IT'S a question which comes around every year and I'm surprised it hasn't come around a lot sooner than it has this year. 'What are we going to do at Christmas?' Usually one or the other daughters asks it before summer is out. I then scream that I'm not interested in talking about Christmas before August bank holiday has passed and they shut up for a few more weeks. A little later on, when Christmas goods start rubbing shoulders with Halloween and Bonfire Night goods on supermarket shelves, it arises again and I pretend to be interested. The stupid thing is that what we are usually going to do for Christmas is exactly the same as we've done for Christmas for many a year. I'm going to stagger home from work on Christmas Eve with the last of the shopping and sink gratefully into a chair. My daughter is going to stagger in with the last of her shopping, which will almost certainly include the giant marked down salmon, five packets of ditto prawns and huge lump of pork pie topped with cranberries which the supermarkets realise they haven't got a hope in hell of selling at any other time so are practically begging customers to take it home. I'm not saying I haven't bought the giant salmon in the past, but I weaned myself off it gradually, mainly because I don't really like salmon that much anyway. Later there will be the frantic search for the Sellotape which will reduce us all to squabbling over the last two inches when we discover all the fancy tape has been used up by the children and we still have 12 parcels to wrap. After discovering that double sided carpet tape doesn't work all that well because all the parcels stick to one another we resort to black insulating tape which doesn't add to the general ambiance of festive wrapping. On Christmas morning I'll be wading through discarded wrapping paper like everyone else, admiring the grandchildren's toys and trying not to cripple myself by standing on stray bits of Lego. I'll then prepare Christmas lunch, which is usually set for around 2pm, a compromise time in between very soon after midday which some people like and very late in the afternoon which others (me) would prefer because it gives me more time to make the salmon mousse from the giant marked down salmon. Not that I mind cooking the meal, in fact I enjoy it and don't usually want all that much help. I can use most of my collection of kitchen gadgets, including the dinky little grab thing with which to pick olives out of a jar and the handy pickled onion strainer. While others are sinking their first glass of Christmas sherry, I have to adhere to the rule of no drinks for the cook before the meal is on the table, which saves me falling face down in the gravy, so things usually go smoothly. After lunch I usually flake out because I'm not used to big meals in the middle of the day nor drinking alcohol so early, especially not ill-advised double shots of Tia Maria cocktails. Then it's picking at the turkey and other left-overs, making people eat at least one tiny bit of cake, munching through nuts, tangerines, dates, figs and various things covered in chocolate, followed by Only Fools and Horses with a dose of Andrews Liver Salts before bedtime. So asking what we are doing at Christmas is not necessary, nor are suggestions about replacing the turkey with beef, pork, lamb or venison. Turkey is traditional and it's not changing. It used to be goose but that doesn't go far enough and is now more expensive than fillet steak. The last time I enquired the price of a goose it was such a shock that I nearly fainted and had to be fanned with a frozen chicken. Over the years things have changed in that my son says he doesn't really like Christmas because it's too commercialised and all about money so he's going to work instead (and get double time which oddly enough he doesn't count as being all about money). This doesn't stop him ringing up during Christmas lunch and asking wistfully what we are eating because all he's got is a take-away corned beef sandwich from the local Indian corner shop. There have sometimes been tentative suggestions that perhaps we should try Christmas at a hotel or restaurant. These are usually beaten down by more than one person pointing out that one of the delights of Christmas at home is that you can sneak into the kitchen long after lunch and pick at the turkey and the stuffing. You certainly couldn't do that at a restaurant, you'd get severely told off by the chef, or thumped if it was Gordon. So no, in the words of the French, but not in French because that's always a disaster and people write and point it out, everything changes but everything remains the same. But stop, I hear myself cry. A bombshell has been dropped. My eldest daughter, whose husband is serving away, is coming over with the children, making ten for the big day. Fine, I've already got the lists and the menu planned. The latter will be severely subbed down as the weeks go on because I'll realise that 16 different vegetables is a bit much. Then she rings and says 'why don't we do something different on Boxing Day?' I ask what something different on Boxing Day could possibly mean. Could it be that she doesn't want to sit around all day sipping cherry brandy, eating leftovers and feeling slightly bilious. Could she not be looking forward to playing Monopoly and Scrabble, both of which inevitably lead to someone crying, someone throwing the board into the air and someone cheating. All three usually the same person each year? Is it possible that she doesn't want to be forced to watch the Great Escape yet again on telly? Apparently it does. 'Let's go to Venice,' she said. Well, for a moment I thought she meant we should go to Italy on the day after Christmas. But then sense kicked in and I thought Venice might be some new sort of tourist attraction in Cornwall I'd somehow missed. 'Not THE Venice,' I said, with a silly chuckle. 'Not the one that's flooded.' 'You always say that about Venice and nobody ever laughs. And yes, I do mean THE Venice,' she said impatiently. She went on to tell me that the fares and the hotels were cheap, we could wander round sightseeing for two days and eat delicious meals in the evening. We could take the children and show them the sights and we could avoid Monopoly and Scrabble entirely. Suddenly it seemed like a very good idea. 'Actually, I was thinking of making Fort Lincoln on Boxing Day,' I said. Fort Lincoln is a family legend. My husband found the recipe in an ancient cookery book and made it practically every Boxing Day. It consisted of chopped leftover turkey in a white sauce on top of a white mound of mashed potato, the centre hollowed out and the turkey stuff running down the side like bad icing or a slow volcano. Why Fort, and why Lincoln ,we never discovered but it was fairly horrid because he usually forgot seasoning and it made our already queasy stomachs lurch just a little more. 'That's it,' said the daughter. 'We're going to Venice. Or Florence. Or Prague.' It's amazing how Fort Lincoln can make you want to leave the country. Ciao!
