Chapter 34
Calling all neighbours

Email To: Leslie Ann
From: Twila and Alex
Date: 10 December
Subject: Feliz Navidad

Dear Les and Bill,

Palm Springs is once again decorated for the holidays. I hope Santa has a sense of humour about our red chilli pepper lights strung on the yucca cactus. The palm trees are swaying in the breeze to ‘Jingle Bells’ and the lady golfers are teeing off wearing their reindeer hats.

We have decided we’ve had enough of sunbathers by the pool and rollerbladers in singlets and thongs. We’re coming over for a traditional Christmas next year. The thought of sitting by a cosy fire drinking port makes me want to turn the thermostat down, put on my bunny slippers and mittens and chill out.

Alex and I have shared your emails with lots of our friends; hope you don’t mind. We think we could fill a jumbo jet with everyone who wants a bit of Ole England with all the pomp and circumstance. Start basting the plum pudding and lay down a bottle of vintage port.

Feliz Navidad,
Twila and Alex

I’ve often thought how wonderfully unspoiled the English countryside appears in polished travel photographs. How pristine the rolling hillsides seem from the window of a United Airlines 777 in slow descent over Royal Windsor en route to Heathrow. You could be forgiven for thinking this is a deserted island if it weren’t for the patches of grey matter clustered around London, Birmingham and Manchester. Entire villages can actually disappear behind hedges and ancient walls.

We learned first-hand how deceiving this apparent calm can be when we attempted to hand-deliver invitations to our first Christmas party. We decided to invite all the friends we had met in the village pub, been introduced to at dinner parties or had come in contact with by pure chance. In other words, everyone we knew. Navigating the narrow lanes and gravel-filled driveways in search of houses with no numbers, only names, was in stark contrast to how we delivered our invitations in our former California home. With the help of the county club roster, we could address and post a stack of envelopes within minutes. In England, the delivery system had all the intrigue of a good whodunit.

As I made the rounds from house to house, walking confidently to each front door hoping not to draw attention to myself, I discovered Neighbourhood Watch was firmly in place as every home displayed a sticker in its front window. Not as obvious, however, was the location of the mail slot. Unlike in America, where mailboxes are conveniently placed at the end of a driveway, the English prefer their post delivered through an opening installed an uncomfortable 15 centimetres above the ground, usually on a side wall to the left of the front door. Squatting down to push an invitation through the stiff horsehair lips surrounding the brass slot took an act of faith on my part. Each time I prayed my protruding fingers would not meet the teeth of a well-trained Jack Russell on the other side who was more than willing to prove his devotion to his master. Bill, on the other hand, found my terror completely amusing as he watched and laughed from the warmth and comfort of the car.

We were conscious not to arouse the suspicion of those people not on our guest list as we fumbled our way from village to village. We pretended not to notice as curtains parted just enough to get a glimpse of our unfamiliar automobile. In one case, despite having no formal introduction whatsoever, we did make a new acquaintance.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ inquired a rather handsome gentleman unloading bags of groceries from the boot of his car.

‘No thank you, we’re only dropping off a letter. Oh by the way, do you happen to know where we might find the Evil Weevil Farm?’

‘Take the second turning on your right, just past the stables. You can’t miss it,’ he replied while pointing to the direction with his finger.

We nodded our appreciation to which he responded with a warm smile, ‘No problem mate, anytime.’

Feeling the sledgehammer of guilt, yet knowing we were completely out of line with all social convention, Bill swiftly put our car into reverse, introduced himself over the fence, then presented the gentleman with an invitation to which he seemed genuinely astonished while at the same time pleased. You see, like us, he was a newcomer. He had only been in the village seven years.

We scheduled our party for Friday the thirteenth knowing we would possibly have less competition from other potential hosts and hostesses as superstition still had a distant association with our chosen date. Decorating the house for the holiday season required more muscle than talent as we soon learned. Our 3-metre extension ladder was hauled out of the storage cupboard so Bill could ascend to nosebleed height to hang garlands over the windows and stairwell. Bottles of silver polish disappeared, as did an entire bed sheet cut into small strips used for shining tarnished candelabrum, chafing dishes and sundry serving items. Fresh holly with deep ruby berries was collected from our garden. Sticks of smouldering Santa Fe pinyon pine were lit to fill the rooms with memories of Christmas past. A tower of crimson roses intertwined with ivy, created by Liz, a Stretton talent in her own right, soared upward from the centre of our dining room table. In the drawing room, crystal vases filled with shiny red balls reflected the glow of dozens of scarlet candles creating a veneer of gentility.

