Feature

We Whisk You a Merry Christmas

© Lucia Foster-Found 2022 www.luciafosterfound.com

The old electric hand whisk had died; some horrible disease had consumed its internal organs. As she dragged it out from the furthest reaches of the most awkward corner cupboard, bits of perished plastic and rubber dribbled out of it. At least, she hoped that it was bits of plastic and rubber and not the droppings of some appliance-eating infestation. She shuddered; not daring to plug it in, at arms length she put it outside.

Christmas had arrived. What, already? Yet again, despite her best efforts to diarise the process of Christmassing, it had sneaked up on her like a sneaky thing. And with her mental tick list of ‘must-do’s tap-tapping insistently at the inside of her skull, she now had no electric hand beater.

There was, of course, the beautiful standing mixer. Resting under its attractive cover on the work surface, it was complete with stainless steel bowl and a multitude of hooks, beaters and whisks. Bought second hand off eBay. Bought gleefully with many, many less pounds than it would have been new. Bought from someone who sheepishly confessed they’d used it once “for a bake-off with the other Mums…”

At the time, she’d carried it off so smugly. Feeling like Ina Garten she’d laughed like Blackadder’s Lord Flashheart at the ridiculous notion she’d use it only once…

But honestly… there was the assembling, the dismantling, the cleaning and the putting away; she bet Ina had staff for that. It was a faff for the quick jobs and, used so infrequently, she always felt the need to pre-wash it. Faced with Christmas cake and puddings to make, she’d once more guiltily ignored it and reached for her trusty and simple hand beater.

Himself had come into the kitchen that morning and murmured something about missing ‘stir up Sunday’ and not making a wish. “Well I haven’t made the cake yet.” In her exasperation, she was snappy. Nor the puddings, she thought, or for that matter any festive bakes.. That list again – tap, tap. There had been one brief sidelong glance at a frozen turkey in the supermarket - and a slight concern about the bird ‘flu. But nothing more; not one cracker or present had thus far been purchased.

“My mother would have had multiple Christmas puddings safely stored in the loft by now. And jars of lemon curd ready for tarts. Also a production line of pastry making and baking. Mince pies; dozens in out of the oven and cooling on racks. Made with home-made mincemeat, no less. Then there would not only be turkey for ‘the day’, but beef for Boxing day. With a home-cooked ham for the cold meat spread on the 27th, home-made piccalilli and pickled shallots.. And me, I haven’t so much as bought a Christmas card!” She wailed.

Himself gave her a hug. “It’s exhausting just thinking about it. You should also remember that your mother didn’t go out to work. If you were at home 40 odd hours more every week, you too could be a domestic, flour-smudged goddess. And I’d be borderline diabetic.”

Good point, well made. She felt better. The list stopped tap-tapping. “Question. Out of interest, what is your stand-out memory of Christmas?” Himself asked.

She thought for a moment. “Well, it’s Christmas Eve and I’m superexcited watching a cartoon about how animals will all talk at midnight. I’d be about five.”

Himself gave her a look. “OK… here’s mine. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m six and sat in Brandy the boxer’s dog bed.” “Because you were frightened that a red-coated, bearded stranger was going to break into your house and drink sherry?” she sniggered. “No,” he said patiently. “I was chatting to Brandy because I was expecting Brandy to chat back. I too had heard that animals could talk on Christmas Eve. And notice that neither spookily-similar memory has got anything to do with cakes, mince pies, puddings or presents? It was purely the magic of Christmas.”

Heads full of festive childhood memories, they smiled mistily at each other for a moment. Then surreptitiously moving in front of the standing mixer whilst adding ‘selling it’ to her imaginary list, she said, “Actually, my electric hand beater thing has expired - and it was so quick and useful for doing Christmas cake, amongst other things.” The taptapping was back with a vengeance.

Himself whipped out his phone. Presently he said “new hand mixer should be here tomorrow. Let’s call it your gift from the dogs and I’ll teach them to sing “’we whisker you a furry Christmas’. On Christmas Eve. When they can talk.” He winked.

“As soon as it arrives I’ll crack on and make the cake,” she reassured, looking forward to crossing that off the list at least. “Good,” Himself sighed. “Given the state of the world, it won’t hurt to stir the cake and make a Christmas wish or two...”