Will That Be Fondue for One Monsieur?

This Christmas we are alone.  No relatives at all.  Just the five of us, four who embrace Christmas heartily (me and the kids) and a reluctant Protestant/Calvinist by-stander who tolerates it (Mr. Jules). My mother is spending Christmas with my sister.  

“It’s her turn,” she told me in a no-nonsense voice back in September as if whoever is blessed with her presence is the chosen one whilst the rest of us have to wallow about in dejection, our faces all woebegone, begone, and it is possible as this is my mother, with yet more woe, until the following year when it is our turn to get Grandma for Christmas.  (Don’t even ask about New Year she’s with her Bridge Club). 

My mother does Christmas very well and I will miss the collaborative combat against cynicism and parsimony breathing magic and wonder into a vanishing tradition.  You see, my mother still believes in Father Christmas and acts accordingly.  She upholds all the little traditions – and in some ways keeps us to ransom with them – with enthusiasm and joy.  For our eight year old Lexi, Grandma is a star.  It all begins on Christmas morning when she floats into the kitchen in a new outfit all sparkle and glamour over smoked salmon and eggs at 8am, then there is the present opening sitting back straight and expectant in front of the tree, the ritualistic drinking of sherry/champagne/wine at precise designated moments to which you could set your clock, the cracker pulling, paper hat donning, the Queen’s Speech, the snooze, Charades, the malaproprisms (caused she claims by the Sherry) and the hilarious mishearings due to ….the sherry again no doubt.  Round Two (Boxing Day) and it all starts again although a long walk dominates the morning so the bling is banished and the outfit is Prussian inspired – think Julie Christie in Dr. Zhivago.

A few years back we had a Swiss Christmas which  meant invasion from the East rather than the North and so we were twelve people for three days. That works out to be nine meals and the same number of layings of table.  Like many of you of the female race out there and my friend Georges who makes his own foie gras, I start Christmas about October time so imagine my reaction when stepping out of the shower Boxing Day morning, a million things still to be done, Mr. Jules – whose contribution so far has been to put the logs on the fire - announces,  

 ”It’s okay, I’ve been to the bottle bank ” in an awe inspiring voice and a smug nod of his head, worthy of Hannibal setting out for Rome with his great herd of elephants although our « Rome », a large bright blue rectangle bottle bank, can be seen from my kitchen window.

My Christmas present that year from my husband was wrapped and I suspect bought by my then 14 year old daughter, the turkey was carved by my son who downloaded the technique off the internet and little Lexi pink with impatience and unable to wait any longer, donned Santa’s hat and gave out the presents herself.  He swept up my Father Christmas talcum powder footprints from the chimney to Lexi’s room, is the only man who can give out a health warning about the coin in the pudding whilst checking the insurance policy, then finally flambé-ing said pudding with one eye on the fire extinguisher.  I fear Mr. Jules has yet to find his child within. 

So this year when I told him sorrowfully that Grandma wouldn’t be coming nor any of his family, I was surprised to see his eyes fill with what looked like tears.  He has, however obviously been hatching nefarious plots because he was quick to suggest we ski on Christmas Day.  We will be in the mountains as last year, but this time we will get up Christmas Day and actually go skiing rather than use the snow to cool the champagne and remark on how pretty it is.

I’m in two minds about balking tradition, fearing I will have a junkie’s longing for a bowl of twiglets half-way down Tortin and will go all weak kneed with desire for a mincepie and glass of port .  Expectations are running high, can a day of skiing replace the warmth, joy and alcoholic blur of a British Christmas?

“I refuse to eat Fondue on Christmas Day,” I said going all sniffy when he broached the idea and on this matter the jury is still out.  

Whatever way you decide to celebrate Christmas I wish you a happy time with family and friends and plenty of inner peace.

Here’s a piece of advice for 2009:

“Trust in Allah but tie your camel to the post.”

Merry Christmas to you all!!!  I’m signing off now until the New Year.

xJULES