The Systems Administrator kicked off Christmas Eve by going to the dentist for a replacement temporary filling, since last week's filling proved so temporary that half of it disintegrated over the weekend. The dentist said that the seal over the drilled out root was still intact, so the tooth shouldn't have got infected, but lunch will be delayed since the SA is not supposed to eat anything until at least two o'clock, to give whatever it is that they make temporary fillings out of time to set. The SA's brother claims that their father once did an emergency repair on his own tooth with araldite.
I am attempting to bake a stollen, buoyed up by the experience of having made three successive batches of edible bread. Stollen is a more elaborate affair, requiring a starter dough that ferments away for an hour before being added to the rest of the flour. Once again in the absence of fresh yeast I had to guess how much dried yeast would do it, and have gone for half a teaspoon for the 160 grammes of flour in the recipe. The initial ferment rose up, so I know the yeast is working. Once the ferment is ready you add it to the rest of the ingredients, and knead for ten minutes, in the course of which you can feel the dough changing texture and become silkier under your hand. The resulting dough is now sitting by the Aga and seems a bit slow to rise as much as I feel it should, but since I added the butter almost straight out of the fridge it probably started off cooler than it was meant to. The book is alarmingly precise about all sorts of things, telling me that the milk in the ferment should be at 32 degrees, but I really can't cope with that. Human beings have been making leavened bread for centuries without the aid of thermometers. The milk came out of the fridge because that's where you keep milk. The dough is by the Aga which is warm. When it's ready, it's ready. I did remember to put the fruit to soak in brandy yesterday. One of the difficulties with making bread is all the things you discover you should have done hours ago.
The SA is waiting for the greenery to dry. Every year the SA always decorates the mantelpiece with holly and ivy, and constructs a less traditional display of ivy and flashing white lights up the banisters. This can only be done on Christmas Eve. The SA's mother, who was from north Wales, firmly believed that it was bad luck to bring the greenery in any sooner (as it was bad luck to give a knife, which must always be paid for with a token penny), and the SA, an ultra-rationalist in most respects, equally insists that the mantelpiece must be done on Christmas Eve, no sooner. The tree is exempt from this condition, it's just the stairs and the mantelpiece that have to wait. It is going to be a rather green arrangement, since it was a terrible year for berries, and the birds have already eaten most of the few that there were. The SA managed to find one spray of hips on a self-seeded climbing rose that lurks among the shrubby ivy at the edge of the wood, and some hips on the climbing rose 'Meg', though they are more brown than the usual pleasant coral pink. We do have some pine cones saved from last year's tree, and raffia in three different colours, so I expect the SA will manage something. We'll just have to tell ourselves that holly berries and rose hips are so 2011.
I need to investigate the giant glass candle holder and candle that were a wedding anniversary present a few years ago. It lives in the spare bedroom, and only comes out at Christmas, since cats and glass objects don't make a good combination through the year. Accidents don't happen that often, but every breakable bowl that I ever tried to keep on the dining table was eventually broken, even a wooden one. I have a nasty feeling that the glass may be sooted up from last year, so I may end up scrubbing away at that while I listen to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, which will keep me out from under the SA's feet while the SA decorates the mantelpiece. The presents are still in the spare room for safe keeping, and won't go under the tree until Christmas morning, in case of cat-related disasters. On the spare bed is a magnificently middle class arrangement of a cardboard box containing a sprout stalk from the farm shop, complete with leaves, a cut glass bowl full of oranges, put there because the fridge was full and the spare room is almost as cold as a fridge, and the December selection from Hotel Chocolat.
Back to the stollen now. I'll let you know how I got on. Have a nice Christmas
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