holiday fare

Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without the big nosh. I mean it’s part of the ritual of the festive season – the bit that goes after the convivial bonhomie over elevenses and the annual swapping of neighbourly fudge cake, and before the onset of hospitalising indigestion. The Christmas credo is firmly established. Bring on the Mylanta PLEASE (for the New Agers the low fat organic yoghurt will do fine, thanks).

Don't get me wrong I’m not impartial to a spot of ritual – events that mark the seasons and the years and important dates like my birthday, but whoever decided that rising at dawn in the summer heat to pod three buckets of fresh peas, scrape, NOT peel, a sink full of squinty new mud-caked potatoes (we’re talking the real thing here), stuff the bum of some cold turkey, cook to perfection every other living vegetable to be found at four different produce shops, make unlumpy gravy and then dish the whole lot up in piping, smiling hot grace, was in a word a schmuck. Tick the box please – is this supposed to be a relaxing fun holiday – yes; is it hot and summery – yes; are there multitudes of helpful willing staff to help out with the odd dish or 50 – fuggediboutit!

But we are not here to moan. No, this little piece of culinary wisdom is about making sure you redeem your reputation as a trusty partaker of ritual for yet another year and don’t try and fob anyone off with some dry lasagne. I have been unfortunate enough to suffer this experience and I swear no matter how nice those people were, lasagne is not my idea of Christmas dinner and I’m not going back to their house ever again. Dodgy Christmas dinners can ruin a good holiday – in Colombia one Christmas staying with the family of my then boyfriend, the ritual was for dry corned beef and cassava (also dry) at midnight, and an all night dance (not enough men so it was pass the broomstick for a little salsa), then it was off to the abattoirs at dawn for a bucket of fresh blood and some fresh ox hearts. What a special day that was – a big pot of boiled fresh blood and hibachi grilled hearts. I mean, I beg your pardon. Don’t leave home is my best advice – no one else ever does Christmas quite the same as mom and pop.

Above all things gravy is the substance you need to avoid at Christmas, that, and stuffing the cold cavities of dead birds. For some reason Christmas day and gravy can easily get lumpy, which causes a bit of a break down in the bonhomie. Reduce lumps is a worthy festive motto. This usually involves cracking open a bottle early in the day to settle the nerves as it were and herein lies the gravy issue – the sheer risk of, as my mother would put it, of “falling into the gravy” before the meal is served. Terror, peril. After much deliberation I have a new plan. This avoids all risk and will win raving accolades from everyone, especially the cook for whom the entire event is an absolute cinch. For the poultry enthusiasts there is the option of chicken by the portion – a quick little festive topping onto a supreme (breast with wing bone attached) wrapped in a swathe of bacon, which takes a few minutes to put together and only 20 minutes to cook to succulent perfection. For everyone else there is Prawn cocktails, glazed ham and a pav.

Sound easy – well it is and it tastes bloody delicious. Throw candles, treaty bowls of ginger, almonds, figs and dried cherries, a bunch of Christmas crackers and big white table napkins (hire from the local laundry) on the table, and here’s wishing you an utterly fabulous Christmas!