christmas

Mother fretting over which table cloth to use, spreading the crisp white, not quite clean cloth like a blanket of freshly fallen snow puddled by the brown stains of last years gravy. Beads of sweat decorated the brow of the red faced chef like droplets of quartz scattered across a cave floor, as he slaves away over the autumn harvest, dowsing them with treasures from India, and prized possessions of the humble farmer. Sleeves rolled up and the determined shine in his eyes like that of a falcon hovering over his prey before he would plummet down like a cannon ball, he tackles the pearl of this all important gathering of foods, the fruit of the close and holy darkness, once many of the nations lives depended upon it, the bosom friend of the Irish, the potato. The sparkling silver of Sheffield laid in symmetrical patterns on the smooth snow cover, the flutes of Waterford standing shinning and proud.

Echoing voice of father vibrated through the house like the bells in a Convent signalling that dinner was served. The thudding of feet rushed and wild like that of the wandering stow away, made their way to the trestle for this annual feast. On the edge of our seats, anticipating, closing our truth-reflectors and letting the accurate sense organ of the nose tell us what delicious delights drowned in oozes of flavour were to be presented. The children’s eyes wide open not wanting to miss a single bit of this great tradition. The meal was placed on the table. the aroma and steam rose, like that off a lake on a cold January morning just as the sun was rising, the windows became cloudy and moist like the brow of father as he carved the no longer gobbling bird. Our plates were stacked mounds of piping hot treats, traditional tasty treats. Before we could enter this world of sensational experiences of colour smell and taste there was one thing that must be carried out. Crystal flute of liquid-eerie sunlight that bubbled and fizzed like the celebratory bottle that was sprayed over an ecstatic crowd at the end of a race I saw on television was handed to me. Now our flutes sang, the French bubbles popping and spraying my nose like the wind from the sea as o I took my first sip of Christmas. As the joyous meal began and the explosions of taste let off, releasing oohs and aahs from its delighted victims. As the meal went on and waist lines expanded and cheeks grew redder and the conversation got louder and eventually evolved into song.

The kids now were sent off to the duvet dream town of nod, too tired and full to complain.  The feet that came thundering down the very same stairs just hours before now were dragged like walking bricks to the dream delight capital. Now the wiser folk, mellow by the fire loosened their buttons. In some cases they were too late and the pressure, like that of the wind, had already sent their button flying on a mission that they did not wish to accept. Then the deadly decanter, the decapitator, the bottomless pit, the fruit of the hearty French man was brought out from the dark cupboard where only the good china kept her company. This decanter of deception led one to believe that even once you had poured your full bottle of wine in to this vast container it was still empty! A clever trick that anyone full of the French festive cheer would easily fall for and end up a wee bit more merry than planned.

The steaming pudding dripping with cognac as the flame burns the pudding looks like a burning coal, smouldering away, burning the old year and making way for the new one. Then comes the yellow custard, each dollop spreads over the slice of pudding like the tide creeping up the beach. Each steaming mouthful seems too much, you begin to feel like a balloon, with one more spoonful you might pop, but you can’t just leave it sitting there so slowly like a child learning to walk you take it one spoonful at a time.

Once your delicious dinner is over and you’re too tired to move mother brings out the monopoly. Like a cat running from water you try to get away with excuses like its been a long day but in the end you must settle for scrabble. Then playing with adults it’s quite a dull game, with their long lettered word and you “dog” O the shame. You grin through your teeth and bear it it’s for them you’re doing this, for them, well at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Every letter is like a step closer to an explosion. You’re loosing the game and your temper as well, you sit very still as to try calm yourself down, but like an ocean your temper is writhing inside, you have a cup of tea but still can’t find the Zen you are looking for. So you leave the room with your dignity intact, like a proud hero of war you stalk out of the room head held high and nose in the air. Then your head hits your pillow and with your last thoughts in your head floating like boats on a river, then slowly your eyelids grow heavy and then you’re lost in a dream world full of winning scrabble and things.