The problem is that I quite like Christmas.
I really like the 6 weeks away from Nuiova Lazio High School, lolling about relaxing, with nothing serious to do, just enjoying the lovely summer weather.
I really enjoy all the traditional foods that get rolled out at this time. Roast Turkey (but only with plenty of bread sauce and lashings of rich gravy), sausages, crisp and crunchy roast potatoes, even Brussel sprouts. Then there's the Kiwi foods. Steaks on the barbie, cherries and strawberries galore, Pav and Ice Cream (Pavlova for those not from NZ).
|Best Christmas food|
Then there's the days of satisfying nibbling on all the leftovers. My absolute favourite being turkey sandwiches made with good wholemeal bread, thick butter, turkey of course, mayonnaise with dill and just a hint of cranberry jelly and bread sauce.
There's the opportunity to raid the fridge at night for those essential midnight snacks. Bread dipped in the gravy, crispy bits pulled off of the turkey carcass, cold bread sauce smeared on a couple of crackers.
I'll admit it. I really, really like bread sauce.
One Christmas about 10 years ago, when we were still in Scotland, my Beloved had produced a superb Christmas Dinner. All of my family were there, and some friends. About 12 people around the table.
I had just finished pouring the wine for everyone and I sat down to load up my plate in that gargantuan way we do at this time of the year.
4 or 5 slices of the turkey, about 12 roast potatoes, 5 or 6 of the little sausages, a mound of stuffing, some of that delicious red cabbage my Beloved makes, the sprouts, some of the alternative chestnut stuffing, all covered in rich tasty gravy.
The bread sauce. Where the hell was the bread sauce?
I looked at my Beloved questioningly, with a raised eyebrow.
She stared back.
"Where's the bread sauce Dear?"
"Oh I didn't make any this year"
Everyone else either wasn't aware of the exchange, being too busy stuffing their faces, or they were too polite to mention the slightly heated exchange between their hosts.
Except my wee boy (He was about 14 then, bless him) who said "I like bread sauce too, Mum"
"Well, I'll be quite happy to let you both make it next year" she said.
Said is far too poor a descriptor for the subtleties included in the method of delivery.
What she meant was:
- Just you wait.
- I'm not going to make it.
- You and the Fruit of your F*cking Loins can do it next year.
- And Hell Mend You, You Bunch Of Ungrateful Bastards.
- So next year my son and I made the bread sauce, and it was good, and the earth did not open up beneath us and all was great, and all were happy.
- And lo, much feasting took place.
- And lo, the Damsel of my Life took pity on the Head of the House and His First Born Son and said:
"I'll do it next year, and it will be better"
- And lo it was.
- And it was good; Nay it was absolutely f*cking magical
- And there will be Bread Sauce and it will be good unto the Ends of the Earth
- And all were content.
- Apart from the Head of the House and His First Born Son who were forever more condemned to do the Washing Up.
The lesson being: DO NOT CRITICISE YOUR BELOVED'S FOOD WHEN WE HAVE GUESTS AND JUST LET ME MAKE THIS POINT PERFECTLY CLEAR,
NEVER CRITICISE YOUR BELOVED'S FOOD.
|Lucky Richard [of RBB] has a brand new Dishwasher, so he won't have to do this like my son and I.|
But that isn't the only reason that I've got a problem, but I'll explain that on the next post.
|I'm glad my problem's not as big as hers.|