Christmas Past, Present & Future

The whirlwind that was Christmas has passed. Time stood still for a solitary day. Imprisoned at home some might say. Torn wrapping paper and boxes swept away. Remnants used, stashed or thrown in the trash. Decorated Christmas trees and twinkling lights the only reminder left. All the build up, the stress, the exhaustion to celebrate a limited feast. A blink of an eye and it's gone. The slowness to midday, then the day quickening up, turning suddenly to dusk. The slump. Drifting... Remembering Christmas times past...

The gathering of relatives on Boxing Day. Grandparents, Aunt, Uncle and cousins. A second attempt at Christmas Day. A large table, party hats and games. Too many helpings of food and drink. The rippling of voices and laughter. A loud family rejoicing together. A walk on the beach. Extremities wrapped up in hats, scarves, and gloves. Even earmuffs. The fresh gusts of air. The sea's roar and the screech of gulls overhead. Returning to a warm welcoming house, tea or hot chocolate, and cake. The confectionery fights. Everyone had their favourite choc. Stealing the Cadbury's Milk Tray box to ensure I got the orange cremes. Battling others for the ones filled with praline. The goodbyes. The bear hugs. The long drive home in the dark. Slumber, my head lolling forwards and backwards, in intermittent doze.

Awakening from this dream to the present scene. A quiet Christmas. People now missing from these festivities. These times past, gone forever, like the childhood I yearn to have back at Christmas. The present celebrated differently. A house of three adults, restless and bickering. Our normal routines disrupted. Daily combat for command of the TV remote. Who gets to use the bathroom first. A visitor, in a house where I used to live, trying to fit in with the timetable. Needing to be a help, not a bother. Unwilling to give up my independence even if it's only for an hour. I can wash up, make a cup of tea for myself. I'm not a child any longer. Where will future Christmasses place me I wonder. A spinster alone in a flat surrounded by stray dogs and cats. The ghost of Christmas future beckons to me. Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol, a possible reality. No, that will never be me!!

Cheat!

CHEAT underlined in bold at the top of this year's Christmas menu. A three course meal: starter, main, and pud. Each served with elaborate words. Exaggerate the detail. Deciding in advance this chef would go on strike. A flick of the oven switch, set the temperature and timer. My kitchen work complete. Sit back, relax. Unwrap presents, watch the dog chasing screwed up balls of paper. New toys moist with dribble on my lap. The muted sound of the telly in the background. Table laid with the best cutlery and china. Christmas with my parents goes like clockwork. Slow, fast, slow, fast, fast, slow, slow, slow... Presents, nibbles, lunch etc, etc. The day progresses like an antique clock following its own rhythm. Has it always been like this?

This year I'm stirring it up. I'm cheating my way through Christmas. For 51 weeks I've cooked from scratch. Peeled, chopped, and boiled. Pureed soups and sauces. Made breakfast, lunches, snacks and dinners. The 25^th is my day off. Being the only veggie guest in the house is tough enough, without argy-bargy in the kitchen. Tempers frayed, elbowing each other out of the way. Arguing over which way is best to prepare the veg. Mum always peels the new potatoes, boils carrots to a pulp. Faces flushed, scowls exchanged. Voices raised with “Get out of my way!” Steam expressed, fogging up the windows. Sharing a kitchen is not fun on Christmas day, but it is the room we gather. Squashed into its tiny space with the oven's warmth, pots and pans on simmer.

Christmas is like a deck of playing cards. Cards dealt out, what will I choose: a game of snap or patience? Neither. This year I select to use the Joker. Bluff my hand. Enter ready-prepared. Cut corners where I have to. Well-stocked supermarket giants coming to my rescue. A shop-brought veggie feast. A vegan quiche, a medley of med veg, followed by vegan sheese and crackers. Uncomplicated. No prep, little cooking required. Minimal fuss. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm going to cheat on Christmas Day. Packaging brazenly laid on the kitchen worktop. No, I confess I didn't make this earlier. I'm not doing a “Blue Peter”.

I'm throwing tradition out with the turkey. Goodbye nut roasts! I'm crossing another style of cuisine off my Christmas dinner list. Oven cooked Mediterranean. Christmas Eve, I'm doing a stir fry, jazzing it up with shredded brussel sprouts. Christmas culinary rules begging to be broken. Elements from the festive dish in a new creation. A fusion. Even cheating takes imagination. So eat, drink and be merry, but hands off, this meal's mine!

Happy Cheatin' Christmas!

Wrapped Up

A roll, a push, the material unravels across the table. Swirls of colour shimmer in the light. The scissors leap up to snip. Begin to perform their steps. Blades executed sharp and swift. An Argentine Tango slicing a design made to fit. Pattern laid out and cloaked around the object. Snugly secured with a nip, a tuck and a fold. A pat, a smooth down. A finishing touch. A ribbon tied into a bow. All wrapped up, nowhere to go. It sits with others, waiting to be picked by a benefactor. Impatient for a corner to be ripped. Its attire torn off or tantalisingly peeled. The gift concealed, eager to be revealed by the lucky receiver.

Have you guessed? I'm talking gifts. Presents, tokens, stocking fillers. Those handed out by Santa's helpers. Christmas, a magical time of year. The season of giving, goodwill and cheer. Each person growing up with their own traditions. Father Christmas, Saint Nick or Santa. Stockings or pillowcases hung up. A treat left out for Santa and his reindeer. The anticipation. The sleepless night. A vivid imagination. Did you hear heavy footsteps in the middle of the night? A crash from the open chimney? Wide awake, you tip-toe downstairs and see the mince pie crumbs on the plate. The sherry glass standing empty. Stocking full, about to burst. A stuffed leg of presents. “Santa's been!!” you cry.



This is the scene that will play out in most streets on Christmas Day. Adults, being taken back to the child within. Memories of how it was for them. The thrill of tearing paper. Unwrapping a box containing a new toy to play with. Christmas food, hats, and crackers. Top Of The Pops and family entertainment. The excitement too much. The descent into tiredness and tempers. Christmas terminated.

The 25^th is fast approaching. The button marked “play” anxious to be pressed. Begin this home movie over. Generosity, the spirit that prevails each and every year. For the English, it's a good excuse to show their appreciation. A thought. A phone call. A card. Gifts wrapped up to present to the gifts in your life. A piece of advice for receivers: Be careful how you unwrap. A lot can be gleaned from your opening behaviour.



Monty sniffs out which gift is his.