This is the sixth and last installment of my mother’s memories of her childhood in Lancashire. You can read the other chapters here:
Now we can start the long, delicious, shivery countdown to Christmas . In the kitchen, tables are scrubbed and heavy with fat-bottomed, cream-glazed bowls of cake or pudding mixtures; curds of sugared, brandied butter and eggs by the dozen, all beaten within an inch of their lives till smooth and pale. These mixtures are thickened with dried fruit: with raisins, sultanas, currents, candied peel, angelica and cherries. Suet, grated carrots and bread crumbs are added to the pudding mixes, flour and spice is folded into the cake bowls. We take it in turn to stir, to make wishes, to fill the cake tins and pudding bowls, to scrape them out and lick the spoons, the raw mixtures being so infinitely more delicious to us than they will be after their long metamorphoses. Pudding bowls are wrapped up in butter muslin and steamed for seven hours then hung in the larder to await a further hour’s steaming on Christmas Day. The largest, deepest cake-tins, lined and covered with greaseproof paper, are slipped into the middle ovens of the Eagle range; Molly, the young cook, hovers over them until, after three hours or so, they are taken out and pierced with a skewer … if it comes out clean, the cakes are done and can be left on wire racks to cool before being covered with a thick layer of marzipan then coated and piped with a hard, tooth-cracking shell of royal icing. When finished, they are stored in sealed tins, to await Christmas Eve and the final trimmings of snowmen and esquimaux, of robins, logs, polar bears, miniature Christmas trees, gold and silvered-paper frills, scarlet ribbons.