60 Going On 16

Blessings

I'm not usually lost for words but found myself struggling to find anything to write about this Christmas. As a family, the usual midwinter celebrations were overshadowed by the loss of one of my nephews a fortnight ago and his funeral a week later. He would have been 50 today, Christmas Eve. I was in my brother's home the day my nephew was born - in his parents' bedroom - and held him in my arms when he was less than an hour old.

Many tears were shed at his funeral, not least by his two stunningly beautiful teenage daughters, but afterwards, when friends and family gathered to celebrate his life, there were smiles and laughter. There were tales of one escapade after another and how he had made us laugh, often. His oldest friend sent a wonderful tribute from the USA, where he now lives - a string of hilarious anecdotes from their growing-up years. 'He was,' said the friend, 'the funniest man I ever knew.'

And that, I thought, was quite a legacy.  

* * * * *

Festive preparations were, inevitably, sidetracked. I was already planning to spend Christmas with my family in the Chilterns but had to bring my departure date forward by four days to attend the funeral. Only when I unpacked did I realise how distracted I had been, with lists, presents, addresses, suitable clothes and much else besides left behind in Devon. Heigh-ho. It was not the end of the world. And at least I managed to remember to put the Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy in the car.

My daughter and son-in-law worked right up until Friday evening, so I have spent the past week being mamma in the kitchen, cooking hearty meals for the returning workers. Tomorrow my son-in-law takes over at the stove, apart from pudding, which is down to me. But, as we are not keen on traditional fare like Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies - and as a non-meat eater turkey is also off the menu for me - I'm making  triple chocolate brownies from Isidora Popovic's Popina Book of Baking. They are utterly scrumptious but very rich so best saved for special occasions. There will be a touch of nostalgia for too, as Isidora's recipes take me back to our old home territory of Portobello Road, where she set up her first market stall ten years ago.

And then we will try very hard to unwind for a couple of days, before a round of visits to other members of the family and to friends.

Meanwhile, back in Devon, one of my canine guests, will be sporting the fruits of my crafting labours on Christmas Day, because, yes, I do make things - I knit and sew but tend not to write about my efforts because this isn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a domestic arts blog, of which there are very many - and a good many excellent ones. Anyway, I hope Little Miss P appreciates her present. For a small item, it was a bit of a pig to knit and I had to check on Ravelry to see if any other member had made it and whether they had also encountered problems. To which the answers were yes and yes - but one or two had posted useful tips and I just managed to finish the coat in time to gift wrap it and leave it under her owners' tree before I left for Christmas.

So here is Little Miss P having a final fitting and, could she speak,  I am sure that she, together with the Ednburgh Boy, would want to join me in wishing you the blessings of the season, wherever you are and whatever and however you are celebrating.  

Thank you for being such loyal readers during what has been something of an stop-start year for 60 going on 16. Next year, I hope to get back into my stride, thanks to the yoga and the choir and all . . . and the fact that at my (much-delayed) first annual post-Massive Inconvenience check-up, the consultant was delighted to tell me that I remain cancer free. Tomorrow, we might just be raising a glass to that.

Earlier today, I watched - as I do every year - the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge, and this year's festival included BC: AD by the late poet, U A Fanthorpe, read by a young undergraduate. Fanthorpe was a Quaker and this clever, thoughtful poem reflects her particular and quiet faith. Even though I do not follow the same path, I was drawn to its deceptive simplicity. As with all good poems, it presents us with the familiar in an unfamiliar way and is absolutely to the point. If Fanthorpe's poem is new to you, think of it as a virtual gift from me.

BC : AD

This was the moment when Before 

Turned into After, and the future's

Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

 

This was the moment when nothing

Happened. Only dull peace

Sprawled boringly over the earth.

 

This was the moment when even energetic Romans

Could find nothing better to do

Than counting heads in remote provinces.

 

And this was the moment

When a few farm workers and three

Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight

Into the kingdom of heaven.

U A Fanthorpe 

What next?

Amazing how two weeks can disappear, just like that, and I'm wondering what I've been doing. Nothing remotely Christmassy; it's been a year of such major upheavals that I'm having a break from it all and - apologies to those of you who have been tearing around busily buying, cooking and decorating and generally wearing yourselves to a frazzle - I have to admit, I'm rather enjoying not being caught up in the whirlwind of seasonal bustle. Which has been going on since October, for heaven's sake. (I can't tell you what a relief it will be when the very last email bearing a high priority message about absolutely final Christmas ordering dates has arrived and been consigned to the Great Email Junkyard in the Sky.)

I'd say it was an age thing but the very best Christmas I ever had was exactly 20 years ago, when I travelled to Venice to join my student daughter for a week. There was demonstrably less emphasis on getting, spending and eating in Venice and I rather liked that. (Correction: I liked that very much indeed.)

We went to a Christmas Day mass at the Frari Chapel, where we looked up at Titian's Assumption and then visited the chapel's sacristy, so that I could indulge my love of Bellini and could gaze in wonder at this, the Madonna and Child with Saints Peter, Benedict, Nicholas and Mark. Painted in 1488, it is still in its original frame:

 

In the evening, we walked to the Zattere, to a small trattoria that was open for dinner, and had a meal that was about as far removed from what everyone would be tucking into at home as could be imagined. But fine for us because - and, again, apologies to all of you who are cooking for England over the next few days - neither of us eat turkey and we don't like sprouts or mince pies or Christmas pudding or Christmas cake . . . yes, the ultimate nightmare Christmas guests. 

