I hope Christmas dinner was divine. I hope your spuds were fluffy but crunchy, your turkey moist and that no one ran out of pigs in blankets.
It doesn’t always go well. One year my auntie was faced with a crisis. No, not a crisis, a mutiny. Her family sat down for Christmas dinner feeling joyful, expectant and greedy. My aunt sets a beautiful table. She has a way with a doily and a napkin. The meal started as is traditional with a prawn cocktail. Toasts to it’s brilliance were made and, as she had three teenage boys, then it was swiftly demolished. Starters out of the way, the main event started. Turkey carved, spuds dished out, gravy poured and the tucking in began. That’s when they noticed. A cold chill descended. The horror became apparent.
There was no stuffing. Their beloved and sainted mother had forgotten the Paxo. Now in normal families this would have been commented on, tutted about and the meal continued. Did that happen here? Hell, no! We are not a family that shies away from a case of the amateur dramatics. My cousins left the dining table to work out how they would protest this indignity. They did what all good Liverpool boys should do: they made placards and picketed the kitchen. They were only talked back to the table by a call to my Mum who, through her chuckles, pointed out that they’d get sod all if they didn’t eat what was there but yes, my aunt was in the wrong.
This tale is family legend now and none of us has ever forgotten the stuffing again.