Christmas & Boxing Day 2010

I hardly need say that Christmas was exceedingly lovely. There was a late-morning pot of tea to start with, and a breakfast of cinnamon porridge and phone calls to relatives. Presents were exchanged as follows: I gave Emily Moab is My Washpot and a pair of Brora socks. (Brora is a particularly snooty brand of Scottish cashmere - a nice cardigan will cost several hundred pounds, so socks were about all I could manage, even though I would love to drape myself in the stuff.) To Roy, I gave Jan Morris's Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere and Brora socks also. Then, to both, a collection of DVDs to be watched when Roy goes into hospital, including some Sofia Coppola films and Cranford. They gave me a very beautiful woollen rug from The National Trust and some good tea from Whittard's and some pretty pictures to decorate the walls of my imminent Soviet-era apartment.

Then the parade of sumptuous food began. Emily, being a superb and intuitive cook, made several delicious dishes for lunch: roasted beetroots, baby carrots and sweet potatoes with good olive oil and herby yoghurt; new potatoes with Neal's Yard goat's cheese, salmon, capers and rocket on the side, all with a nice McLaren Vale wine. After, there were goodies from Paris, including a very lovely nougat with olives in it, and chocolate from Marks & Spencer's. Also, some lovely frothy coffee.

To justify this delicious meal, and the one to follow it, we decided to go to Richmond Park, the largest of the Royal Parks in London. The stunning vistas were enhanced by the snow that still sat everywhere and the red deer that grazed undisturbed. It was a perfect white Christmas; we crunched for miles through the snow, marvelling at the frozen lakes and the soft-hued winter sky that hung in muted shades of pink and grey. We drove home through Richmond as the sun was going down, and there was a remarkable moment as we came to the Thames where soft pink and orange light suffused (diffused? defracted?) the sky and reflected in the river and caused the world to be impossibly beautiful for several minutes. On cue, a flock of geese flew low to the water in perfect sleek formation, and signets passed classically under an arched bridge with their parents. After this rather exquisite moment, we went home immediately to gorge ourselves again.

This time, there were three courses, precluded by very, very good Champagne. The first, a bruschetta that Emily recreated from one she'd had in Italy. Olive ciabatta bread, toasted with garlicky olive oil and a semi-hard French cheese, topped with lemony steamed cale. A thing of beauty it was not, but thoroughly delicious. Following this, Emily made a pasta from scratch, a kind of tagliatelle, tossed it with chanterelle mushrooms and creme fraiche - gorgeous. And finally, pears poached in wine, with custard. Before dessert, however, and to be kind to our stomachs, we watched some Jacques Tati. 

In a fit of eponymity, today (being Boxing Day) we drove out to Box Hill in Surrey and went for a woodland walk. Again, the snow was still thick up there and the view from the Folly at the top of the hill was the British landscape at its best. We walked for miles and miles, discovered real holly leaves growing on real holly trees, through fields and over hills and stiles. Apart from the hole in my hiking boot which began to leak melted snow, it was really perfect. Then, we had a picnic in the car which consisted of a leftovers salad of potato and salmon and egg and beetroot and goat's cheese; masses of French cheeses on biscuits; clementines and nougat. 

So it's home again, home again, jiggity jig, and I've only just thawed out sufficiently to be sure of not babbling.