Trimmings
A tale of Christmas misadventure.
This year, Nick and Lucy have to take the lunch - with all the trimmings - up to Nick’s parents, although it was their turn to host and they’d had the bathroom done specially.
Opening
‘Gravy boat, serving dishes...’I said as I headed back inside.
‘We can’t fit it all in. We’ve got to get going, Lucy,’ Nick complained, trying to shut the boot.
‘Back in a sec. Powdering my nose.’ Eau Dynamisante; I needed ‘vitality, freshness and firmness’ to make a go of this. It was disappointing that it had to be held at his parents’ house, because it was our turn to host and we’d had the bathroom done specially. His mum hated cooking, so here came the cavalry, bringing the show, kit-form, from the other side of London.
The traffic wasn’t great.
Nick drummed the steering wheel. I daydreamed as I did my face, remembering a cinema trip, circa 1975 – Cinderella, perhaps. Mounds of vegetables covered a long kitchen table. Dinner to be made. The lines were sharp in that film: characters were good or they were bad; beautiful or ugly; prompt or late; shoes fitted or did not fit. One lone female in a kitchen had to transfigure muddy tubers, roots and bulbs into luminous, steaming dishes, feeding everyone, being good.
I’d finished by the time we hit the North Circular. Matt foundation minimised the violet between nose and eyes; taupe eyeshadow toned with my wrap dress. I ran through the menu again.
‘No queer things?’ asked Nick.
‘No - don’t worry. All very trad. No scaring the horses with pink peppercorn stuffing.’
‘I mean Yorkshires.’
‘Yorkshire puddings? With turkey? No.’ I softened my tone. It wasn’t going to be an easy day for Nick. ‘We could pick some frozen ones up on the way.’
‘On Christmas Day? We’ll be lucky. And we’re running late.’
‘Sorry, love.’ I stroked his arm, looking at the month-long line pinched between his brows.