The Host Of Christmas Past

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Look what I got in my stocking

I couldn’t sleep last night – I ran out of decaffeinated Earl Grey on Monday and I don’t shop until tomorrow – and I lay awake thinking of past Christmases, so I thought I would share one with you; it’s an easy way to fill a blog.  Christmas 2006 was not a vintage year.  We got our turkey on Christmas Eve and it showed –  I have never been so disappointed in a frozen bird; it was as if that particular turkey didn’t want to be someone’s Christmas Dinner.  No meat on it at all.  Luckily, we also had gammon and duck, though the duck was an unpleasant surprise – so much fat on it, I know now why they don’t get cold on winter ponds.  We didn’t have gravy so much as artery-killer. 

Luckily, only Mum was having dinner with us that year, Dad having had the good sense to pop his clogs Christmas Eve 2000, once he heard I’d be cooking.  He wasn’t so lucky the year we had 22 for dinner and I remembered everything except the setting of the table, so everyone ate wherever they could grab a seat, some inside and some in the garden (in South Africa, don’t worry); and the greedy lot gobbled it up so fast that by the time I served the last plateful (mine) everyone had finished and I sat in lonely and tearful state with the Hub.  On the plus side, the washing up was done by the time I was. 

We had no problems at all in getting Spud to bed in 2006: he no longer believed in Father Christmas; hooray for the death of children’s fantasies!   – although he did wake up at three in the morning.  He managed to go back to sleep after rummaging through his stocking, but woke Tory Boy at 5:45, to TB’s vociferous displeasure.  Spud then climbed into our bed with the apparent intention of him no sleep, no one no sleep, so we gave in and were up by six-twenty.  Grandma was already awake, so it was simply a matter of toilet breaks, tea all round, video camera at the ready, and then the boys were allowed into the living room to receive their gifts.  Once they’d had a good poke around their booty piles we all sat to unwrap the under-the-tree gifts.  That took a good two hours, what with all the squealing and ‘thank yous’ and sorting of gift wrap, bows and ribbons into appropriate recycling bags.  

The Hub is a great gift giver.  That year, I got stuff from the White House, including a tree decoration, pin, and cufflinks which I am going to wear every time I have on a long-sleeve blouse, if I can only find them.   Unusually, no underwear, but furry socks and a large bag of Maltesers and lots of stocking fillers.   He also bought me the bread maker I so desperately desired.  I must be the only wife in the world who doesn’t hurl a new kitchen appliance at her husband on Christmas morning.  I had wanted one for ages and I used it every day for a fortnight; then about once a month; and now it’s just another dust-gatherer on top of a kitchen cupboard.   Why am I cursed with such a listening husband? 

The boys bought me thoughtful gifts: Spud bought me the Take That cd I was after (I had to have a little patience but I got it in the end) and a large box of Maltesers.   TB bought me a £10 book voucher and a large box of Maltesers.   How I love my children, especially when they spend their own money.  

I also love my mother, who bought me The West Wing.  Need I say more?  

Christmas dinner was delicious, reluctant turkey, oily gravy and all, and afterwards we watched a new dvd while Mum snored. 

Boxing Day was buffet day; a sort of ‘all-you-can-eat’ for the greedy amongst us, with me at the front of the queue.  I always do a buffet on Boxing Day because my Mum always did a buffet on Boxing Day.  I set it all out on a table in the lounge and we stretch out in front of the tv we taped but didn’t have time to watch on Christmas Day.  The only year since I’ve been cooking Christmas that I didn’t do a buffet was the year I didn’t cook Christmas because we were invited out.  That Boxing Day, the Hub and his offspring insisted I cook Christmas Dinner on Boxing Day because it didn’t feel like a proper Christmas without my Christmas Dinner.  Something to do with them missing the kitchen hysterics and burnt smell permeating the air, apparently.  Happy days!