English Yuletide traditions
A few days before my first Christmas on American soil in 1944, our nephew Rod asked if I would make an English Christmas pudding. My culinary expertise was nil, but I didn't want him to know this.
"We don't have any silver three-penny pieces to put in the pudding," I explained, thinking that this might steer him in another direction.
"Could we use dimes?" Rod said. The quick thinking of a 5-year-old set me back a pace. "I suppose we could," I said.
I found a recipe for Christmas pudding in my Mrs. Beatons Cookery Book. There was one problem. All of the ingredients were in ounces and pounds. This meant I would have to convert the amounts to American cup measurements, a major feat for one who flunked every step of basic mathematics.
I stood at my mother's elbow on many eves before Christmas Day when I was a child while she made our Christmas fare. She didn't measure anything. In a large earthenware bowl, she poured unmeasured flour, brown sugar and bread crumbs and the suet that she had skinned and chopped into very small pieces.
Raisins, sultans, currents, and golden raisins were sold in bulk when I was a youngster, and these were in separate sacks. She added them and a few eggs. Then I and my three siblings took turns stirring the mixture while Mother grated the rind of lemons and oranges. She added these and juice of the fruit while small hands continued to stir. Grated nutmeg, cinnamon, mixed spice, chopped glazed peel and an unmeasured shot of wine were added.
Last but not least came the time the four of us waited for. In my childhood memory we each were given a three-penny silver coin to drop into the pudding mixture and we each made a wish. Extra silver coins and silver charms were added for our parents.
The pudding was cooked in smaller bowls, covered with a pudding cloth and set in a saucepan of water over a low flame to cook through the night.
I bought my supplies at the Darby Mercantile and Rod stood at my elbow while I basically followed the recipe and my mother's method of making Christmas pudding. We dropped in the dimes that had been sterilized in boiling water.
It bubbled on the wood range all night. Rod could hardly contain his excitement on Christmas Day until it was time for the pudding to be served.
As far as I recall, it wasn't a big hit with my American family except Rod, who ate large portions and found a few dimes. It turned out well and I enjoyed my traditional Christmas pudding topped with custard.
A few weeks ago Rod called to wish us a Merry Christmas. He said, "You know Aunt Barbara, I always think of the Christmas pudding you made the first Christmas you were with us. I have to tell you, I didn't like the Christmas pudding, but I ate it to find the dimes."
Boxing Day: Dec. 26
The usual clutter of gift-wrappings and boxes were stacked near the back door the day after Christmas.
"Does all that go to the dump?" Hubby asked. "Just the wrappings. I want to keep the boxes," I said, "I'm observing Boxing Day."
"We don't observe Boxing Day in this country," he told me as if I wasn't aware of that fact. "They do in England, and Canada, and Australia, and New Zealand, and other countries that have British ancestry," I said, "and I like old world customs."
"Why is it called Boxing Day?" Hubby asked as I rolled the wrapping into a tidy ball. I had to think a moment before answering him, as it's been many years since I was in England to observe the traditional Boxing Day.
"Long ago, the custom of giving boxes of sweets or cakes to servants and to trades people who made deliveries, such as milk, bread and vegetables was observed the day after Christmas. Our family tradition was to deliver small gifts to neighbors and friends," I said and started to pile the boxes in my arms while I talked.
"Today it's a legal holiday and all businesses are closed except the theaters. They open with musical productions of fairy tales, such as Cinderella, or Jack in the Beanstalk. A trip to a London theater with our parents, to see a Pantomime, was the highest of the Christmas season for me and my sister. I bet you thought it had something to do with boxing matches?"
When I looked up, I realized I had been talking to myself. I saw Hubby halfway down the sidewalk with the Christmas wrappings. Ah well, I thought as I went downstairs, juggling my load of boxes, at least it gave me a chance to renew the origination of Boxing Day.
Our storage room is a haven for big, small, flat short, plain brown and colored, and decorated boxes all because I can't discard, burn or mutilate a good-looking box. I have a strange quirk about boxes. They fascinate me. Having a supply on hand for future use gives me a sense of security.
I rearranged my stock to make room for this year's supply.
Boxing Day is just one day in Merry England, but here in my little corner of Montana, I keep the boxing part of the tradition all year long, my way, I thought as I closed the storage room door on a collection of neatly stacked boxes.