The festive treat and repeat

Four and a half pounds heavier – not bad eh! As an experiment of sorts, I weighed myself on Christmas Eve and then again, when I woke, bleary-eyed and physically stunned on Monday morning. I wanted to see what kind of damage all the festive eating would have for my waistline and as it turned out, I wasn’t overly disappointed with the four and a half pounds. It could have been worse and in point of fact, I fully expected many more gained pounds, when all was said and gorbed.

There were many gastronomic highlights this year, dear reader, too many for sure but sure it was Christmas after all and I’d been a good boy all year (kinda).
The magic started with the ham sandwich on Christmas Eve. I’d purchased said ham as an accoutrement for Christmas Day dinner but decided I’d slip ahead of the prep game by baking it up on Christmas Eve. I should have known though. I should have known that as soon as it exited the oven I’d be tempted to snaffle a little and I should have known it wouldn’t stop there. The sandwich was epic though. Thick slices of freshly baked ham with lettuce leaves, a few slices of red onion, a quartered plum tomato and an impromptu honey mustard mayo… it slipped down my gullet faster than Santa Claus in a greasy chimney. However with a supreme imposition of my iron will, I somehow managed to resist eating the remainder of the ham and at the time I was reminded of a story I heard once where the groom and best man ate the cake the night before the wedding, a night which was also the stag do. The story goes thus…

After toasting the impending nuptials in the pub the night before the big day, the groom and best man (who shall remain nameless for I can’t recall their names) retired to the house whereupon they encountered the wedding cake on the kitchen table. Malcontent with merely tasting the cake (a crime enough, one might say), nothing would do but the duo had to have a slice, which led to another slice and then another. The end result was that the cake was demolished to such an extend that there was little to none to serve the guests the following day. I assume rather than recall from the time I heard this story, that the would-be bride must have hit the roof when the development was relayed to her on the wedding day and I also assume this was the last straw, the proverbial camel’s back straw. The groom was then tasked with telling the priest what had transpired. “Father, me and the best man got drunk last night and ate the cake. I don’t think we’ll bother getting married.” And that was that.

And so by managing not to eat the entire ham, Christmas Day didn’t have to be cancelled. Consequently, Santy arrived (God love him) and there followed our traditional Christmas Day breakfast of buttery toast and hot chocolate (marshmallows and cream optional). After that, I predicted the clan would be ravenous four hours later and that was the time I set for myself to have the Christmas dinner prepared. As you may remember, I took the executive decision to have a chicken instead of a turkey this year and it worked a treat. Alongside the epic ham, the plates were festooned with slices of MOIST chicken, sausages wrapped in bacon, honey roasted parsnips, buttered brussels, silky mash, roasties done in duck fat, carrots two ways, thick cranberry sauce and a gravy made from the chicken juices, white wine and some home-made stock I’d done the week previous. The only downside to this almost perfect plate was the stuffing, which is to say, it was made with only the barest dusting of sage. I had planned on the traditional sage and onion but finding oneself sage-less at such an eleventh hour, I was forced to diversify and experiment. There followed a combination order of parsley, rosemary and thyme and whilst the stuffing was still good, it wasn’t perfect.
Strangely enough, the same stuffing worked better as part of that evening’s Christmas sandwich, which for a change, became a Christmas flatbread (home-made with butter instead of olive oil) with extra mayo and yet more cranberry sauce. I even chopped up and added one of the left-over roasties. It’s surprising how hungry one can imagine one to be after a few festive sherries, or in my case, IPAs.

The next day, instead of a re-run of the Christmas Day dinner, when the folks arrived, I fired up peppered sirloin steaks with yet more buttery mash, thrice-cooked chips, a brandy, garlic and cream peppercorn sauce, garlic bread and some purple sprouting broccoli (as the token veg).
A combination of fatigue and gluttony prevented me from making the profiteroles that I’d planned but we all survived nonetheless, via the cunning use of whiskey cocktails. That night it was a large selection of nibbles (nuts, crisps, Celebrations) before a cheeseboard with Roquefort, Cornish Cruncher, grapes, apples, honey, walnuts and crackers appeared. And it didn’t end there!

The following day (or was it the day after that? I love losing track of days), I made a chilli con carne and as well as laying this astride a crunchy field of tortilla chips and festooning that with cheese, crema and sour cream, the chilli was also heaved into burritos with yet more cheese and associated boldness.
Can you see where this is going, dear reader?

After the chilli and then the following night’s chip, pea gravy and Yorkshire puddings (!) there was also a panini, a sausage sandwich and a home-made victoria sponge and by this morning I was counting myself lucky that those four and a half were measured in pounds rather than stones and that I was still avoiding gout.
The moral of this windy tale is that, when faced with Christmas the best plan is not to scrimp and salivate but rather, treat and repeat.

The bells of the New Year are only just fading into the distance and furthermore, my four and a half pounds may yet have increased further. But I have a cunning plan, as Baldrick used to say and that is running. I plan on running off the four and a half pounds by signing up to the next half marathon on the horizon, which is to say Omagh. There will also be an increase in vegetable consumption and a decrease in liver abuse.

But the best part about an augmentation in running is that, when next year’s gluttony swings around, I’ll be svelte once more and keener than mustard to tackle the season’s delights yet again.

Perhaps I’ll even try and beat my four and a half pounds benchmark!