CHRISTMAS DAY ON PUDDING ISLAND

Not quite a “ramble” (a wander over the hills and dales), and dressed in our boots, jackets and gloves, we marched up the one last hill beyond Kate and Justin’s home toward a clearing.  On the way we heard from the resident pheasant that lives in a towering tree and spied rabbit tracks in the snow.  Just a short trek away we came to the flattop and beheld a wondrous outlook.  Every home, every tower, every village for miles was neatly laid out below us.  We felt on top of Everest.  We felt at one with Wales.  We felt peaceful.  Serene.  Almost religious.  And definitely hungry — so we clambered off the mountain top and headed straight back to Wood Cottage and the meal of the century!

Three Magi - Kate, Kate's mom Pat, and Jann on top of the world Christmas Day

Justin doffed his walking clothes and again took command central between the huge cooker (stove) and prep island.  Deflower the Brussels sprout stalk.  Ribbon the sprout leaves.  Sip some wine.  Core the parsnips.  Angle cut the carrots.  Separate the goose fat.  Drizzle the roasties (potatoes) with same.  Sip more wine.  Suddenly, the hob (cooktop) was doing what it was created to do and we had a lull.  Perfect time for a nap as everyone settled down for a few minutes to gather more energy for the meal ahead.

Only one thing got between the nap and the meal and she was on the telly (television) promptly at 3 PM. The Queen.  Every Christmas the Queen delivers “The Queen’s Speech,”  a  greeting with a small message and big wishes for all her subjects on this special day.  All of Britain tunes in to watch.  Throw in a song by the choir at Hampton Court, and in just a few minutes, the Queen’s Speech has come and gone, and we’re back in the kitchen for final preparations.

The goose comes out of the oven and is defrocked.  The roast beef makes an appearance and is sliced into wafer thin morsels. The cranberry/pomegranate jello mold (jelly) is upturned and plattered.  Vegetables (veg) are seasoned and sautéed to perfection.  Stuffing.  Gravy.  Roasties and parsnips are brown, crispy and gleaming.  The table is set in the conservatory, wine bottles lined up like tin soldiers, and the hungry converge.  We eat until almost full, but are sure to leave a little room for the traditional, very British, ever-present and looked forward to – pudding!

There’s a reason that Britain is known as Pudding Island.  The Brits love their desserts, and the generic term for anything sweet served after a meal is “pudding.”  It can be a Victoria Sponge (cake with jelly between the layers), or, as in our case, a poached pear frangipani and a chocolate tart served with freshly whipped cream.  Forks and spoons flashed in the air like a gathering of fencing enthusiasts, and no sooner had we been served than the dishes were empty.  We were full.  We were sated.  We were deliriously happy.  And we’d eaten so much that the real, traditional Christmas pudding (a fruitcake laced with alcohol and left to stand for at least a year) had to be put back into the cupboard for yet another year. 

And that, my friends, is what Christmas is like on Pudding Island. Thank you Kate and Justin for making this day so satisfying — and filled with love and affection. Merry Christmas every day to you both.