* * *

I recently spent a day with my oldest friend and after a long walk with our dogs, we had lunch in a restaurant that looked out over an almost deserted bay and toasted 50 years of friendship. The labradors snored contentedly at our feet and, at that moment, I don't think either of us would have wanted to be anywhere else. We're a good deal quieter and calmer that we were all those years ago, when the only thing we wanted to do was to kick against the traces. I'm certain that neither of those rebellious 1960s teenagers could ever have imagined themselves as 60-somethings, who couldn't be doing with noise and fuss. When we were young, there was nothing that we liked better than a party, the louder and more riotous the better. In these, our reduced-hearing days, our greatest dread is being invited to the nightmare that is the seasonal drinks party or any drinks party, come to that, where you have to make polite conversation with people you barely know, about things in which you have little or no interest. (Although parties where you know and like every single guest are absolutely fine.)

All of which, probably makes us sound like a couple of miserable old bats, which we're not, honestly. Laughter still forms the major part of the glue that holds our friendship together. But one of the best things about getting older is that one doesn't feel the need to keep up any sort of front or pretence. About anything. And it is rather liberating.

We talked about Christmases past - the good, the bad and the indifferent - and how, these days, we think that less is definitely more and minimal is definitely good. Like me, she is doing Christmas-lite this year, out of the house and not cooking on the day itself. Her husband has already calculated that, with luck, they can be back home by 6 o'clock.

But back to the lost last fortnight; I can fill in some of the gaps. I have written and posted letters and cards; I've made a lot of soup and soda bread; I've read a good deal; I've put everything together for the last financial year and sent an enormous package to my long-suffering accountant; I've quite enjoyed being cut off while our hillside village has been ice-bound and accessible only to the bravest and strongest or just to the foolhardy (have just looked outside and the Kingdom of Ice is still there); I've put out industrial-sized quantities of food for the birds and local wildlife. And I've thought about the blog.

I've been going through one of those periodic bouts of 'why am I writing this?', 'who is it for?', 'what is it for?'. Come February, 60 going on 16 will be celebrating its fourth blog-birthday, so there has been some cyber-navel-gazing. I know that several of my favourite bloggers have been going through much the same process recently - because blogging isn't simply a matter of whipping up a daily or even a regular post. (The best writing is never forced and, after all, who wants to become stale and repetitive? Same old catch-phrases; same old jokes . . .)  It's also about being out and about in the blogosphere and going blog-visiting, which all takes time. For me, it means less time for other writing and there's the rub. It's a very big rub indeed and something has to give.  So, there might be shorter posts or fewer posts - or combination of same - next year; I'm still not sure. But apart from all this, 60 going on 16 needs a good overhaul, layout-wise. Something simpler, less chock-a-block, although I am ridiculously attached to my Bohemian Masala banner for purely sentimental reasons . . . it's going to be like decluttering the house all over again.

But between now and the New Year, I hope to write the odd post. Just in case anyone is at a loose end and has nothing better to do at the height of the festive season than turn on their computer. 

As if . . .

A cornucopia or a red envelope? You choose . . .

Whatever it is that you find yourself wishing for in 2008, I hope that one of the many goddesses of plenty (take your pick depending on your nationality, beliefs, cultural heritage, etc etc) ensures that your personal cornucopia is ever full.

The coin above depicts Abundantia, a later version of the Roman goddess of plenty - her predecessor was Fortuna - whose symbol was the cornucopia, from which poured money and food. (You might have other things on your annual wish list, of course.)

I like the idea of red envelopes, as favoured in China at New Year. The red envelope is said to bring good luck, prosperity and happiness to the recipient. Red is the Chinese symbol of happiness and ultimate joy - and who would say no to a little more of that?

So dear readers, as 2008 approaches (and for some of you 2008 is already here), consider yourselves the recipients of a virtual red envelope, each containing three virtual but very traditional I Ching coins. I hope that they will prove propitious for you throughout the coming year.

And, as the wonderful and much-missed Dave Allen used to say: 'May your god go with you.'

Christmas - daughter in charge

I think I've now handed over the baton of Christmas entertaining to my daughter and her husband - and very well they do it too. It feels like cheating to roll up in the picturesque riverside town that is now their home, with just a bag and a few boxes (and two dogs), and for someone else to have shopped, blitzed the house, cooked, dressed the tree etc etc. But I so enjoyed it, after years of being the Mistress of Seasonal Ceremonies.

On a practical level, it makes sense. I live in a house that was once two or, possibly, three cottages. Cottages have low ceilings, designed for small people; my son-in-law is 6'5" - he never leaves here without having sustained an injury or two. . .

We did plenty of this (no that's not us - I don't know anyone who wears a cap):

And, surprisingly, quite a bit of this:

Exchanged any number of these:

Consumed a good deal of this:

although no turkey for me and no-one in this family eats any of the normal festive fare such as Christmas pudding and Christmas cake. A few weeks earlier, I'd spotted a recipe for what sounded like a truly scrumptious dark chocolate pudding but, despite preparing it to the letter and despite it looking like it should . . .

it was vile. We threw it away in disgust.

So, instead, I made some:

which never fail.

Now I'm back home in dark, wet, muddy Devon but things look up tomorrow when the Edinburgh boy and I will be meeting his best chum, Duke, and Duke's owners (fellow London escapees) for lunch here:

The Exeter Inn is in the process of a very welcome revamp after successive landlords had gradually spoiled what was once a great pub that used to serve excellent food. Things are looking good; the food's on the up and up; the log fires are blazing again, and the very friendly new landlords have a great dog called Cody.

After lunch, the Edinburgh boy and I will set off for a walk along the River Barle, with Duke and Duke's mum, and will no doubt meet dozens of other dogs and dog owners en route. All very Exmoor and very jolly.

In the meantime, tonight I'm curling up with Rudolf Nureyev and Ted Hughes, thanks to the dear daughter and her husband who know the way to a ballet-loving, poetry-loving, blogging mother's heart.