Christmas Eve

In my kitchen, defrosting on a plate, is an Oakham Chicken, guaranteed succulent. British seasonsed chipolata sausages and red cabbage with red onion and redcurrant jelly. There is bread sauce in the fridge and potatoes in the cupboard ready to be roasted in olive oil, pillow cases on the children's doors and presents ready to go under the tree.

On Boxing day there will be ham in Norfolk and stuffing, apricot and rosemary. My parents house will be laden down with food like a merchants ship, stored in cupboards, upstairs drawers and in the conservatory, which doubles like a large kitchen at this time of year. Every turn to the end of the year will be marked by food as part of the voyage that is my family. I choose which parts of the voyage to take myself. A deep hearted mince pie, sherry and warm fire Happy Christmas to you.

Sherry Trifle

I put my grandparents Good Housekeeping book in the kitchen and opened it out at Sherry Trifle, I poured the caramel coloured Bristol Cream Sherry into a glass and put it to my nose. The ancient smell of the sherry hit me.

In my mind I saw grandad H, wearing a knitted waistcoat and smart trousers, shuffling around his musty home, making sherry trifle, which would sit on his pristine white table cloth. It would be decorated with gooey glace cherries. You could see the layers of sponge, fruit, custard and cream through the clear glass bowl and feel the mixture of layers in your mouth when you ate it. The sweetness of the yellow custard against the grown up alcohol soaked into the sweet trifle sponges, the fruit drunk on the sherry swelled to twice its size. I would sit next to the trifle bowl which was on the table between me and the adults in my life as a child and I was always told, never put jelly in trifle.

Last Friday I made desserts for a Christmas meal with my friends. I knew I would make sherry Trifle. I stood in my kitchen, in pink Crocs, whacking the sherry onto trifle sponges stuffed with Jam, this is the way I cook, throw it in. Then I put in the custard and realised that it wasn't going to set enough for the jelly, that I wanted to put in because who says you can't have jelly in custard? So, I had to leave it out, this time. Instead, I put the cream on the custard and then decorated it with glace cherries, hundreds and thousands and silver balls and took it to the party. Even though I followed an old recipe, the trifle was as flambuoyant as possible and it still tasted like it use to.

Sinterklaas

The Dutch Father Christmas has been to England and left behind pepernooten, small ginger tasting biscuits and sweet goodies for the kids, who left out a shoe for him to fill with things and a parsnip for the white horse (schimmel). Then a large parcel arrived from Holland with presents in it from B's parents, the kids of course, think this is Sinterklaas himself who has brought the presents. Food bits in the parcel included: Dutch cheese, that says on the front of the packet, Stuk Kaas, Speculaas biscuits, which have a kind of cinnamon smell to them, Dropjes, better known to you and I as liquorice, B's favourite and my favourie nut, borrel nootjes, which are peanuts in a crispy, spicy shell. Sinterklaas is a big time for kids in Holland, it's like Father Christmas coming early with his helper Zwarte Piet.

Just time to mention that I will be making trifle like my Grandad H use to make, at the end of this week for a party on Friday night, only I'm going to go my own way and stick jelly in it as well as custard.

Advent

Saturday night, first day of advent, after playing the role of the innkeepers wife in the church Nativity, I tucked into dinner at Deasons with family and friends. I had hot roast William Pear, stuffed with stilton, serrano ham, port glaze and candied walnuts. Hot pear that, as you cut into it the stilton came flowing out and mixed over the hot fruit. For a main I had field mushroom and shallot comfit nut pudding and curry parsnip emulsion and picked cauliflower. The pickled cauliflower provided sharpness agains the the sweet taste of the field mushroom and shallot pudding. Afterwards I had chocolate brownie, which was cooked on the outside and like chocolate mousse on the inside.




I had a gin and tonic to start and then a glass of large red wine with my dad, whose appetite for alcohol has come back since his heart operation. Although he looked smaller than he use too, I think it is the combination of slouching and shrinking as you get older, his colour was so good, like his full bodied red wine. He wore a dark blazer, dark shirt, dark tie with light pattern on it which seemed to give him distinction.



The next day we had a roast dinner and drank a sweet dessert wine called, "Chateau Tillac 2003", although food can be used in my family to avoid difficult situations, feelings this weekend it felt like a return to normality enjoying food and wine, something my father hadn't really had the stomach for over the last few months. Outloud and in my head, I toasted the doctor whose young hands had carried out my dad's procedure and whose approachable nature had calmed the waters. We then talked about what kind of stuffing to make for Christmas...to be continued

Space Dust

I don't know what exactly happens when you put this stuff in your mouth. I don't know what causes the crackle but it's fab. I dare you to take a packet into an important meeting and pour some into your mouth, when there is a moment of quiet. Then slightly open your mouth and listen to the crackling, happening independently of anything you are doing. I could do this for hours on end, just crackling.

