting together, and being looked after for the day. Easy. Indulgent. Memorable.

Those are the Christmases I return to now. Not because they were perfect, but because they were uncomplicated.

These days, Christmas feels lighter.

There’s less pressure to do things a certain way. Less obligation. Less expectation that one day should carry the full weight of every tradition you’ve ever known.

This year, I’ll be spending Christmas with my housemate Hoda, my cats Leonardo and Monty, and another PhD candidate friend of Hoda’s. We’re hosting what Australians perfectly describe as an orphan Christmas. A gathering of people who are far from home, between places, or simply choosing something quieter.

Years ago, when I first moved to Australia, I was welcomed into someone else’s orphan Christmas. I was new, a long way from home, and still finding my feet. That invitation mattered more to me than I probably realised at the time.

Now, I genuinely enjoy paying that forward.

There will be food without fuss, board games that may or may not be played properly, long conversations, and plenty of laughter. The cats will involve themselves whether invited or not. Someone will argue about the rules. Someone will cheat. No one will mind.

It’s not the Christmas I grew up with.

But it’s a Christmas that fits my life now.

Christmas will probably always feel different here. The weather will never match the memories. The rhythm will never quite align with what I once knew.

And that’s okay.

Because these days, I don’t measure Christmas by how closely it resembles the past.

I measure it by how much I enjoy it.

And by that measure, Christmas dinner Queensland style suits me just fine.