House Rules.

Rule No 1: ABSOLUTELY NO DOGS ON THE SOFAS.

Lady Magnon forgot to spread the razor wire over her sofa last night, so this is what greeted me when I came downstairs this morning.

Poor Bok doesn't look too comfortable; he'd have been far better off in his cozy, XXL, chew-proof, plastic, snooze-a-while, doggy bed. 

But try telling HIM that!

Spice Box.

This old Spice Box only sees the light of day once a year; and now is that moment.

It contains all those 'solid' spices that are rarely used; Cloves, Nutmeg, Star Anise, etc. These are the spices that Lady Magnon uses for her festive fare, and they are kept apart from all the others.

I have no idea how long some of these spices should last, but they all still have wonderful aromas and flavours. Just to open the box is a sensory experience in itself.

As you can see, the inside is divided into six individual compartments, with a nutmeg holder and grater in the centre. 

The tin was made in the days when certain spices were more expensive than gold; hence the serious lock on the front.

I remember carving this little peg (the original padlock has long gone) when I was ill in bed. It helped pass the time, and has been used ever since. I suppose I really ought to find a small antique padlock to take its place.

Division of Labour.

I'm sure that Lady Magnon won't mind me saying that she is perfectly happy to leave most of the daily cooking chores to me. However, there are certain things that are absolutely sacrosanct.

She insists on making our Strawberry and Apricot jams, and she rules over the annual Mince Pie and Christmas Cake production. She is also in charge of Crumbles, Tatins, and occasional Tea-Time Treats. In other words, she controls the key to the sugar vaults, whereas I am confined to the salt bin.

The annual birth of our Christmas Cake is a major, major affair. I have never known anything else that requires SO MANY different ingredients. Here below is Stage 1; the soaking overnight (in Armagnac) of the dried fruits.

What happens next is something of a mystery to most men. The kitchen becomes coated in flour and butter (after some explosion no doubt?), muffled expletives are directed at the dogs (you have to blame something!), and several hours of pacing up and down, and peering into the oven take place (these come under the headings of Stages 2 to 9).

Stage 10 is the adoration, and relief, on seeing the finished product. The cake is taken out, sniffed, ooohed and aaahed over, and put away until such time as we've all eaten so much that we couldn't eat another morsel (Christmas). It's bottom will also be regularly wetted with alcohol.

And here is the little darling, aged about 3 hours. Wot; no plastic reindeer and no snowman?

Memorable Christmas presents.

This air rifle, a BSA .177 Cadet Major circa 1956, was given to me by my father when I was around 10 years old.

You'd have to have known my father to appreciate the totally 'out of character' nature of this gift.

Maybe he thought I'd clear-up all the rats that lived amongst the chickens at the bottom of the garden, or maybe he just thought I'd shoot the gardener. I have no idea what he thought I'd do with it, as he gave no indication.

I had carte blanche with the gun. No supervision, no training, and no limit to my targets. I just took it out into the garden, and shot at whatever I fancied; luckily the garden was quite big, and we were also out in the countryside.

Of course, for me, it was just about the most perfect Christmas present imaginable, and I didn't abuse the trust that was put on me (or very seldom anyway), but why he gave it to me in the first place is still a mystery; he just wasn't that sort of person. I would never have given my own children something as potentially dangerous; certainly not aged 10.

My own children did shoot at targets, as do my grandsons now, but it is done with a very low powered air-pistol, and in strictly controlled conditions. These things are NOT toys.

When they are older I may introduce them to my father's Christmas gift, but it'll be a long while before I do.

I should add that the gun is in as good condition now, as it was all those years ago.

Unexpected Wisdom.

                                   

A friend recently invited me for 'Sherry' (very rare here), and it reminded me of a bizarre incident with my 'housemaster', about two weeks before I left school.

Three or four of us were in our study, enjoying our regular early evening glass of Sherry, when in he barged (without knocking) and shouted "Are you gentlemen DRINKING?"

"We always have a small Sherry at this time of day, Sir". I explained, calmly.

"SHERRY?" he bellowed "Don't you know that the drinking of alcohol is against school rules?".

"I'm afraid I've never seen a copy of the 'school rules', Sir" I replied.

"It should be taken for granted, Sir" he ranted, as we continued to sip our very cheap British Sherry. "It should be obvious to everyone". The room fell uncomfortably silent as he screwed at the corner of his gown; a regular sign that he was not happy.

"May I be so bold as to offer you a glass, Sir?" I asked, not knowing quite what else to say.

"Well, that's very kind of you" he replied "I think I just have time for a small one". I poured him a glass, and we all sat down to continue our conversation.

With just a few days left of term (and of our leaving, to join the big wide world), I imagine that he suddenly realised that we were young men, rather than school boys, and that we should be treated as such.

N.B. I remember that cheap Sherry well. It was called 'English Rose' British Sherry; and was ghastly, but very cheap. Our cigarettes, on the other hand, were always very expensive; we usually smoked Abdullah No 36 (?), small oval cigarettes with gold tips.

Why cheap Sherry, but very expensive cigarettes, I really don't know; but that's how it was!

Diets.

                                     

The trouble with dieting, as most people know, is that it's not easy to lose the weight, but oh so bloody easy to put it back on again.

I have been following the 5:2 fast diet for a while and had lost about a stone in weight (14 lbs, 6.35 kgs). But a few days of winter excess, plus a couple of restaurant visits, and half of it has gone back on again. Maybe I was feeling over smug with myself.

More determination and will-power is required as we build-up to Christmas, otherwise I can see myself having to make some stupid new year's resolution; and that wouldn't do!.

Then just add the booze...

Lady Magnon's been at the Armagnac again.

It's almost mince pie season, so she's been busy knocking-up her annual supply of mincemeat.

I've posted this traditional recipe before, but here it is again. Lady M always adds plenty of Armagnac (instead of the brandy), and a few chopped prunes, but otherwise she follows the recipe reasonably faithfully; and it's very good.

And don't forget to stir the mix clockwise when making your wish. It's supposed to be lucky.