Cabbage this year instead of sprouts to accompany the turkey. The outer leaves of the Savoy looked so attractive that I had to stop cooking to photograph them.
Christmas night really is silent round here. Everyone is buried indoors immersed, if not in sleep or tv, in domestic duties. Not a car in the road. Not a footstep on the pavement. Peace.
Where to store the turkey which we collect from the butcher on Tuesday with 36 hours to go before it is time to cook it? There is no room in our fridge, and as it is unseasonally warm, it seems inadvisable to keep it in the winter garden (the converted coal chute, which is covered but does not benefit from the central heating). Then we remember that our next door neighbours who have asked us to look after their house in their absence have a large fridge with, as likely as not, very little in it.Having installed the turkey in its temporary home, my imagingation runs wild. Our neighbours come early and hungry, and finding the bird in the fridge, devour it, believing that it has been brought to them by an angel. Or else, overehelmed by a wave of forgetfullness, we have to initiate a search at first at home and then in neigbouring houses, to see if we discover where we left it. Some Christmas stories write themselves. Our turkey is still there on Christmas morning when we pick it up. Not a good story but a good feast.