2 hours ago
4
The first sign that something was amiss was the smell – or rather, the lack of it. The roasted turkey aroma that usually wafted throughout the house on Christmas Day was conspicuous by its absence. My mum had spent the morning meticulously plucking fresh herbs and seasoning our plump bird but, so far, no scent.
It was 2010 and the entire family, including aunts and cousins, had come to our house for dinner. After a morning gorging on chocolate and an afternoon snacking on picky bits (mainly crisps), appetites were peaking. The much-anticipated Christmas roast had been in the oven for about four hours and it was nearing 7pm. My mum, who had been busy keeping everybody happy by handing out snacks and managing the festive playlist, had taken only a scant look through the oven doors and assumed the meal was progressing nicely. As dinner time approached, she went to put in the roast potatoes and herby vegetables, expecting the turkey to be nearly golden, oozing its juices after sizzling away at 190C. Instead of a blast of hot air, she was greeted by a stone cold breeze. The turkey was pink and raw. Our oven was broken.
Panic set in and I soon found myself being dragged away from my precious PlayStation 3 – every 13-year-old’s worst nightmare – to help solve the emergency in the kitchen. My mum had been lured into buying a halogen oven a few months earlier, which had sat stagnant ever since, but now – with its promise of fast cooking times – it was going to have its chance to shine The only issue was the size: it could fit a turkey about half the size of the one we had bought. My mum set about dismembering the poor bird, as cold, sloppy juices splattered on to the worktop.
To my relief, I was tasked with the potatoes and vegetables – the idea was that we’d cook them first, then remove them from the halogen oven to make way for the mutilated turkey, before crisping them up to serve. Sadly (thankfully), we had to ditch the brussels sprouts. After it became clear that it would take about six hours just to cook the trimmings, an impromptu plan B was thought up. We had an electric, single hob ring in the cupboard: half of the roasties would be sacrificed, boiled on the hob and turned into mash.
By 9pm the butchered bird still hadn’t touched the heat and our hunger had reached a new level. Empty tubes of Pringles were sprawled across the kitchen table and people were mentioning the word “takeaway”. At 10.30pm, we cut our losses on the veg and set about cooking the turkey. Finally, at midnight, Christmas dinner was served. Much of the meat looked like it had been through a shredder, but the flavour was there. The trimmings were lukewarm, but it was nothing a bit of gravy couldn’t fix. And, for me, it was the first time I saw how hard my mum worked to put food on our plates – not just at Christmas, but all year round. I may have been too good at crisis managing the carrots, however: I’ve been in charge of the side dishes every year since.