This was so different from our many enjoyable holidays spent in Palm Springs, where the airconditioning had to be lowered to a chill in order to keep our decorated fir tree alive. Living by a golf course, I can remember closing our sitting room plantation shutters on Christmas Day in order to keep out the glaring sun and the distraction of golfers carting by, oblivious to the holiday season. Often the only festive red and green colours visible, offsetting the pastel tones of golf shorts and tennis togs, were bowls of spicy Mexican salsa and gooey guacamole dip, the staple of every social gathering, winter, spring, summer or fall. I am not complaining of course, it was an enviable location in which to live. I hold those memories fondly; however, my life now seems light years away from those salad days in the sunshine.

In an attempt to internationalize, or rather Southernize the evening we decided to put together a buffet menu that reflected my upbringing. Our thinking was that as long as chilled champagne flowed throughout the night we could be forgiven for any food faux pas. A honey-glazed spiral cut ham, locally raised chestnut-stuffed turkey and cranberry sauce with port shared the dining table with a silver tray piled high with savoury scones, the closest relative available to flaky, buttermilk biscuits. Our hope was to encourage our guests to make their own finger sandwiches. We soon learned that this had the same success rate as an Englishman eating a hamburger without a knife and fork. It wasn’t going to happen.

For the more adventuresome connoisseur, we offered a dish of warm shrimp and grits with cheese. Had this sustenance been discovered by the French rather than the American Indians, it might have survived with the more aristocratic name semoule de mais and created a culinary history of its own. This rib-sticking recipe served so elegantly in a chafing dish was, after repeated descriptions of content, eventually embraced with enthusiasm, eaten with interest and enjoyed by our buffeting guests.

Parties are a joy to give and an even greater joy to reminisce over. The anticipation of what could go right, should anything go right, are what dreams are made of. From the first glass of champagne to the last of the evening, we delighted in entertaining nearly one hundred guests in our home. As Walter, the final reveller, safely negotiated the long staircase to the front door of the Hall, thanking us for the evening on each step, we knew our efforts had contributed to the spirit of the season. There was nothing left for us to do other than to sit down, kick off our shoes, fill two flutes with the remaining champagne and snuggle up in the fading candlelight.

On reflection we’ve enjoyed many memorable evenings thanks to that social invention—the dinner party. Subtle differences do exist between the two countries so it’s helpful to get them right before guests arrive. A well stocked bar should always contain plenty of sherry, champagne and gin and tonic, no matter what the season. There should be a minimum of two fresh vegetables plus at least one, if not more, potato dishes. A gooey dessert or fruit tart followed by a selection of cheeses, biscuits or celery and a decanter of vintage port will bring the meal to a proper finale.

Invitations also need to be carefully worded and must be very specific. The phrases ‘open house’, ‘pot luck’ or ‘cocktail party’ could have your guests scratching their heads in befuddlement as we found out to our chagrin at one impromptu event we hosted. Suggesting that each couple bring something they ‘would be proud to share’ we ended up with nine bottles of wine and one chocolate layer cake. Not a balanced diet, but it did provide the essential ingredients for a raucous party. For more formal affairs it’s helpful to get right to the point. Asking your guests to arrive at 7 pm for 8 pm indicates there will be a rather convivial drinks hour prior to dinner. The invitation, if proper, should then suggest the time for ‘carriages’ to be brought forth. This is the kindest way, so we have been told, to say a polite goodnight. The English are known for their unquestioning acceptance of instructions. That is why they form orderly queues.

As an uninvited guest to many of my parents’ adult evening soirées, I can still remember my mother’s attention to detail both in and out of the kitchen. No toilet seat went uninspected, no room escaped the sanitizing odour of Glade Air Freshener, and nothing short of perfectly formed, baby-bottom pink shrimp ever made it to the table. With cha-cha music playing on the hi-fi, Dad would mix the most wonderful cocktails from behind the oakpanelled bar in the den. He was a wizard with a blender or a shaker and could pour the most drinkable frosty gimlets and jewel-coloured Manhattans.

