Preparations were underway early on Christmas morning in the Smyth household. Fat sausages sizzled under the grill as Wizard belted out their ‘70s hit
'I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’ on the radio. Lisa, our figure conscience twenty-two year old daughter, nibbled a banana while she applied false nails at the kitchen table. She glanced up momentarily at her father playing air guitar with the frying pan in the middle of the kitchen floor and muttered,
‘ Now it’s coming back to me why I moved out!’ I busied myself tidying the house in anticipation of our Japanese in-laws spending the day with us. It was their first Christmas in Ireland and I wanted everything to go just right.

We had arranged to meet my son Paul and his heavily pregnant wife Naomi outside the parish Church for
12 o’clock Mass. They would have with them Naomi’s mother and father, her brother Fumito and his South Korean friend Jun-suh as they wanted to experience all aspects of an Irish Christmas.

So, it was all hands on deck to get the food prepared before we left the house. The ham was simmering in the pot, the turkey was basted and roasting slowly in the oven and I prepared the vegetables while Lisa, having put the finishing touches to her hair and make-up, finally offered her services.
‘Whip cream for the trifle and add more chopped onion and herbs to the stuffing,’ I called while running to the bedroom to change for Mass.

We arrived at a gallop, red faced and breathless, while the very punctual Japanese were already assembled at the Church entrance. We greeted each other with lots of bowing and head nodding and filed into the Church taking our places as near to the altar as possible so they could follow the proceedings.

The Church was packed, hot and stuffy and it wasn’t long before the smell of incense turned Naomi a definite tinge of green. Naomi and her mother shuffled hurriedly past us out to the fresh air. After a few minutes I followed them and found Naomi much recovered but she declined to return to the stuffy atmosphere and I left them to walk around the grounds instead.
On my return inside I discovered only my husband Joe and daughter Lisa left in the pew. Joe nodded at the altar where our son stood in the queue to receive Holy Communion with three shiny black haired men standing straight backed behind him.
I groaned and Joe muttered,
‘They just followed Paul up and it would have attracted more attention to call them back!’
As they moved past us into their places, Naomi’s dad Junpei, gave me a broad smile, swallowed the host and said ‘Nice’ one of the few English words he knows!

With Mass over we all trooped back to the house. Bucks Fizz, beer and sake was on offer while I retreated to the kitchen to check on the food. The candles on the table were lit. Bing Crosby was crooning ‘White Christmas’ in the background and with our paper hats in place we all sat down to dinner.

Our guests whipped out cameras to record the ritual carving of the bird. Joe, with his paper hat at a precarious angle, having partaken of slightly more sake than needed to be sociable, stood proudly with the carving knife hovering over the turkey while cameras flashed furiously.

All was going well until a sharp kick on the ankle drew my attention to Lisa who was discreetly wiggling her little finger at me and staring pointedly at the bowl of stuffing. The false nail was missing!
My hands felt sweaty, my face flushed. Too late!
I watched with horror as the bowl was lifted and passed along the table. However, dinner continued without anyone choking and much relieved I poured myself a glass of wine. Relief was short lived.
The trifle was produced. Was the missing nail in the whipped cream? I wondered as I searched my daughter’s face. Lisa just shrugged her shoulders and reached for the bottle of wine, topping up both our glasses. We gingerly nibbled through our portions while the men devoured theirs and took second helpings.

Later they all adjourned to the living room to lie like beached whales in front of the television while Lisa disappeared into her bedroom to search for the missing nail. Her optimism amused me as the Lost Tribes could be hiding in that chaotic room safe in the knowledge of never being found! Needless to say, she didn’t uncover the elusive nail.

A light flurry of snow was falling later that evening as we stood at our hall door and waved goodnight to our very appreciative guests, then retreated with a sigh of relief to collapse on the couch.
Halfway through the Christmas night movie the phone rang and my breathless son informed me that they were on their way to the maternity hospital, Naomi was in labour! Lisa stared at me wide eyed.
‘No Lisa, I don’t think swallowing a false nail could start labour,’ I reassured her.

As we prepared for a long night waiting for news of the arrival of our first grandchild, Joe emerged from the kitchen with a mug of strong coffee in one hand and a half eaten turkey sandwich in the other.


‘Well, this is a great end to a very enjoyable day,’ he declared. ‘We’ll have the new baby here next week for the New Year’s Day dinner, but whoever makes the stuffing next time will you cut the onion a bit finer because I nearly choked on a sharp lump in this sandwich a minute ago.’

‘Found it!’ myself and Lisa shouted in unison.

‘Found what?’ asked my bewildered husband.

‘Porridge for breakfast, Joe. Plenty of roughage and you’ll be fine,’ I told him as myself and Lisa collapsed with laughter!

Last year’s Christmas was definitely a memorable one but I look forward to future Christmases with great expectation and pleasure as we now have an adorable baby grandson and after many years Santa will make a very welcome return to our family.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 12.02.2010

Alle Rechte vorbehalten