Monday, December 24, 2018
The poulterers mother is running behind schedule. We'd arranged to pick up the turkey first thing but when we get to the market she's not ready. She's only got to the letter J on her order list. Anyone with a surname starting with the letter M will need to wait for their bird to be gutted and decapitated. We are told to come back.
The greengrocer has a shipment of truffles from Perigord. These are wrapped in a silk scarf and kept in a cardboard box in the store room. We spend ten minutes choosing one. Texture , sheen and smell are discussed. The PONs look on . The greengrocer wonders if Bob would make an excellent truffle hunter. I explain that it's more likely Bob would make an excellent truffle eater. The man laughs. Bob gets a tickle.
The fishmonger hasn't prepared the lobster for Christmas Eve dinner. '' My family are visiting from Perpignan " he says by way of explanation. We settle for enormous langoustine.
A final detour to the florists. The youngest daughter has moved in with her boyfriend. Mother and eldest sister remain unconvinced that the young man in question is 'wonderful'. The youngest daughter is in no doubt. The intimacies of the relationship are discussed in front of an apparently invisible Angus.
Finally, the Turkey is ready. We collect it and head home. Later this morning Sophie will drive off with 'The Font' to the vets to have the growth on her muzzle checked. She's been in the drainage ditch and has gleaned not one but two dead voles. These have been swallowed whole. She now has the look of one of those abandoned dogs you see on Christmas animal charity adverts.
So starts a Christmas Eve morning in deepest deepest France profonde.
Did anyone see the light cast by the winter moon ? It was spectacular.
And almost the last Christmas Carol. This time a Bavarian favourite with peculiar choreography :