Lovely to see you! Welcome to the Winter Solstice and the shortest day, for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere. Cosying up beside the warm fire with loved ones and watching the last tattered leaves swirling against the iron-grey sky, stories begin to emerge from the shadows of memory. "Do you remember when ..." "What year was it, Mum, when we ...?" And so, joining in today with Sian's lovely Sunday-before-Christmas story-telling, and hoping that you are - in time-honoured fashion - sitting comfortably, then we can begin ...
At Christmas we, in my birth family, used to help Mum in the kitchen. At least, I did. And my job on the last Sunday in Advent was to make sweets from The Book. (I used to think it was because I was especially good at confectionary but, in retrospect, it was probably to put a little distance between me and my squabbling brothers). The Book Mum had had as a wedding present and was one of the first illustrated cookery books in the UK; I pored over the black and white photos of the Good Housekeeping kitchen, envying those neatly dressed women at their desks - no-one leaning over their shoulders to scribble on their paper ...
There were even some glimpses into brightly coloured worlds, with perfect Mums and children smiling happily amid the harmony and order ...
(It never occured to me at the time that there was a complete absence of men; that was simply an accurate reflection of our own kitchen). Each year I got to select two sweetmeats to make. Oh, that mouthwatering litany and the agony of having to choose! Boiled fondants, Almond creams, Toffee Cushions, Barley Sugar, Honeycomb, Turkish Delight, Coconut Ice ... But one of them was always Vanilla Fudge.
It had pictures, you see, which made it easier to make - even though we didn't, contrary to the assumption of the London-based Good Housekeeping Team, possess a sugar thermometer in our far-flung corner of the UK. (Judging the right temperature involved glasses of water, dribbles of hot mixture, burnt fingers and arcane terms like 'soft ball setting'.)
But it was made, and appreciated, every year; and I sometimes tried to picture what life might be like when I was a lady like the one in the The Book, helping my own young teenage daughter to make fudge from the same pages. Many, many moons later when aprons no longer brushed my ankles and I was helping Mum and Dad to clear their home, I asked if I might be allowed to be the keeper of The Book now. "Oh", said Mum. "It fell apart years ago - I threw it out". And away fluttered my dreams too.
But this Sunday, the ingredients sit on my worktop, awaiting the arrival of my own dear daughter for Christmas and the chance to roll our sleeves up, get out the preserving the pan, and for her to hear the story ...
And, thanks to the miracle of connections that is the Internet and after much searching among booksellers for the right edition and date, my own second-hand copy of The Book lies waiting for her to open, and for the story to begin all over again ...
Wishing you lots of sweet things in your life too :). And thank-you for listening ...
