Christmas is a season unlike any other in that the whole run up to it, and the day itself, and the days which follow it are chock-full with traditions.
These weird, occasionally religious, more often familial customs carry a certain sense of lineage with them: “we always did [something bizarre] on Christmas Day, so now you have to as well”.
More often than not, though, in the cold light of day, these rituals can feel increasingly detached from things we all actually want to do. No, I’m not really that interested in setting fire to my pudding, or having a full curry the day after eating my body weight in cheese and chocolates. But here are a few more of my pet peeves. Can you tell I’m not feeling the festive spirit this year?
Buck’s Fizz
Or a morning mimosa, if you will. But why oh why must we force this acidic drink down our gullets so early? Day drinking is excused, even expected this time of year, but a lip-smackingly dry fizzy something washed with OJ? No, thank you. Traditionally made with Champagne and now fairly ubiquitously subbed out for prosecco, the Buck’s Fizz is the creation of a Gentleman’s Club — the aptly named Buck’s — and frankly, should have stayed within its four walls. It ruins perfectly quaffable Champagne and in the case of prosecco, it ruins perfectly good orange juice.
Instead, a reasonable alternative is to ditch the juice entirely and opt for a fine glass of Champagne. Chill it right down then let it sit out for five minutes before opening: perfect. Or if you want a boozy pick me up in the morning, an espresso martini — made a shade lighter with something ingenious like Quarter Proof’s mid-strength spirits — and you’ll start Christmas Day off right.
Turkey
Yes. Turkey is on the chopping block. It’s so unbearably, insufferably, obscenely dull. The taste? Fine, passable. Enjoyable, up to a point. But Christmas Day is a day of togetherness and celebration. How could this perpetually over-cooked, mostly bland bird ever represent that? Turkey is for the sceptics on their Thanksgiving: leave it to them. Just because Henry VIII got rid of his festive goose one year for a turkey doesn’t mean we all need to slavishly hold ourselves to this same standard. You wouldn’t look to him for marriage advice.
No, instead: anything. Revert back to the festivities of goose, or the ceremony of beef Wellington. In December, venison is easily found; others might ask about for hare or grouse. There’s much else out there that could be whipped into something: celeriac is at its very best this time of year, likewise radicchio and Jerusalem artichokes. Parsnips are at their sweetest. Let’s eat December’s bounty at its very peak and avoid a bloated, overfed bit of poultry in favour of something deliciously in-season. That’s the way forward.
The King’s Speech
For most of my life, Christmas dinner needed to be over by the time the Queen’s speech started. Why? As an eleven-year-old I can’t recall a time when the soothing words of the late Her Majesty ever comforted, but what I can recall is rushing the start of this once-a-year meal and feasting bang on 12.30pm every December 25. The result? The turkey wasn’t rested enough, nor the gravy thick enough, and there’d be squabbling round the table at 3pm because someone hadn’t finished their pudding. Invariably, me.
Before the days of Sky Plus (and we didn’t get that in my house until about 2011) and the instant recording of live TV, we taped the thing on VHS. Every single year.
Instead, eat. Eat heartily. Christmas is a day to eat late, to indulge in gluttony and to graze throughout the day. Not the day for telly. Start eating at 9.30am with nibbly bits and a late-ish breakfast before a 3pm Christmas dinner. That’ll see you right through till evening, when there’s a re-run of the King, anyway. But if you happen to be done by the dreaded BBC-enforced deadline, then play some chess, play backgammon, play charades. Christmas is a family day. Yours, not the Royals. Mind you, what I usually do is slip into a food-and-booze induced coma, and nod off.
Merry Christmas? Bah, humbug.
