Sounds delicious. Do enjoy.
Here I’ve not had much to eat today as my stomach is playing up a bit.
Just reading this is making me hungry.
Well, the tarte tatin (which I have ordered in the past, for my birthday or, sometimes, for Christmas, - the proprietor/chef runs a Michelin Bib Gourmand restaurant, where I eat - and bring friends and Decent Brother - whenever they show up) - which I love - will stand in for cakes and biscuits; I was never a fan of either Christmas cake nor plum pudding, and I love tarte tatin.
Anyway, as is the wonderful way of the world (and I am laughing, at the ironic hilarity of this), pure karma, in the midst of all of this largesse (I've just phoned the cheesemonger and the chef to thank them), a fraction of a filling has fallen out.
Now, it is an irksome inconvenience, rather than anything approaching a calamity, which is just as well, as my dentist will not be available until the New Year.
Actually, I remember one Christmas Day when we were children, perhaps approaching pre-teen years, when the main oven died, perished, right in the middle of trying to prepare that Christmas meal. Thankfully, at that time, we did have a small spare stove top, a set of gas rings, run on gas. While the immediate emergency was averted, I am not sure - to this day - quite how my mother managed to put a dinner - or, rather, that particular dinner, which is demanding of time, resources and labour - on the table.
Another Christmas Day, a Christmas morning, almost two decades later, by now teaching at university, and suffering from the sort of inexplicable headache that follows a jolly night of excessive imbibing on Christmas Eve, I was abruptly awakened by my father, (who was normally the soul of courtesy), who ordered me tersely to "get up" before he proceeded to inform me, in a sepulchral and tense tone, that "your mother has a nosebleed".
Having suffered from three such veritable tsunamis last year, I now have personal experience of this malady; at the time, I simply knew that that meant that she was completely hors de combat for Christmas Day.
That was the day when the preparation of the entire Christmas dinner fell to me, (ably assisted, most impressively, by Decent Brother, with whom I may have been partaking of the joys of the Grain the previous evening); from then on, I did the needful on Christmas Day, but stressed that the finer points of this demanding repast, plus many of the traditions accompanying it, were now negotiable, and preferably, discarded, - and many of them were - if I was to don my chef's apron for the day.
Turkey has never since appeared on the menu chez nous.