Weeks before Christmas, the Aslett women would gather at Flo’s—my foster mother, the grand matriarch of the clan—to make pasties, fruit cakes and mince pies. Coins from the past—copper farthings , ha’pennies, silver shillings, sixpences, and half-crowns—were stirred into a pot of thick, glutinous, rich Christmas pudding, then apportioned and wrapped in white cloths to be boiled before Christmas dinner. Each member of the family had to stir and make a wish. On Christmas day, all the kids golloped down their turkey and stuffing, to be the first to choose and open the now-stained muslin cloths. Dollops of double Devon cream were added on top. As kids, we were not allowed to keep the coins we found. The old coins were replaced with new ones for us to spend.
Christmas really began in January. Having a family of six children, a score of grandkids, surviving on a pittance, Flo’s only way to celebrate Christmas fully was by the assistance of Muriel, the club lady. Flo would give Muriel her Christmas order and pay an amount every Friday. With relief, by the time Christmas arrived, all was paid up.
Each year Flo would sew a fairy dressed in taffeta, carrying a wand to place atop the tree adorned with baubles.
Throughout the dozen years I stayed with the Asletts, I was treated like a prince. Nothing was too grand for me. Christmas was the apex of that spoiling. I remember a US Cavalry outfit with cowboy hat, plastic guns, and a rifle; a brand-new Riley bicycle; metal soldiers and a fort. One Christmas morning, I raced downstairs to find a three-story garage waiting for me, with a dozen toy cars, including James Bond’s gold Aston Martin with its ejection roof—a far cry from today’s gifts for a staid 70-year-old, of socks, underwear and more socks.
As luck would have it, I married a Filipina, whose Christmases began in September. All our family were dragooned into buying an endless list of groceries, then coming home to cook a concoction of English and Canadian fare, ending with Filipino desserts.
While my family invade the kitchen, I sneak away to the British Pantry Shoppe to waylay a Christmas pudding, lamenting the loss of copper farthings, ha’pennies, silver shillings, sixpences and half-crowns.
Merry Christmas to one and all.