If the old adage ‘You are what you eat’ has a ring of truth to it then so do the words embroidered on my pink gingham pillow which hangs by a silk ribbon from our bedroom door handle. It reads, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, I have become my Mother after all.’ So it is not surprising that these rituals come naturally to me. Dressing up in my own home to prepare dinner while tottering about in heels as I genuflect over a hot stove is second nature to me. I love to lay a table with garish amounts of cutlery, individual knife racks and salt and pepper cellars, oversized linen napkins, silver chargers and apple-shaped place card holders. Actually, it is easier for me to go over the top than to pare down; not always the best attribute in the casual countryside. I have discovered that miniature vegetables tied up with scallion raffia and little pearls of vinaigrette strategically dropped around rocket leaves appeal to some but not all.

My culinary skills were first honed at a YWCA Cooking for Two class which my mother insisted I attend prior to getting engaged to my former husband. It was here that I flourished in creating starchy tuna casseroles, wobbly jelly moulds and sticky macaroni and cheese soufflés. Once married, I bought a copy of Julia Child’s French Chef Cookbook, followed by Henri Paul Pellaprat’s 1203 page turner The Great Book of French Cuisine that contained recipes for anything that could be sliced, diced, jointed, minced or flayed. With no less than sixty pages of sauces from which to choose, I was busy in the kitchen for years. My Cuisinart food processor became my new best friend.

French cooking, with all the associated finer points of social etiquette, wine snobbery and table decoration is very much out of fashion these days. This is possibly due to the Anglo obsession with dieting or maybe it is just comes down to a simple lack of time to spend in the kitchen. Either way, my bookshelves now hold dusty cookbooks with recipes no one has ever heard of or wants to sample.

Delia Smith, a decidedly unglamorous English version of Martha Stewart, eventually filled the void. Considered the modern mother of today’s English cuisine, she had an agenda to improve the reputation of British cooking. Now an immensely wealthy woman, she has succeeded year after year in having one of the most popular culinary series on the telly. I too have fallen under her spell, for this is a woman who can inspire you to salt, cook and press an ox tongue or to excitedly fetch a pair of kitchen scissors in order to cut out the tubes and dividing wall of a lamb’s heart.

Today there is a new breed of chefs leading the Brit pack to international fame. These testosterone driven alpha-males love ‘whizzing’ up new marinades, ‘bashing’ together herbs and ‘bunging’ pasta into cool new salad concoctions. Gordon Ramsay, Heston Blumenthal, Raymond Blanc and, of course, Jamie Oliver have put England on the gastronomic map with their f … ing language, television personas and molecular cookery.

The current food vogue created by these scientific chefs collaborating with chemists, psychologists and artists is too complicated for me. I am still reeling from past cooking disasters to add any more to my list. Some of my dinner party memories are so horrible only a shrink could pry them out of the dark recesses of my mind, but there is one lingering embarrassment that is worth its weight in gold to me in self-deprecating laughter. It occurred during an anniversary party we hosted for a dozen of our closest friends. Dear old Martha Stewart suggested I astound our guests with individual pyramids of hand dipped, syrup glazed, plump strawberries and red grape clusters. The recipe suggested the sticky glaze would hold the cone-shaped mounds of fruit together long enough to give our guests the ‘wow’ effect. However, my fifteen minutes of fame was short lived.

The first person brave enough to tackle my dessert attempted to insert her fork into what looked like a miniature version of Disneyland’s Matterhorn. With great dignity she struggled to remove her utensil only to find the entire plate lifted off the table. Our guests watched in quiet disbelief. The grapes were so firmly stuck together the only way to separate them was for one person to hold down the plate while another attempted to chip away at the pyramid of solid boulders. As this dessert was individually served, people who had just met hours earlier over cocktails became the closest of friends, and in one circumstance, eventually intimate. Frankly, I look back on that evening with fondness for several reasons. First, I learned that friends will remember the laughter long after the folly. Second, personal disasters and embarrassments bring people closer together and third, and most importantly, your husband is your best guinea pig for any new party recipe. Use him as often as you can.