It was the Christmas of la boeuf. Spread over four consecutive days.
A bovine feast of such epic-ness something is still grazing inside my stomach.
On the first day a rousing spag bowl. On the second a heartening lasagna. On the third a very festive strip loin. On the final day a full bodied vat of boeuf bourguinon.
'We've had beef every day,' she noted, 'I hope it doesn't get stuck.'
I thought back twenty years; years dedicated to tofu, the simple, reverent cooking of vegetables and chickpeas.
That was all destroyed by that bacon sarnie. Or was it that turkey parmigiana? Whatever...
But to Granny's credit, everyday - be it mince or a cold slab of flesh - was cooked to perfection.
There was a big event this yuletide (and no, it wasn't down the loo) - she had her very first wobbly tooth. How strange that little gap in her mouth looked. This had been the first tooth as a wee bairn of seven months. It fell from grace one morning, two days before Christmas. She popped it inside the tiny pocket of a little cushion and a mysterious fairy came and took it away. (said tooth lives in an envelope at the bottom of the jumper drawer). And now the adjacent tooth is mutinous!
The Christmas haircut. Santa's loot smuggled in bin bags hidden in the boot of the car. A sunny walk over Norfolk flats dodging muddy puddles and cold, cold streams. Sitting on the sofa in our pyjamas eating roast ham and warm mince pies. Mugs of hot chocolate. Buttermilk pancakes with crispy bacon and maple syrup on the morning of New Years Eve while we unfolded the pieces of paper from The Joy Jar and read all the wonderful things that had happened in 2014 - a damn fine year.
The clues of late December still mark the walls. Nails poke from where the bunting hung. Spots of blue tack hug the plaster. The baubles, plastic snowflakes, festive bric-a-brac, wrapped in newspaper and tissue, have been stowed away in the attic for another year...
And now, so much to look forward to.
This is the year we rebuild our home.
My word for 2015? Imagine.