As a kid I would have 10pence a week for sweet money, which I would mostly spend on 1 pence chews, but sometimes I would blow 5 pence alone on a packet of space dust, now called Fizz Wizz. Then get home to the chair in front of the TV and sit crackling to Tom and Jerry, Top Cat, Blue Peter, Rhubarb and Custard or whatever happened to be on.

Beef and Bacon Casserole

On Saturday we went to London for my nephew’s birthday/firework party. We left late and just made it in time for the birthday party where Chuckles, the entertainer, stayed for an hour and then left saying, "I'm getting too old for this." Then the kids had mini muffin cakes, which were iced with a pink glaze and had hundreds and thousands on them and Pringles/dips and sandwiches. One little girl was rooted to the birthday tea table; it reminded me of myself as a kid. I once embarrassed my parents by following a hostess trolley, full of cakes, around a room in the 70's, refusing to let go of the side of it. My small hand had to be prized off.

Then my nephew's birthday cake arrived at the table with a five on it, which was an indoor sparkler. As he blew it out I wished him all the best in his life, with every bone and sinew in my body. My daughter ate the birthday cake and did an excellent job of taking off all the icing. Then there was a small lull before the fireworks party started at 5pm and B’s Chinese friend turned up to serve us fried food.

First, she cooked loads of prawn crackers and then deep fried fish, spring rolls and sesame toast. I tried them all, dipping my crackers in sweet chilli sauce and then went outside to sit on the bench and watch the fireworks and the roaring bonfire at the end of my brother's garden. I was doing all my favourite things. My son appeared, his face covered in chocolate and mud he was doing all his favourite things. B came out and we sat on the bench and watched people, through the French windows, approaching the chocolate fountain we had brought from Bristol. They held their skewers, with marshmallows on, in the flow of chocolate, before eating them and leaving the inevitable drip of chocolate down the chin, which after the third or fourth go no one bothered wiping away. Fab!!


The morning after, I woke with a deep fried fish hangover and after coming round we left to go to Norfolk, to be with my dad before his operation. This was going to be a different space.

We arrived in time for dad's home made tomato soup which my son lapped up. My mum had made an evening meal of Spaghetti Bolognese, interrupted only by the vicar coming round to pray for dad. Prayer, the holder of glistening tears. We are the bread broken.

We finished and eat ice-cream and then had tea and coffee and Waitrose stem ginger.

I went to bed knowing we were all dealing with Dad’s operation in our own ways and felt alone.

The next morning I wasn’t well enough to be with my dad in hospital, my glands were up. My dad and I spoke with space between us. I couldn’t hug him goodbye or go with him because I don't want him to catch my bug. Just before he left, coat on, we talked about dinner later, even though he wouldn’t be there, he came with me to the chest freezer in the garage, and got out,' Beef and Bacon Casserole,' which my dad tells me his is favourite dish, his signature dish. He took 2 of them out for tea. He knows it is my husband's favourite.

The casserole, packed in old ice-cream cartons, sat defrosting on a tray in the dining room, as the car backed out of the drive and took dad to hospital.

Unable to visit dad I returned home and spoke to him on the phone later, after his operation. I tell him,’ the casserole is great’ and he says,’ I should have sent you back with more.’ The funny thing is, although it’s not my favourite, I wish he had.

Dad's recipe:

Sherbert

I have an obsession at the moment with all things sherbert related. I was preparing recently for a writing exercise, thinking of all the sweets I use to love to eat as a kid and one of the first things that came into my mind was Sherbert Fountains.


They catapult me back into the chair in my parents’ front room. I would pack myself tightly in it, like the sherbert in the yellow packet with the red lettering on the front and black liquorice, just visible at the top of the tube. It would take me hours to eat it.

First, I would pull out the liquorice, long black and dusted in sherbert and bite the top off and let the bitter sweet taste like sweet, black tar fill my mouth. Then I would put the moistened liquorice into the sherbert and dip, pinching the side of the packet to loosen the lumps of powder. The full blown sweetness of the sherbert off setting the more bitter liquorice. Like a sweet and sour Chinese. After getting bored with trying to pick up the sherbert with the liquorice stick, I would eat it in one go by pouring the sherbert full on into my mouth like a shot of vodka. I would feel the full force of it down my throat, up my nose. I could feel a hot prickly feeling on my face. Afterwards I would come to a sherbert full stop with the soggy packaging in my hand.


I always seemed to be alone when eating the Sherbert Fountain, the door between the kitchen, where my mum was making tea and the sitting room where I ate my sweets, firmly closed.


Now, I don't quite have the patience or dedication for Sherbert Fountains so I’ve been getting my kicks, over the last few weeks, from sherbert lemons. These can be enjoyed on the run, tossed around a few times in the mouth before the sherbert seeps out of the grooves inside the sweet. I know the anatomy of a sherbert lemon really well from crunching too early and still being able to feel, with my tongue, the sherbert lying inside, waiting to be released from its lemon trench.


Space Dust..Coming Soon..