Growing up in Derby in the 1980s, Christmas Day was always the same. I woke my sisters up early (they were 10 and 13 years older than me, so not quite as excited about Santa), then we made tea and took it into our parents’ bedroom. There we all crowded on to the bed and opened our presents. Afterwards, we dressed in our festive finery and drove to Auntie Marion and Uncle Martin’s house in time for Christmas dinner, served at midday on the dot.
And what a dinner it was. We are a family of traditionalists, so it was always turkey and all the trimmings, followed by Christmas pudding. Everything was homemade, from the bread sauce to the brandy butter. I could take or leave the boiled sprouts, but I devoured everything else: the pigs in blankets, stuffing, roast potatoes, red cabbage, parsnips, carrots, cranberry sauce, gravy …
After dinner, we exchanged more presents with our aunt and uncle, cousins and grandparents, and watched the Queen’s speech. Then it was 4pm and time for tea. This was a lighter affair: just a whole ham, boiled eggs, bread and butter, salad, homegrown and pickled onions, rounded off with Christmas cake and sherry trifle.
A few hours later, we tucked into supper. This was a mainly pastry-based event involving warm sausage rolls and mince pies, plus cheese and biscuits. Between meals, we kept hunger pangs at bay with Roses and Quality Street chocolates, and those fancy mixed nuts that you have to crack yourself.
The incredible thing about this day of gluttony was that we repeated it all the next day at my grandparents’ house. The Boxing Day menu was almost identical, except that we had tinned salmon instead of ham at teatime. Then – I kid you not – we did it all over again on the 27th, this time with my mum and dad hosting. Three days of the same food, the same company and the same entertainment (games of cards and dominoes). Feasting, family and ferocious competition: I loved it.
But by my late teens, I was spending Christmas Eve in the pub with friends and no longer getting up so early the next morning. Then, in 2000, came the first year that I stayed at my then boyfriend’s house on Christmas Eve, and experienced someone else’s Christmas morning traditions (a lie-in and a fry-up). The two of us had been invited to my aunt’s for dinner as usual, but, perhaps unsurprisingly, we were late setting off. We had assumed, with the arrogance of youth, that everyone would wait for us – not for a moment considering the careful timings that ensured the turkey was always on the table at 12 sharp, nor the hours of work that got it there.
They were halfway through the meal when we arrived. There was still masses of turkey, but the trimmings had been seriously depleted. Not even a sprout remained. My poor aunt Marion, panicking, heated up a tin of baked beans and dumped half on to each of our plates. My boyfriend, who had heard tales of the banquet awaiting him, was … taken aback (luckily he loved beans). I was mortified. My dad – Marion’s brother – was annoyed with us for being so late, whereas my mum was horrified that no one had saved us any veg (she eats broccoli and cauliflower with everything, even pizza).
I wish I could say that was the last Christmas I was ever late, but sadly that would be a lie. Instead, I think it was the year I grew up and realised the world didn’t revolve around me. Also, I’ve since turned vegan, so now I always take my own (meat-free) stuffing balls and pigs in blankets to other people’s houses – it’s not Christmas dinner without them.
Anyway, we ate our turkey and baked beans. After all, there was still tea and supper to come. And the Boxing Day feast. And the one on the 27th …
