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# Christmas Lunch with Josceline Dimbleby
## After a peripatetic childhood, the author Josceline Dimbleby wanted
nothing more than to settle down and establish a few festive traditions. Her
Christmas lunch menu draws on flavours ranging from Syrian spice to her
granny's rum butter. Photographs by Lisa Linder
![The round Christmas pudding that was at the centre of two spectacular
mishaps. Styling by Rachel Jukes][1]
Image 1 of 2
The round Christmas pudding that was at the centre of two spectacular mishaps.
Styling by Rachel Jukes Photo: LISA LINDER
![Tangy orange-pastry mince pies are an essential part of Josceline Dimbleby's
Christmas][2]
Image 1 of 2
Tangy orange-pastry mince pies are an essential part of Josceline Dimbleby's
Christmas Photo: LISA LINDER
[<][3] [>][3]
* [![][4]][5]
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[Potatoes roasted in goose fat recipe][13]
[1][3] [2][3]
By Josceline Dimbleby 12:10PM GMT 01 Dec 2010
[Comments][14]
I have spent Christmas in some unlikely places - one year I sat cross-legged
in a desert beneath an extinct volcano and tucked into a scrawny chicken,
followed by guavas. Throughout my childhood my mother and diplomat stepfather
lived abroad, moving from one posting to another every three years.
One of my early memories is of the first Christmas in Syria, where my new
book, Orchards in the Oasis, begins; I was seven years old. A turkey strutted
about through the lovely garden of our Arab-style house in Damascus for weeks
before Christmas, getting fat, pecking off the heads of damask roses and
drinking from the irrigation streams that criss-crossed the garden and kept it
fresh and green in the dry climate. Our Armenian cook was called Joseph, a
name that seemed to me just right in what I was told was 'the holy land',
where the Bible stories I loved had taken place. He cooked the turkey with a
stuffing made with apricots he dried on the roof, enhanced by spices from the
labyrinth of the al-Hamidiyeh souk, and made me realise for the first time how
exciting food could be - manna from heaven.
Two years later, after two disastrous governesses, I was sent to school in
England. From then my Christmases could only occasionally be with my mother,
as long-distance travel was not as common as it is now. But in London my
grandmother took over her parental role with total devotion, giving me a
feeling of security as I sat in the comfort of her kitchen and continued to
discover the joys of good food. A dish I loved was her rice pudding made with
brown rice and muscovado sugar; it wasn't stodgy, more of a creamy caramel
sauce holding nutty bits of rice, with a wonderfully toffeeish skin.
During my teenage years I sometimes spent Christmas with my father in
Herefordshire after he remarried, or with various schoolfriends or even
boyfriends, whose families treated me as part of theirs.
For the first two or three years of our marriage, my now ex-husband David's
mother, Dilys, still 'did' the family Christmas, as her three other children
were not yet married. Her Christmases were a tour de force of organisation, an
example of her energy and unconditional love for her large family. Elaborate
menus for goose on Christmas Eve and turkey on Christmas Day were stuck up on
the wall, and on Boxing Day, when aunts, uncles, grandmothers and cousins
turned up, we ate the cold goose and turkey, baked potatoes and all sorts of
salads.
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My mother-in-law outshone us all by wanting to stay up and continue
celebrating, playing games until the early hours of the morning. I loved
becoming part of a family for whom Christmas meant a format of personal
traditions, favourite seasonal dishes and games that had been repeated
annually for as long as they could remember.
After the birth of our first child, Liza, in 1968, and with Dilys as a role
model, I was keen to start becoming the hub of my own family's Christmas and
to create our own reassuring traditions. Each year I make the orange-pastry
mince pies that have lived on for nearly 35 years; I put the recipe for these
in my first cookery book for Sainsbury's, Cooking for Christmas, and to this
day people tell me that they are making them again, using a stained and dog-
eared copy of that small book.
My recipe-writing started almost by mistake. In January 1967, soon after
leaving the Guildhall School of Music where I studied singing, I married,
started having babies and immersed myself in the domestic life I had dreamt of
after my peripatetic childhood. Not having learnt to cook, except by watching
and tasting a wide variety of cuisines over the years, I discovered that with
imagination my experiences meant that I could create dishes, inspired by far-
flung recipes and flavourings.
My first cookery book, A Taste of Dreams, was published in 1976. But when it
came to family Christmas in England I believed that traditional dishes should
be stuck to, although I could never resist doing them in my personal style. I
still don't think that Christmas food should be 'modern', but I might enliven
the richness of the food with varying spices and the freshness of garlic and
ginger, cook and serve the sprouts in a slightly different way, roast the
potatoes unpeeled with olive oil and herbs, switch between a flavourful bronze
turkey and goose, change the ingredients for the stuffing, mix apple and lemon
into the mincemeat, add new flavours and textures to the gravy - and more. My
well-loved round Christmas pudding is never quite the same as the year before.
