The Queen and Figgy Pudding

December 27th, 2008

   

  

 

    I have only spent two Christmas seasons away from home. At twelve, I gazed out a light blue shuttered window, as rain approached my mother’s windward facing home in the Caribbean.   For the 2007 festive term, I spent many a morning gazing at the thick blanket of cloud that hung over a much colder island across the Atlantic Ocean, expecting more of the same.

 

     In the past, this is the time of year I would be getting up at 2 o’clock in the morning to voluntarily work the overnight shift at the radio station. This a quiet beautiful time of night in Toronto when- if Jack Frost is not on strike, stars and streetlights glint off snowy landscapes, and shadows blend grey street sludge into white slopes. Over the four weeks of official holiday season in London, I think I spotted one flake, which looked a little like the bloke whose colleagues “accidentally” gave him the wrong address for the “Christmas Do.”

     Wet winter weather aside, one festive fixation the English do really well is food- specifically dessert. I watched in fascinated delight right along with half a dozen young cousins, as the traditional “figgy pudd” was set ablaze. The dark, caramelized, plumy cake left behind, smothered in a velvety double cream more than made up for a green landscape outside. But when someone offered me a similarly dressed minced pie, I declined. First, I couldn’t figure out why a meat pie was on the dessert menu. Second, why would I then want it smothered in rich cream? It was only wandering through Marks and Sparks days later that I realized; the milled mixture in the sugared pastry was fruit, not meat.

      A light bulb moment also twinkled into being for me when the Queen made her annual Christmas message- at three in the afternoon.  My English readers will be wondering, “And this is special because?” But my North American readers will realize that the Queen’s speech is enjoyed over our breakfasts. As my cousin and I stopped for a few minutes to listen to Liz, I realized for the first time that the world does not in fact revolve around whatever corner of the world I happen to be in. 

      Balmy temperatures also allowed me to take a trip to the seaside; something that I would not risk at this time of year back home without an east coast accent and eighteen layers of clothing. The day after Boxing Day my cousins and I piled into an Audi and headed south towards Rye and East Sussex. Our first stop was a century old lighthouse, the fourth to stand on the site since the reign of James I in 1615.  The five story conical cylinder once overlooked the English Channel, but a changing tide has left it stranded in the midst of shale and pebble covered planes- what passes for sand in this country. Sadly, it was closed for the holidays- as was the child sized railway that chugs around the area, so it was a quick picture in front of it and then back in the car for our happy foursome.

     The small hilly town of Dungeness was once a port stop, populated by fisherman and their families.  Though no longer right on the coast, its residents have managed to stay solvent; these days trading in tourism instead of seafood.  We popped into a white and dark timber fronted pub, its door and roof charmingly low. Bundles of hops hung from the rafters and a massive hearth stretched across one wall, a cherry blaze complimented the heat of spirits being toasted.      

     For heartier fare, we stopped in a fish and chips restaurant. Netting, anchors and various nautical paraphernalia hung along white-washed walls, wooden tables and chairs reminiscent of those that would be bolted to the deck of a ship. But it is the “authentic” dockland service from our waitress that is my fondest memory of our meal.

“Excuse meh, sorreh. Buh did you ohdah, ahnions, oh ahnion rings,” she asked our table at large, the expression on her face one of polite inquiry.

“Onion Rings,” we chorused cheerily in response.

“Roight.”  She turned smartly on her heel, black mid-length hair swinging over her shoulder as she stomped towards the kitchen.

      We looked at each other in concern, but before we could even wonder about the sudden shift in her mood a raised voice could be heard from the kitchen, its open door just feet away from where we sat.

“The ohdah was foh f—king ahnion rings, NOT ahnion!! Who the f—k took this?” Her demand garnered no response from her coworkers that we could hear other than banging pots, but out in the dinning room eight shoulders hunched around our table.

      The question was posed a second time using similar prose and we exchanged guilty looks.  At a table across the room, four other patrons grimly finished their meal, not amused by the dinner theatre from the kitchen. 

“Do you think she realizes we can hear her?” My cousin asked this in hushed tones, a smile playing around her mouth.

“IF THAH OHDAH WAS FOH AHNION RINGS, WHY THAH F–K DOES THIS SAY AHNIONS? WHAT STIUPID AHSS-HOLE TOOK THIS?” The enraged inquisition continued from the kitchen.

“Erm, yeah. I think she knows,” I answered.  We couldn’t help breaking into the giggles, drawing a few disapproving glares from the diners a few table over. 

     As our waitress returned with a bowl of surprisingly tasty if disputed fried rings, the only evidence of her rant was a slight flush across her pale freckled cheeks. I couldn’t help thinking there was something strangely authentic about her salty serenade in what was once a sea-side town.

Click here for my cousin’s figgy pudd recipe