Since I’ve vented some Christmas rage, I feel I can write about the Christmas I’ve just
endured enjoyed. It’s a strange thing; I thought us Pithers were dying out. Yesteryear I was lunching on a Turkey whilst being the only Pither in the room. This year there were three of us (and a half if you count my sister, not just because she’s a half Pither but because I suspect her to be half-human).
We spent Christmas with my father in his Derbyshire abode. Eager to continue a yearly tradition of using Christmas as an excuse to upset everyone’s hearing faculties with my singing and guitar playing, I leapt into immediate action with a world-traveled, world-wearied, saxophone-playing chap:
I used the opportunity to play a couple of my own tracks, including one that’s ten years old. All this is in preparation for my local pubs ‘open microphone night’ tomorrow evening (which also happens to be my wedding anniversary – it’s a thorny topic so best not mention it).
Christmas Eve I woke up less chirpy than anticipated, owing to the previous nights exertions. Nevertheless I started the day with a firm intention of preparing all the food and in general making the big day as easy as possible. Well, by six I’d accomplished wrapping up a game of chess, dabbling with some creative prose – in all not a great deal. By seven my half-alien sister arrived with her partner Paul and we all ventured out a typical Derbyshire pub, although it had unfortunately run out of Bass. If I may briefly digress, it should be acknowledged that I seem to have a misfortune when it comes to beers not being available. I once talked up the idea of walking to an extremely remote pub in the Yorkshire moors to my wife and slugging back the finest of beers, only to finally arrive there, our feet soaked and blistering from the cold, only to find they’d run out of my much eagerly anticipated ‘Old Peculiar‘. Most upsetting.
Anyway, Christmas Eve. After a couple of pints of Abbots Ale we hit my Dad’s ‘bunk house’. The bunk house is an area of the top of garden where my sister’s fully-human children rule the roost. Here is Paul and I embroiled in a dark game of chess.
It does seem vaguely reminiscent of a scene out of porridge. The cigars followed, along with a few more drinks.
Christmas day was to arrive. It was all about the beef. I had ordered four ribs of forerib – the finest cut – from a guild of Q butchers, aged for 4-5 weeks. If cooked right, it should be devastating good, unnerving the most competent of cooks.
These were serious times, the process of cooking took some preparation. I had a little bit of help:
Here the joint is though, ready and being cut:
To be honest, whilst everyone testified to it’s utter brilliance, and while there was blood and some rareness to be found, if I look deep within myself I have to say I overcooked it. Ah well. It was accompanyied by the now trusty Corton grand cru, and a Chambolle Musigny. Happy Christmas everybody!