It feels like Christmas

29th December 2024

It seemed, at the beginning of the week, that we were in for a wild Christmas, and not in a good way. With winds edging towards gale-force starting overnight accompanied by driving rain, we kept the shutters closed all day on Monday, and Tuesday, too, while the elements made their mind up what to do. They erred on the side of caution, and Christmas Day heralded the return of calm and clear days with lots of sunshine and blue skies which continued for the rest of the week, albeit distinctly on the cold side – but that was ok.

While I braved the weather on Monday for my walks with Harry, it was with some circumspection as we held to the lower part of the lane, away from the rolling trees, Stephen took the Jeep to bob out to do a spot of shopping, nothing major, just some odds and ends, including something to put the Christmas pudding tiffin on we’d made as a thank-you to Rocco.

We delivered this the next day when we hit MSP for the triple whammy of Pina, Coal and Conad, and yes it was busier than normal but not enough to make it the battlefield of a British supermarket on Christmas Eve. We were back before 10.30 and congratulating ourselves on getting everything sorted with little bother, when we hit the first of the day’s two mishaps. “Where are the potatoes?” asked Stephen. The answer was still in the vegetable section at Coal.

He tried to make out it was my oversight, being the man with the list, but when I was about to don one of the plastic gloves (the ones that are supplied next to the produce bags and which you are expected to use when handling fruit and veg), he took it from me and headed in the direction of the potatoes, it seemed natural to assume he was sorting those while I did the onions. Moreover, in my defence, m’lud, he never said anything as he watched me tick them off my list. It meant one of us had to go back and get them, didn’t he.

Pizza on the settee watching The Muppet Christmas Carol being our plan for Christmas Eve (countercultural to the seafood Vigilia feast of the families amassing around the country), meant that we could have a relaxing afternoon – or we could after I’d made the ham and cheese rustic torta for our buffet tea the next day. This looked mighty fine, if I do say myself, but leaving it in the oven to cool turned out not to be a good idea.

We were nearing the end of our festive g&t when the cheesy whiff I’d been catching niggled me into asking Stephen if he’d taken the flan out before heating the oven for the pizze. That he yelled and leapt to his feet tells you the answer. What had been golden crusted, while not being burnt to a crisp, was on the black side. It was still edible, though, and it gave a definite chewy and carbon je ne sais quoi to our plates of cheese and cold cuts.  My granny used to encourage us to eat the charred bits of toast by saying they helped you be able to whistle; working on that basis I could be the next Roger Whittaker.

The laid-back vibe of Christmas Eve set the blueprint for the next few days. Christmas morning was opening presents, with Harry again spoiling us in both quantity and quality, and thoughtfulness- though how he does it on the pocket money we give him is a wonder. Lunch at YaYa Sushi was comfortingly predictable and of a sensible length, leaving us plenty of time after Harry and my constitutional to watch Bing Crosby in White Christmas.

We managed not to leave the homestead on Boxing Day (or Santo Stefano if you prefer), with a relaxed morning followed by Cary Grant and Irene Dunne in The Awful Truth as a matinee treat (what charisma, what frocks and what a good idea to finish a film with a card saying The End and not ten minutes of credits) and Delia Smith’s pot roast beef for dinner (I can cook when I shift myself).

Friday was, of course, hair cut morning, a non-negotiable weekly date, and while I was made respectable for New Year Stephen got the few odds and ends we needed from Coal before we fled back to the security of LCDDB. Here we have remained ever since – apart, that is, for a jaunt out yesterday afternoon to Monte San Giusto and its presepi exhibition. It was, I am safe in saying, exactly the same as last year, which is not necessarily a bad thing. We wandered round, thrilled by the subtle lighting effects (i.e. dimming to simulate night, brightening to simulate day) then took a stroll through the compact town centre, admiring the Christmas decorations and pondering whether to stop for a little something in the bar in the square.

Actually, that discussion was academic because we really had no intention of doing so. Why would we when there was artisanal panettone (with a pistachio cream topping) and hot chocolate waiting at home as a reward – though I wouldn’t want you to think that the only reason we went out was to go home and indulge. We don’t need an excuse to do that.