I am often asked what culinary disasters I have had, and in fact it was the
round Christmas pudding that was at the centre of two spectacular mishaps. I
first adapted the pudding in 1978 from a Victorian recipe. It is succulent,
aromatic and sweetened only by the fruit, predominantly dark squidgy prunes
with fresh orange peel, crystallised ginger and walnuts. People often eat two
helpings even though they are so full of rich food at that point.
The first disaster was in 1983: after the room had been darkened, my brother
Ben poured and lit the brandy around the pudding, which I held on a beautiful
Wedgwood plate that had belonged to my grandmother. Beaming with pleasure, I
approached my expectant family sitting around the table. There was a loud bang
and the flaming pudding exploded into hundreds of pieces, most of which hit
the ceiling and stayed there. In shock I dropped the Wedgwood plate on the
floor, where it smashed. I ought to have known not to let my pyromaniac
brother light the pudding; earlier he had secretly inserted a small firework
into it that was ignited by the flaming brandy and caused the explosion.
The following year Ben was not allowed anywhere near the pudding; I asked my
daughter's godfather to light the brandy while my 14-year-old son, Henry, held
the pudding. The godfather enthusiastically poured on almost a bottle of
brandy and flames crept all the way up Henry's arm, at which point he dropped
the pudding. At least that year we were able to retrieve edible pieces. Henry
was very brave about his burnt arm.
While our family was young everyone contributed in their own way to Christmas.
Liza already showed signs of the artist and academic she was to become,
creating beautiful and witty illustrated calendars as presents and writing
Christmas stories. Henry (who co-founded and runs the natural fast-food
restaurant chain Leon) was mostly interested in the food, and acted as a sort
of sous-chef to me and a sous-host to David, and our younger daughter, Kate,
who is now a jazz singer, was always ready to entertain us. David carved the
turkey, dealt with the drink and of course was the perfect anchorman for the
acting, drawing and writing games we played. The extended families were keen
thespians and almost every year there was a Christmas or New Year production
that included siblings, uncles, aunts and cousins.
The moment I enjoyed most was on Christmas morning; you don't have to believe
in Father Christmas to be excited by stockings, and until they were adult-
sized students our children brought their lumpy stockings to our bed, where
David and I would also find one we had secretly filled for each other. We
opened them all together, more slowly as the children got older, relishing
each object that we pulled out, making a grating sound against the nylon. I
think the day I stopped having a stocking myself, which was not until my
'children' were more than adult, living with partners of their own, and I was
more than middle-aged, was the first time I felt there was nothing of the
child left in me at Christmas.
But I can feel a hint of childish excitement returning now that my oldest
grandchild, Amy, is five and so fervently believes in magic and the visit that
Father Christmas will make to her bedside soon. She asks me over and over
again how long it will be until Christmas Eve. She reminds me of her mother,
Kate, one Christmas in Devon long ago, when she insisted, against all odds, on
continuing to believe in Father Christmas and the magic surrounding him.
It was Christmas Eve, and eight-year-old Kate was so excited she couldn't go
to sleep; we could hear her talking in the room all three children shared. My
brother Ben volunteered to stay up and deliver the stockings and at 2am, 6ft
5in and rake thin, dressed in David's bright-red sailing oilskins, with a
white cloth round his chin as a beard, he crept into the children's bedroom
holding the heavy stockings. The silence was broken by the loud crackling the
oilskins made as Ben walked. Liza and Henry pretended to be asleep, but Ben
could see Kate's eyes shining in the dark. As he left he heard her say,
'Henry, wake up, it's true, I've see him.' A few days later she told a friend
that she had seen the real Father Christmas and he was thin, not fat.
This year, for my six grandchildren, I have introduced what I hope will become
another tradition, the Christmas tree elf; at night he guards the decorations
and presents while everyone is asleep, during the day he rests deep within the
branches of the tree. If you look very carefully you just might catch a
glimpse of him.
* 'Orchards in the Oasis: Travels, Food and Memories' by Josceline Dimbleby
(Quadrille Publishing) is available from Telegraph Books for £23 plus £1.25
p&p (0844-871 1515; [books.telegraph.co.uk][19]).
* 'Leon Book 2, Naturally Fast Food' by Henry Dimbleby (Octopus Publishing
Group £20.00 9781840915563) is available for £18.00 plus £1.25 p&p (0844 871
1515; [books.telegraph.co.uk][19])
* Telegraph subscribers can enjoy an exclusive evening hosted by Josceline
Dimbleby at Leon restaurant at Ludgate Circus, London, on March 21. For £45
per person you will be served a sparkling cocktail on arrival, a three-course
meal and half a bottle of wine. To book, call 020-7489 1580 and quote
'Telegraph subscriber evening' and your Telegraph subscriber number. Terms and
conditions apply. For further details visit [telegraph.co.uk/subscribe][20]
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