The French for Christmas by Fiona Valpy

Author:Fiona Valpy [Valpy, Fiona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781909490635
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2014-10-03T05:00:00+00:00

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It’s another glorious morning, bright and clear with a scattering of silver frost; across one corner of the window, the delicate lace of a spider’s web is traced in sparkling white, as if someone’s come along in the night and shaken out one of those tubes of glitter that Tess and I used to make homemade Christmas cards with when we were little. We’d sit at the kitchen table cutting out lacy snowflakes from folded squares of paper and then dot them with glue and sprinkle on the glitter, shaking off the excess onto a tray so that it could be scooped up and used again. Then we’d paste the intricate shapes onto bright-coloured card. We’d work side by side, in companionable silence, sharing the scissors and the glue pot, occasionally glancing over to admire each other’s work. And in the background, Mamie Lucie would potter at the stove, filling the air around us with heady scents of cloves and cinnamon as she prepared her Christmas baking. I remember how Tess, two years younger than me, would try so hard to make her snowflakes as intricate and neat as mine, the tip of her tongue poking out of the corner of her lips as she concentrated on manoeuvring the scissors.

My heart lurches suddenly, with love for my little sister. I wish I could wrap my arms around her and give her a big hug. I miss her so much. And there’s so much we should be sharing now. I should be there to support her, but I guess I’ll have to make do with hiking up the hill later on and sending her a message...

I pick up the heavy pressure cooker that I borrowed from Eliane, which I’m going to return to her now that the pudding’s three-quarters cooked. I’ll finish it on the day by simmering it for another couple of hours in a normal pan.

I find her working in her garden at the back of the cottage. She’s hoeing the dark soil, keeping the weeds out. There’s a wicker trug of produce beside the neatly dug bed, containing some tender baby leeks, some salad leaves and other greenery that I don’t recognise. At my appearance, she pauses, smiling, and pushes a few strands of her fine, white hair away from her face with the back of her hand.

I kiss her on both cheeks. ‘Your pressure cooker. Thanks for the loan, Eliane.’

‘Your Pudding de Noël is made then? Was it a success?’

‘We’ll only know on the day when it’s had its final boiling and is ready to eat. I had to adjust the recipe a bit, though, so who knows? Are you and Mathieu doing anything Christmas Day? If not, I’d love it if you’d join me for lunch. Didier will be there too. But I guess you’ll probably be spending it with your family?’

‘You mean on the twenty-fifth? Actually, no. Here in France we have our big celebrations en famille on the night of the twenty-fourth of December.

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