Three surnames. His-hers-and-ours children, two called Ben. We were never a very traditional family. But, like most families, we seem to find traditions that suit us, or the traditions find us. There's the obligatory game of Cranium at beach gatherings, the ritual bellowing of Bohemian Rhapsody at the witching hour at family parties.
Now Christmas is upon us, with its non-negotiables: some lights on the house, inflatable Santa in the tī kōuka/cabbage tree, the full turkey and figgy pudding catastrophe. Stockings on the mantelpiece, one as old and tattered as I am.
Last year a new tradition tracked me down, trailing traces of a fractured heritage. I found myself ordering in a hanukkiah, the Hanukkah menorah that is hard to come by here and adding the lighting of candles and the saying of blessings over eight nights to our already rather random seasonal repertoire. My family looked at me as if I'd gone mad. When it comes to religion, we range from agnostic – you don't know what you don't know in this crazy cosmos, right? – to atheism of a "Christopher Hitchens? Hold my beer" variety.
So, somehow, we now celebrate what has come to be called Chrismukkah. The merging of Christmas/Hannukah had a moment in 19th century Germany. It was popularised in the early 2000s by Seth Cohen (father Jewish, mother not) on US teen drama The OC. "Eight days of presents followed by one day of many presents!"
No doubt writing a memoir in search of my Polish Jewish father, who disappeared from our lives when I was 13, opened that door. He was implacably secular but talked of growing up in a religious family. He would have lit the candles, said the blessings. Then, on a quest to explore my partner's Christian/Muslim/Jewish roots going back to the 1800s in Israel, we found ourselves in a hostel in Tel Aviv on the final night of Hanukkah. A happy mix of religions and ethnicities gathered in the bar for the lighting of the last candle by one of the youngest guests. The hanukkiah was made out of beer bottles. It was my kind of ceremony.