As far as dinner with my beautiful flat-mates goes, yesterday’s Christmas dinner was nothing short of phenomenal. Out table heaved, our stomachs stretched, and we all changed into stretchy trousers and baggy t-shirts. This bounteous feast included roast beef, pigs in blankets, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, carrot and swede mash, apple and onion infused red cabbage, steamed sprouts and broccoli, bread sauce, onion gravy, and finally cranberry sauce. It was excellent, an amalgamation of all that is the British Sunday roast and/or Christmas dinner. We ate until we could eat no more. And then we took a quick break to do some washing up, and came back for the Christmas pudding, chocolate gateaux, mince pies, and brandy sauce.
The British ability to munch through a feast of this magnitude took me aback last night; I usually try to avoid feeling vaguely nauseous when I eat, but last night, in view of this fantastic feast, I felt it was more of a pain barrier that once pushed through, would never again affect me. Obviously this was not true, but it was amazing nonetheless; why do we seem to feel it’s appropriate to resemble the stuffed turkey after eating on Christmas? I’m fairly sure that according to the Biblical tale, there were no pigs in blankets or red cabbages on the table.
Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed the embracing of tradition. I’ve always liked things to have some root, and some meaning behind them, perhaps due to my perception of the world, and somewhere along the line, it probably has something to do with my capacity as an English student. We seem to have a running tradition of relating everything back to English studies in my flat, the joke being “it’s cause you study English”. I’m even more looking forwards to making a big bubble and squeak to use up all those vegetables, with poached eggs and bacon later.
It’s been the first Christmas dinner of the season, and probably the largest. On Christmas day I shall have to waddle into work immediately after, so smaller portions may be a prudent action. However, the turkey will be succulent, and I shall simply content myself to wobble around all day, and being very happy about it indeed.
And so Christmas begins… Merry Christmas!