We are pretty traditional in my house. Christmas might as well be synonymous to dry meat. Yes, turkey is a dry meat. That is why cranberry sauce was invented, because the meat is dry, dry, turkey meat is dry ( i think you get the picture). The few bits of dark meat, which means flavoursome, succulent meat, is confined to the scrawny legs and the flesh closest to the rib cage – and in our house if you aren’t quick you find yourself staring at a mournful tray of turkey breast, all the brown mean having been nyamed/munched/devoured whilst you were considering whether parsnips would redeem brussell sprouts. However, what makes the meal so exciting, bar the fact that in general we manage to have more people round the table than we have matching chairs, is that something is always forgotten.
Last year it was said Cranberry sauce – I have never seen gravy poured so selfishly. The year before the parsnips faded into memory. This isn’t to say we neglect to purchase said items, far from it. There just seems to be a disjuncture between the fridge and the table. Things get swallowed up and forgotten in the hustle and bustle of arranging cutlery, folding napkins, saying grace and munching the food. It’s when that dry bit of turkey gets stuck in your air waves that you remember the jar of cranberry sitting all innocently in the fridge door.
This year, we embraced the fact that something would be omitted from our menu. I went for stuffing, my sister said pigs in blankets.
Bread sauce won.