Sometime in September the aroma of orange and lemon peel combined with a hint of cinnamon in my grandmother’s kitchen announced that Christmas pudding season had come round again. In a huge crockery bowl that looked as old as Granny, she trebled the ingredients to make several of these festive treats. A floury storm abated under the weight of dried fruit, suet and brown sugar and, although a self-declared teetotaller, Granny added brandy to the bowl in noisy glugs, rather than measured teaspoons.

 

Then came the stirring of wishes into the mixture. Depending on how many of her twenty grandchildren were there for the ceremony, she would sit down with a cup of tea, and wait until all the wishing was done.

 

And every October, Granny produced the first of these puddings for any visitor who happened to call, “just to be sure the others are nice enough for Christmas.”

 

cold stove . . .

only the glow

of memories