Malone on a traditional family Christmas
I usually look forward to January more… but this year I’m actually looking forward to Christmas! I must be excited as I found myself under the bed covers googling ‘how to cook the perfect roast’ at 7.30am last week. That’s excited! Or nervous. I’ve got three fussy people to cook for: a ‘know what she likes’ grandmother, a picky child, and a vegetarian who isn’t fond of vegetables. I’ve never cooked a Christmas dinner for more than two people. My boyfriend asked if we should eat out. I replied that was the female equivalent of emasculating me! Why isn’t there a word for emasculating women? Can we not have our woman-ess taken away from us? Sure, cooking isn’t just a woman’s job nowadays (ducking the feminist Twitter taunts) but I’ve never had a Christmas dinner at my home with a boyfriend whilst being a mum – I want to play being a traditional mother of the family at least once!
In the past, we have spent Christmas away from home, (I’ve been single at Christmas and thought it would be a lonely, long day with just me and my child). It’s lovely visiting friends, but it’s nice to do things your own way for once.
“We are not eating turkey. Why eat something you wouldn’t eat normally?”
So, no turkey, we are not eating turkey. I know it’s Christmas but why eat something you wouldn’t eat normally, that tastes like your own tongue (if it had been removed a week before)? And no, we are not having Christmas pudding either, as we hold a 3-1 majority anti-sultana/currant/raisin alliance. We will have a massive tree, a trillion fairy lights, games and turning off the telly for most of the day. I want to hear old soul blaring out, the child will have to play with new toys and learn to like Otis Redding and Sam Cooke. Must pass on musical heritage from Father.
Yes, I will set off the fire alarm at least three times, swear at the ceiling, wafting a framed collage of my deceased father (it’s the nearest thing) until the damn thing goes off (he’s always there for me at times of need). Yes, I will moan “I’m too hot!” as I pull the bird out of the oven, basting for the millionth time, burn myself and try to blame it on my boyfriend because he did something like walk past the kitchen. My boyfriend has suggested I cook the bird the day before, as that’s what his parents do; when I am 75 I will cook the bird the day before. Until then I will just have a massive, sweaty, sweary stress about it on the day, exactly like my parents before me. I’m looking forward to playing Chess (miffed I have to let my daughter win) and fighting over the strawberry cream Quality Streets with her. A friend has suggested to avoid arguments I should include everyone else’s desires for the day. Oh, yes. That’s the spirit of Christmas… But that means letting Nana watch EastEnders.
