The run up to Christmas is, usually, crazed. There's that inevitable surge of work before the holidays, paired with the round of unmissable work related parties and the need to see all your friends before they disappear home for the holidays.Being off on sick leave transforms things. No mania, no business. Quiet. Enormous stretches of sleep. (The side effects from the first chemo treatment have mostly been exhaustion. Far worse has been a bad cold with chesty cough that settled in on the 12th and is still hanging in there.) I am more organised on the holiday front than at any time in my life.
Decorations were up around the house by the 1st. I bought my last Christmas present on the 15th. I baked eight varieties of Christmas cookies: pignoli (an Italian macaroon-like disk
topped with pine nuts); cherry biscotti; chocolate chip; sugar-free chocolate chip; white
chocolate and macadamia nut; raisin bars
(using the recipe from the Party Pastry Shop in Chesterfield, Mo.); gingerbread; rolled vanilla shaped by cookie cutters. The
last two formed the basis of a cookie decorating evening with my godson Sacha and his siblings, before we settled into a more grown up dinner with his parents.
The cookies formed half of our home-crafted Christmas gifts. The other half was alcoholic. Inspired by those infused rums we tasted in Mauritius, Piers and I decided to play around with infused alcohols. We made apple and cinnamon flavoured vodka, vanilla rum, bramble gin (infused with blackberries, blueberries, damsons and a bit of rhubarb) and Tuscan vodka (infused with sun-dried tomatoes, basil and a bit of lemon).
I also messed about with candle making, but couldn't get those to a quality I was satisfied with giving away. There lies a continuing craft project for the winter. A project, by the way, that already makes me appreciate why good scented candles are so expensive. Unlike the alcohol, the DIY option here is no big cost saver.
Having reached these levels of domestic goddess-dom, I turned to my computer and did something I've been meaning to for years: a detailed Christmas card spreadsheet. Track what's come in, what's gone out. Track annually, eliminating sending cards to anyone from whom you haven't received in two consecutive years despite your mailing to them. Sound theory, though I think I've finally gotten around to this level of organisation as the tradition dies. 68 sent, 27 received. I'll continue the traditional approach for one more year before I consider transitioning yet another aspect of life online.
Christmas Eve brought lows and highs. My hair started coming out in great handfuls. Exactly between two and three weeks after the first treatment, as the books said. Fortunately, Ferrara hair is so thick that we can loose a lot of it before showing any impact, getting me to midnight mass looking normal. Bef0re church, however, we went for a nice meal.
Finding a restaurant open on Christmas Eve is a challenge. My top two options near church were closed, by next booked. We ended up at the Thomas Cubitt, an upscale gastropub I'd enjoyed at a business dinner a couple of years ago. (See 9.12.08) It's a classic English menu, with presentation and fine touches taken up several notches. Highlights were my scallop and black pudding starter and our mains: pork belly for Piers and a succulent venison for me. Piers Mum reported her salmon Wellington good but a bit overcooked. Desserts of chocolate fondant, Christmas pudding and cheese board all looked good and tasted fine, though not exceptional. The upstairs dining room is a beautiful space. Classically Georgian with plaster moulding, fireplace and sash windows overlooking Elizabeth street, it's painted in a soft grey and decorated with black and white photos of the legacy of Thomas Cubitt, architect and master builder of the mid-Victorian age. An fine choice for this area, keeping up the quality I found on my first visit, but not value for money. Three courses, two vegetable sides, one bottle of wine, one glass of house red, three glasses of port ... £70 per person. About £10 past what I thought the meal was worth.
Oh well, it was Christmas. And the five minute dash to church from there meant that we got excellent seats for the spectacle of midnight mass. First, candlelight carols. The golden altar looked magnificent, glittering beneath the brass chandelier and the towering candlesticks. More delightful for me than the carols themselves, which combined several I didn't know with three traditional ones that are sung to different melodies in the UK. A lovely concert but, for me, missing the joyful ability to sing along. The drama kicked it up a notch with the procession of the clergy ... 10 on the altar for the big night ... and a dramatic ringing of hand bells when the main lights were thrown on. The highest of high masses followed, featuring Haydn's St. Nicholas Mass, a ceremonial laying of Christ in the manger and our vicar, Father David, handing out chocolates at the door afterwards. A nice mix of drama and community.
We spent Christmas ... our first together ... at home alone. We exchanged gifts, watched TV, rested and indulged
ourselves. Piers took on cooking duties and serving up a very Danish meal, with home-cured gravad lax followed by duck with bilberry sauce, red cabbage and fondant potatoes. A few luxury cheeses, ending with slices of our wedding cake (which has been preserved in rum since September) and port.
We emerged from our solitude for a family Boxing Day lunch at my brother-in-law's in Putney, for which I got to contribute the dessert.
I opted for Heaven and Hell cake, the signature recipe of Dallas' master chef Stephen Pyles. It's a layered concoction of angel food cake, devil's food
cake and peanut butter mousse, iced with chocolate ganache. Not difficult, but not for the time constrained. I counted no less than six hours of prep time. Another sweet consequence of this season's bonus of free time.
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