Excerpt From "Home for Christmas"

By Alice Taylor

On Christmas morning at the home farm, we awoke with a thump of excitement. It was still dark, but we jumped out of bed and tumbled down the high narrow stairs. The only light in the kitchen was the glow of the Sacred Heart lamp and the fading embers of the fire, but we were directed by anticipation and instinct. Bulging stockings yielded up oranges, apples, crayons and colouring books. Games of ludo and snakes and ladders brought forth squeals of delight, and one year I got a new school satchel into which I eagerly buried my face for the fresh leather smell. Sometimes a soft cloth doll or wooden toys were danced around the kitchen, and Meccano was yanked out of boxes. No matter what we got, there was wild excitement.

When we calmed down, a discussion was held as to who would walk the three miles into early mass in order to be home to mind the goose that my mother would by then have put in the bastible over the fire. I always volunteered because I loved the walk in the silent world of frost and stillness, and when we reached the top of the hill we stood at the gate onto the road and counted the Christmas candles flickering in the windows along the valley. Normally the valley would be clothed in darkness, but this was Christmas. Christmas was different. And Christmas was magic.

After the dark road, the church was flowing with light. We were bursting with excitement to see the crib - after all, this is what it was all about. First there was mass to get through. We thought that it would never end. When the priest left the altar, we made a beeline for the crib and had to take our place in the long queue, craning our necks around bulky adults to get a peep. Finally, we were there, standing in front of the baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the cow and the donkey, all nestled down into golden straw with the star sparkling down on them. We loved it and dropped our big brown pennies into the box to help Jesus do whatever it was he needed to do.

On arrival home, it was then our job to change the coals on the cover of the bastible with the long iron tongs and watch all the pots my mother had left cooking around the fire. Earlier, she had swung the bastible over the built-up fire, and when it was heated, she laid her goose into it. It was important to get it off to a good hot start, otherwise we could finish up with a pale uncooked goose. Then she covered it with the veil saved from the killing of the pig. The veil was part of the lining of a the pigs stomach which looked like a net curtain of circles of fat held together by a transparent veil. If she did not have a veil from her own pigs, she procured one from Danny the Butcher in town. During cooking, the veil kept the goose moist and tender (we had no knowledge of cholesterol to worry us.) The heated lid went on top of the bastible, and around this she laid a circle of hot coals. When she had gone to mass, it was our job to regularly change the hot coals on the cover and to keep the fire well banked up with turf and logs beneath it. First, it was time for breakfast, and on the table was the large ham with its glazed mustard and breadcrumb coat. My brother carefully carved slices, and we savoured it with delight, knowing that there was more to come later. We tidied up the kitchen that was now filling with the aroma of roast stuffed goose and entertained ourselves by playing all the new records and exploring our new toys. When my mother arrived home, there was a flurry of getting everything ready for the Christmas dinner. We were usually sitting by the time the King’s speech began, at 3pm. Every year, the king, and later his daughter, the present queen, was part of our Christmas dinner. In later years, turkey became fashionable in Ireland, but to me nothing every again tasted as good as that Christmas goose, floating in a sea of golden grease and oozing rolls of gorgeous potato stuffing. It was probably a dietician’s nightmare, but oh boy did it taste good.

After dinner, Santa’s generosity was spread all over the kitchen floor. We played ludo and snakes and ladders and fought over the rules of the game with my mother acting as peace negotiator. Colouring books were filled in and fairy stores were read. Later, my father - probably glad of the break - slipped out to see to the cattle, and when he came back it was time for supper. Despite the gigantic dinner, we were quite ready for it.

Afterwards we played cards, and this could sometimes lead to WWIII. Eventually my mother called it a day and got us all on our knees for the rosary. With the calming repetition of the rosary came peace, quiet, and the realisation that a tidal wave of tiredness was about to submerge us. We all trailed up the dark steep stairs bearing sconces with candles. It was always a day to remember. The memories of our childhood Christmases sleep within us for the rest of our lives, and every Christmas awaken with a blend of mystery and magic. Then the Christmas Past and Christmas Present, the believable and the unbelievable dance together. Heaven and Earth join hands, and our celebrations are the bridge linking those two worlds.

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Alice Taylor is a best selling Irish author born in Newmarket. Since 1986, her work has been turning heads and her extensive catalogue of nostalgic creations has grown as recently as 2020 with the release of The Nana. Her Memoir, To School Through The Fields, published in May 1988 was an immediate success and quickly became the biggest selling book ever published in Ireland. She went on to give a radio interview on The Ray D’Arcy Show. She went on to appear on everything from Woman’s Hour to The Late Late Show and has written nearly 20 books of memoirs, fiction, and poetry.