Diary of a home bird
THE madness of Christmas is over. As every mammy says, ‘All that fuss for one day’. Secretly though, they wouldn’t have it any other way. Buying enough food to survive a nuclear holocaust, cooking enough food to feed three football teams and proceeding to wrap said food in little parcels to give away as care packages to their daughter.
The female roomie didn’t disappoint this year. The two fridges were bursting to capacity at the old homestead during the festive season, and yes, I’m blaming her for the ‘Christmas stone’.
For many, Christmas means presents, carols and spending time with family. For me, Christmas means one thing and one thing only: sandwiches. Any amount of sandwiches. The bigger, the better. When it’s Christmas time, it doesn’t matter about the time of the day. It’s always a good time for a sandwich. So you’d think with my penchant for all things sliced pan I’d ensure I was well equipped for the Christmas period, a pantry full of ‘carby goodness’.
But it’s me, so of course I wasn’t, there I was, Christmas Eve down to the last slice. (Which the Boyf kindly polished off. I won’t reveal what the ingredients were, you really wouldn’t believe me.)
After many a Christmas quizzing my mother as to her thought process when buying in three loaves for the 48-hour period shops aren’t ‘properly open’, I found myself on Christmas Day with my tail between my legs, sounding like Oliver Twist. ‘Please, female roomie, can I have some more?’.
Like a methadone addict at a clinic, I needed my Christmas Night leftovers ‘hit’. She told me she could spare a half loaf. It was the right stuff. We’re talking white. O’Hara’s. No faffing about with spelt or your ‘Low GI’ when it comes to Christmas.
I had to return to the proverbial well a second time though. Mayonnaise. You can’t make a turkey and stuffing sandwich without mayonnaise. It’s the moist goodness that binds the sambo together. ‘Did you do a shop at all for your own house?’ Mother asked.
As Pops watched the exchange from the sidelines, I replied in the style of one former politician.
“Ah come on mother, I’m trying to run two homes. You should try it some time.”
Needless to say, that went down like a lead balloon. Passing Pops wiping away tears of laughter, I made a quick exit, texting the Boyf that I ‘got the goods’. He duly brought back-up snacks and supplies raided from his own family home.
I suppose you could call it ‘modern foraging’. Or just being really, really unprepared for Christmas when you don’t have the roomies filling a fridge for you.
The roomies can’t complain too much though. They came out pretty well from the whole festive season. Pops is busy getting to grips with his new laptop, and the female roomie is like a Vegas card counter trying to memorise all her new passwords for her new iPad.
And me, well, I’m left with a fridge that looks like the finish line of a marathon. A lot of tired looking carcasses wrapped in tinfoil.
In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.