Christmas was particularly special this year with all my family coming to our new(ish) house in Rye for the first time since we’ve been here – all my three children and their six children, not forgetting all their wretched dogs!
It was extremely hard work, as every woman will know, but fun. (My son fried the 12lb turkey outside in boiling oil, and it took a mere 40 minutes boiling time in all….a la Americano. Quite amazing.)
So when we all received an invitation to a Boxing Day lunch with cousins near Benenden, we accepted with alacrity. Complete bliss and rapture for the cook.
We all, ranging from 2 to 77, piled into three cars to be plied with blinis and champagne and a wonderful ham and turkey first course. At the table the conversation ranged between this and that, and that and this. Politics (woeful). The C of E (worse). The weather (wet and warm). Christmas (wonderful). The children (wreckers). The dogs (warmongers).
Pudding arrived in the form of a chocolate confection and some light and perfect mince pies along with a festive bowl of brandy butter.
However, it wasn’t brandy butter as I remember it: too light and fluffy with tragic and undetectable levels of brandy. I very subtly slide my huge spoonful of it to the side of my plate, and I noticed one or two of the other guests doing the same. I very disloyally muttered to my neighbour: “This is awful”…
Luckily by then one or two of the host family tasted and discovered it’s very extreme shortcomings. “Mum, it’s mashed potato!!” How we all laughed. And the real deal was then promptly put upon the table. Thank goodness for that!
Image Credits: Col Everett .