We are now well and truly decked with holly. And ivy. The Systems Administrator firmly believes that they mustn't be brought in until Christmas Eve, which is possibly something to do with being half Welsh. The Christmas tree, which is only a recent German cultural import, is allowed in the week before, but the pagan greenery has to wait until December 24th. As a half west midlands, quarter scouser and quarter Polish jew, I don't feel strongly about it one way or the other, but it's best not to bring the holly and ivy in too soon, or they get thoroughly dried up, dull and horrid well before twelfth night.
The mantelpiece is piled high with holly twigs, including many more berries than usual because it's been so mild that the blackbirds haven't yet scoffed the lot. There are ivy berries as well, and some conker sized, apricot coloured hips from the rose 'Meg'. (The Peter Beales catalogue, normally a mine of information, still says None for hip colour and shape, but our 'Meg' faithfully bears huge hips every year. She is a climbing hybrid tea with orangey pink, semi double flowers and is quite lovely, though contrary to what the Beales website says she doesn't do much in the way of repeat flowering. Or doesn't on our soil. Maybe she would in a better spot, but at any rate they are wrong about the hips.)
The bannisters are laced with wild strands of ivy and a string of white fairy lights. There is a tablecloth on the dining table, an effort we only make at Christmas, and the giant pillar candle in its glass shade has been brought out of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. It is lit, along with the fat church candles on the mantelpiece and the one on its five foot metal stand. The whole effect is quite Wolf Hall. I have picked tiny posies of white and mauve daphne, winter flowering viburnum, sweet box (not quite out yet), iris, and yellow winter jasmine (not scented), and the daphne and viburnum are filling the ground floor with a heavy, spicy perfume.
I have made the florentines and the stollen. After some searching for a recipe I used Felicity Cloak's perfect florentines method from the Guardian, except that I substituted alternatives for practically all the fruits and nuts. There's no point in cooking with dried cranberries when I'm not keen on them, and while I'm extremely partial to pistachios I didn't have any. The resulting biscuits are a little too dominated by orange flavour from the mixed peel for my taste, but I'm sure we'll eat them. The stollen is fine, though every stage of proving took about twice as long as the book said and I didn't finish it until half way through the nine lessons and carols. While I suspect the florentines are not so nice as Fudge's, on which basis one might as well buy them and save a lot of effort, the stollen is better than the plastic wrapped ones you get in the supermarket. Anyway, it's a pleasant way to spend a wet Christmas Eve, messing around in the kitchen while listening to Haydn.
And that's as wild as our Christmas gets. Later on we will eat steak and chips with a tomato and a giant mushroom on the side, because that is what we always have for supper on Christmas Eve. We will listen to Christmas music ancient, traditional, and pagan, from the New College choir and Thea Gilmore to The Watersons and The Pogues. We will put the candles out carefully before we go to bed.
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