A very berry Christmas!

IN the early 1970s, with a family of four young kids, I made much of the festive season and by December 1 was the first on the street to decorate and put up our Christmas tree.

By mid-december I’d have bought and wrapped all my gifts, sent and received a few dozen cards, ordered my turkey and, along with the kids, waited feverishly for the big day. It usually dawned as soon as Santa had flown off the roof and began with a loud whoop of “Santa’s been!”, and our bedroom door crashed open. The light snapped on and the kids jumped on to and into our bed clutching their overstuffed stockings.

Gathering up the tons of abandoned paper, I shooed the girls downstairs and made for the kitchen. Giving the turkey a final rub of oil, I carefully placed it on the middle shelf and lit the oven. I spread my best Nottingham lace tablecloth, smoothed it out and arranged the fir cones we’d collected and painted white in mid-september, adding a few sprigs of homegrown holly to the festive centrepiece. All this was done to the non-stop sound of the phone calls from friends and families wishing us a Merry Christmas.

Finally, I put out my best wine glasses and, after a last bit of polishing, emptied my wedding present gift of a silver plated cutlery set on to the placemats. Back in the kitchen I put my peeled potatoes on, gave them a good shaking to roughen the surfaces, put them in a roasting tin with duck fat and set them on the top shelf for roasting. About now the most delicious aroma had spread throughout the house. We were all but ready and raring to go when…… the doorbell rang.

I opened the door to an old friend (let’s call him Dave) and his 12-year-old son (let’s call him Peter). One look at their faces was enough. He’d been having marital problems all that year and she had finally left them the night before. My hubby gave him a stiff Scotch while I headed for the dining room to lay a couple more places.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that there’d not be enough cranberry sauce to go around. I grabbed the dish, opened the cupboard door and, any port in a storm, grabbed hold of a half jar of strawberry jam. I lifted a generous tablespoonful into the dish and after adding a squeeze of lemon juice, gently turned it over a couple of times. I called everyone to the table. As the gravy boat was passed hither and thither and then the cranberry sauce. Dave dug his fork deep into the bowl and pulled out the biggest, fattest strawberry holding it aloft for all to see. The entire table collapsed in hysterical laughter. Christmas had been saved by a strawberry!