The love song of Christmas
CERTAIN OCCASIONS CAN MARK TIME
more vividly than birthdays and anniversaries. Christmas is one of those. I can’t remember what I did on my birthday before last, but I know that our Christmas lunch in 2022 lasted seven hours, began with beetroot gravadlax and finished with Abi’s trifle from the cover of TASTE’s Christmas issue, which I customised with poached plums when I couldn’t track down strawberries, which are not in season. I won’t make that mistake again.
The year before, my stepson came for a quick visit from London in November and ended up staying for Christmas thanks to the UK’s Covid quarantine rules. It became one of few Christmases in recent years (and probably in years to come) to feature all the younger Finch siblings together, as well as the original Salad Dodger, a.k.a Grandad. A special memory is watching the Cherub – who is especially cherubic at Christmas – decorating the tree with her brothers while trying to ensure that both got equal amounts of her attention.
I can’t speak for J Alfred Prufrock, but I feel like I have measured out my life in Christmas days. From the happy early childhood ones where my favourite uncle, Percy, would carve the gammon wearing a deflated chef ’s hat, to the festive braais of my single days, where I squeezed the family onto my tiny terrace and washed all the dishes by hand. The meals we have now always begin with cracker-pulling at an improvised long table and end with a tower of expertly packed Tupperware.
I have only spent Christmas out of South Africa twice: once when I lived in London and tried to take the rind off my just-poached gammon after coming home from the pub (another mistake I have not made since). And once when we spent the holidays in Los Angeles with my brother and marvelled at the Christmas light displays that came up on the houses every night. (Bob Hope’s former house had a life-sized Nativity scene in the garden).
Since I started at TASTE, I now also mark time in Christmas issues. Many of the recipes and tips you will find in this issue may find their way into our celebration and, hopefully, yours too. If you have no idea where to start, turn to page 20 for Abi’s much-anticipated menu.
Last Christmas, my friends Raph and Ernst and their family joined mine for the traditional feast-of-seven-hours and so there was an extra helping of joy in watching the Cherubs demolishing the gingerbread house. At one point, while we were all slumped over the cheeseboard, I saw Ernst glance across the room at their toddler and exclaim: “He’s got a knife!”
It was a perfect “Hollywood” Christmas, full of shouting and laughing, but also unavoidable sadness as Raph lost her beloved mom last year, just a month after we lost my dad. But as we get older, and try not to dwell on these absences while still holding onto the memories, it’s inevitable that this becomes both the best and worst of times. Last year’s meal made me appreciate what a privilege friendship is – especially when the friend is someone who makes the best potato dauphinoise this side of Marseille.
This Christmas already promises to stand out amid the passing years as my brother will spend it in SA for the first time in 20 years, ahead of my mother’s 80th. I’m not sure we’ll be able to compete with my sister-in-law’s legendary Christmas tree or my brother’s beef Wellington, but this issue has given me some ideas. I do love a panettone, for starters, and there are at least four ways to take it from misunderstood Italian cake to sublime pudding perfection. See Hannah’s ways in “Just Chill” (p 156) and Clem’s “Roast Masters” (p 104), or on our social channels in December if you prefer your recipes in motion.
This Christmas also heralds the birth of a new family member – one who will make the Salad Dodger a grandad and the Cherub an under-aged aunt. So, next year, I predict, we may have the privilege of sharing our growing family’s South African-English-Russian traditions with a whole new little person. I may need a bigger gammon pot.
“I tried to take the rind off the justpoached gammon after coming home from the pub”