Julie- Ann Corrigan
sweet sherry
As Halloween, Bonfire Night, and finally November fades
into recent history, there is nothing that reminds me more of the passage of
time than the onset of Christmas preparations.
More
than looking in the mirror, passing birthdays and children growing outrageously
tall; the beginnings of Christmas rudely reminds me of the changes all our lives
are subtly undergoing.
I
remember a time when the Festive Season meant dressing up, going out to
parties and opening unexpected, luxury presents on Christmas morning.
I got
away with any festive preparations until I was well into my thirties.
Even after having a child of my own we would still pack up the car on
Christmas Eve and zoom up to my old home.
Dropping
bags and gear on my mum’s kitchen floor I marvelled at her baking skills.
The house smelled of freshly baked mince pies and her famous Paradise
Slice. Of vanilla essence from the homemade custard she only
made at Christmas.
One
thing you have to understand about my mum was her obsessive interest in all
things sweet. The turkey and trimming came a poor second to the
massive selection of cakes displayed yearly, on the sideboard in the dining
room. My husband said once that he could feel his cholesterol
rising by smelling the air. I told him not to be paranoid.
My mum looked all right on it didn’t she? Although
sometimes I did wonder how she kept her size eight
figure.
Time
passes though.
The
year finally came when it became difficult to spend Christmas in my childhood
home. Mum and Dad couldn’t quite manage the whole Christmas
thing. Our daughter was getting older and it was becoming
increasingly difficult to persuade her that Santa knew where we were
located on Christmas morning.
So there I was – inviting
my whole sweet-toothed family to ours for Christmas.
I had
finally grown up.
I was
doing the festive season.
My brother called to make sure I would be carrying
on in the family tradition and be making ’Mums Paradise Slice.’
‘I didn’t know you liked it,’ I said. ‘I
know, but its part of Christmas isn’t it? he
replied. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead anticipating
what else might be ‘part of Christmas.’ To be as good as my mum
was a lot to ask. It felt like a gargantuan
undertaking.
How
could I possibly live up to everyone’s expectations – including my
own?
I
decided to be organised. I would start early. I
adored my mum and I wanted her to have all the best cake and trifle she could
possibly eat. I wanted to take over the Olympic flame of Christmas
efficiently. I wanted her and Dad to be proud.
Maybe I would try something different, perhaps Delia’s famous chocolate
bread pudding? A banana and chocolate trifle? My
imagination ran away with itself.
My husband re-named me
the Tesco Terminator as I trawled the supermarket aisles like the
fictional cyborg character. I scanned the products and prices as
efficiently as Arnie had scanned for human warmth and movement. He told to calm
down. Chill out, I think was his phrase as I passed by the
chilled aisle like an automaton.
My mum
called constantly, telling me not to go to too much trouble. My
brother heard on the family grapevine I was worried about ‘doing’ Christmas.
Did I want to cancel? ‘No’ I shouted into the phone, ‘I
can manage.’
December unfolded. Invitations dropped through the door
with the same consistency as the bills would do in January. I was
a party girl by nature and having a house, child, husband and a Christmas to
prepare for was not about to stop me enjoying myself. I
wanted to be super-woman and do everything.
My
freezer was full. I made the trifle and pud in advance.
But by Christmas Eve the fridge bulged like a supermarket shelf.
I had to ask my neighbours (who always spent Christmas in a local
bistro), if I could use their fridge to store the last of my efforts, including
the most impressive chocolate and banana trifle. While I was round
there, I put the turkey in their fridge too.
As we
wrapped the last of Santa’s presents, I couldn’t ignore the dreaded
feeling in my throat any longer. I told myself off for finishing
the last of the mulled wine; my head was thumping.
Christmas had begun and I was steadily beginning to feel worse as my sore
throat threatened to turn into something more sinister, but I didn’t
care. I was supremely organised – everyone kept telling me
so.
Santa’s visit was prolific.
Toys and people engulfed our house. I knew I had flu, but
kept it to myself. I only needed to get through the day.
After the usual early Christmas breakfast (four-thirty apparently is okay
on Christmas morning), I went to get my neighbours key to retrieve various
cakes, trifles and the turkey.
It
wasn’t where I thought I’d had left it. It was nowhere to be
found. My daughter was left to her own devices as the whole family
searched for the key.
It had vanished as
spectacularly as Santa had done.
All day it was missing.
The trauma of having a
turkey-free Christmas though, seemed to cure my sore throat.
So we had no turkey, no trifle, and no
pudding. My daughter thought it was a hoot eating chips on
Jesus’s birthday. My mum discovered a love of jaffa cakes, my
husband admitted he’d never liked trifle anyway and my dad, well my dad only
chuckled at his daughter who he proclaimed loudly, would never truly grow
up.
It
was I believe, the best Christmas ever.
I
think I will though, if you don’t mind, put off growing up for a little while
yet. Next year we’re back at Mum and Dads for Christmas.
Mum can clearly cope better than me – hopefully for some years to
come. Together with our daughter, we have already e-mailed
Santa well in advance with our plans and location for next Christmas.
By
the way, the key was nestling snugly in my dressing gown pocket and the
neighbours loved the trifle.
Bio:
Julie-Ann writes short stories and
articles. She has had short stories published in collections and one of her
recent articles was published in Beat Magazine (see her interview with Laura
Wilkinson here: )
She has recently completed her first
novel and is now working on her second.
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