Call me unhinged but I have never been one for Christmas – the food, for me, is painfully dull. The seemingly compulsory annihilation of livers that goes on through December is just plain idiotic. And the incessant, crazed and hysterical buying of gifts for people that have long-since grown out of ‘gifts’ is irritatingly wasteful.
Christmas for me is also intensely tiring. I am chef, house-decorator, and apparently gift-buyer extraordinaire for all of my family. Meaning that, starting with the cake and pudding in early November, and culminating in a New Year’s Day extended family feast (think 15 odd ‘merry’ family members around a table ‘articulating’ at the tops of their voices), I have my work cut out for me.
But before you start making judgements and assumptions about my family, know that I am (essentially) volunteering my services – I don’t do sitting around very well, so what else is there to do at Christmas other than buy, wrap, clean, decorate, prep, bake and cook…?!
I was, however, taken aback at myself on Friday. We were invited to a friend’s flat for dinner. The ‘C’ word didn’t really enter it – it was more a get-together before people parted for the festive break. We were told food would be provided, and if we were to bring anything, cheese would be nice. A sign that these friend have their heads screwed on correctly, I thought to myself.
The Boy and I arrived somewhat later than others thanks to a Guinness, chocolate and ginger cake I was making in a hurried fit post-work, but, again in tribute to their wondrousness, the hosts had said simply that we should arrive any time after 8.30pm. Flexibility is my middle name.
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| The house of revels, and some seriously old, neolithic rock. |
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| A Bonsai Christmas tree. Why not? |
We walked into a small yet toe-curlingly cosy sitting room, in which around nine people were scattered across the sofa, chairs and table. At one side of the room lay Utopia. Utopia heavy with comestibles worthy of a feast on Mount Olympus. (Yes, I know I’m getting my Classical allusions wrong, but, work with me here). Home-made mackerel pate; olives; pickled onions; roasted chestnuts; home-made piccalilli; fennel, pear, orange and Wensleydale salad; roasted root vegetables; home-made taramasalata; green salad with fresh peas; soda bread; ciabatta; granary bread; baked potatoes; and the crowning beast of glory – a roasted ham joint that could have provided Gaga with at least three red-carpet outfits. As if that wasn’t surfeit enough, in the kitchen was a vat of home-made haddock chowder, and a seriously good cheese table.
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| Feast your eyes and appetites on this. |
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| Potatoes, paté, root vegetables, salads, olives, taramasalata...need I go on? |
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| Well, if you insist - what was once a mound of steaming, roasted chestnuts. |
If we leave aside that this spread was effectively me, in buffet form, what really struck me was just how jubilant it made everyone. The easiness and lack of formality about it all meant that conversations bubbled across the room, ebbing and flowing with attendees as they milled about the Table of Joy, each other and the two very lovely cats. It was good food parenting a good mood.
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| It's Ham(mer) Time... |
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| A mouthful of ham... |
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| A whirlwind of pleasure. |
Such was the feeling of joviality and bonhomie that carols began. This would have, in any other circumstance, made The Eyebrow jump up, my gaze narrow and my feet move. But, I found myself rather enjoying it all. It was, in large part, due to the fact that the ‘choir’ was made up of some seriously silly singers, who were more interested having a larf than singing like cherubs on high.
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| The Boy and I raise a glass. |
After carols came dancing, and with dancing came more food (ecstasy and revelations in the mouth, in the form of cheese), and thus flowed forth more of the good mood. It was an evening spent in a casual, homely environment (no champagne cocktails or LED-lit cocktail shakers), with a modest number of attendees (plus felines), and simple, yet beautifully prepared and cooked food (notwithstanding the days of work the hosts must have put in).
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| The remnants of our hosts' hard work. |
An evening like that rams home how simple the truest pleasures are.
Not that I needed telling that, but still, that evening has warmed my cockles, strengthened my faith in ‘modern society’ and provided me with a dam sight more cheer than any boozy, fumbled office party, over-cooked, dry turkey or flabby mince pie could. If Christmas could be evenings like that, spent amongst family and friends, I’d willingly enrol as one of His Little Helpers.
