At the Table Katherine Larson

Mrs. Cratchit’s chaotic kitchen illustration by Brad Gischia

Christmas traditions cause kitchen woes Bah humbug?

by Katherine Larson

December in the United States is one of the most music-filled times of year, as background sounds that ordinarily hum along quietly shift, with one accord, towards seasonal songs that often invoke Christmas.

They also often invoke foods associated with the season, and that got me thinking: how about the foods that we sing about but, in real life, eschew? “Hurrah for the pumpkin pie” indeed, but how about, well, “Chestnuts roasting on the open fire”?

Crooner Mel Tormé and his music partner wrote this iconic song on a sweltering summer day in 1945, trying to think cool thoughts, and by 1946 it was a runaway hit. Nat King Cole, Celine Dion, Paul McCartney, Diana Ross, Bob Dylan, Sheryl Crow—all these and many more have famously covered the tune, and lots and lots of us sing it every year.

But how many of us have actually roasted chestnuts on an open fire? Not me.

When I started thinking about writing this article, I contemplated rectifying the omission. But then I learned that roasted chestnuts are far better when extremely fresh, while most chestnuts available for sale in the United States come from Europe and so are not fresh at all. (Most chestnuts in American backyards are horse chestnuts and inedible.)

I also learned that, to avoid creating a deadly weapon in the form of an exploding nut, I would have to hack an X into each chestnut’s hard shell, using a robust and extremely sharp serrated knife. After the nuts spent the requisite ten to fifteen minutes in a cast-iron pan on an open fire, I’d have to decant them in a tea towel and then guess when to start peeling them.

When they are just barely cool enough to touch without scorching one’s fingers is the magic moment. Too cool and they won’t peel. Too hot and your fingers blister. Moreover, it’s not just the hard shell that has to be removed; there are (depending on your sources) either one or two thin layers of inner skin that need to come off, and this process is described as the most challenging part. Nor is it sure of success; if the chestnuts are not fresh enough, the inner skin stays stubbornly put.

Maybe this is your favorite December pasttime. If so, I congratulate you and ask you to teach me your tricks. Until you do, I’ll content myself with the song and then serve a different appetizer.

As for an entrée, well, “Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat.” How often have I warbled these words, accompanying the piped-in department store music, singing with children or grandchildren, or flipping through the channels on the radio? Countless.

And how often have I actually cooked a fat roast goose? Exactly zero. Why not? Because I’m intimidated; because it’s not all that easy to get a fat tame goose in the U.P.; because, frankly, it just doesn’t sound all that wonderful.

Geese, of course, preceded turkeys as the big holiday bird in England, where so many American traditions come from. When turkeys crossed the Atlantic, however, they pretty much swept their waterfowl brethren off the table. There are reasons for that. To begin with, all that fat. Recipes for roasting goose are filled with sentences like, when you have the goose on a rack, “drain the roasting pan whenever the rising tide starts to touch the goose.” Really? And precisely how do I do that with a sizzling hot pan filled with sizzling hot fat in which is balanced a sizzling hot but still half-raw goose? How often must I do that? And even after the bird is cooked, I’d still have to tip it cavity-opening downward so the extra fat—yes, there’s even more, accumulated inside—can drain out. All that fat is also why most recipes recommend not stuffing the bird at all, since the dressing would absorb it. It is also why you cannot make gravy with the pan juices. And it is also why you have to allow so much raw weight per per-

son—the consensus seems to be about one and a quarter pounds of goose apiece, so a ten-pound goose would serve a maximum of eight people with no leftovers. Compare a ten-pound turkey which can, judiciously eked out, feed a family for a week.

Finally, the meat itself is described as “harsh,”“dark,”“oily” … and usually “fairly tough.”

So, for me: “Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat!” And may the goose live happily on into January while I celebrate otherwise.

On to dessert: per the song “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” carolers demand a figgy pudding.

What actually is a figgy pudding? Not what you might think.

Back in the 14th century, it was essentially a wet, sticky, thick porridge consisting of boiled figs, water, wine, ground almonds, raisins and honey. Centuries later, those who were sufficiently wealthy added brandy, ground meat and grains. Centuries later still, the meat dropped out again, except in the form of suet.

Suet, indeed, is a key component of British puddings. A typical recipe to serve eight includes more than half a pound of raw beef or mutton fat. Besides that, of course, there’s the dried fruit and the brown sugar, some flour and some breadcrumbs and perhaps some eggs, along with lots of spices and at least half a pint of brandy.

All this gets soaked and stirred together—traditionally, in Anglican households, on “Stir-up Sunday.” That’s the last Sunday before Advent, typically in the last week of November, and in theory it’s called stir-up not because of any need to stir puddings but because the collect (a kind of gathering prayer) assigned to that day begins, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people.” In other words, rouse us up from complacency! Help us roll up our sleeves and get to work!

And indeed, a figgy pudding involves a fair amount of work, though not really of the sort envisioned by the prayer. After the cook ties everything up in a pudding bowl, the concoction gets steamed gently for eight full hours, with the water topped up as necessary throughout.

Eventually it’s done; it cools; it gets stored in a cool dry place for five to six weeks; it gets taken out of the cool dry place and steamed again for a couple more hours; and finally it’s served.

I cannot do better, at this point, than to quote the immortal Charles Dickens in A Christmas Carol:

“Mrs Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take the pudding up, and bring it in.

“Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose: a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

“Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of halfa-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.”

Dear readers, I must be candid. I do not have Mrs. Cratchit’s fortitude. I do not wish to be “too nervous to bear witnesses” about my holiday feasts. And I do not look forward to eating a dessert that resembles “a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm.” So, with deep respect, please count me out.

On reflection, I realize that the seasonal songs I like best—despite my love of food—don’t focus on food at all, but rather point towards different, deeper aspects of this time. Perhaps, if we restrict ourselves to food, the best is Good King Wenceslas, who on a bitter cold night (the feast of St. Stephen, Dec. 26 in the traditional Christian calendar) spotted a poor peasant toiling through the forest.

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither,” the king commands his page. “Thou and I will see him dine when we bear them thither.” So, page and monarch, forth they went together to give the peasant his meal and his warmth. The message in the last verse: “Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.”

MM

About the Author: Katherine Larson is a writer, teacher, and former lawyer, with a special passion for food justice.