MUSINGS Batten down the hatches – It’s Christmas

Batten down the hatches – It’s Christmas


Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

’Tis the season to be jolly, they say. But in my household, or should I say that of my roomies (mom and pops), ’tis the season to stock up in case of a nuclear holocaust. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?
Christmas Eve means panic sets in for my female roomie. ‘Is the turkey big enough?’, ‘Have we enough bread?’ Yes, although the shops close for a mere two days, my mother thinks we must stock up and prepare the bunker.
Seven loaves will be purchased, four to be frozen. ‘The lads will want ham sandwiches.’ In fairness, she’s probably right on that call. One Christmas she had to cook a ham at the eleventh hour as my brothers got peckish on Christmas Eve and Supermac’s had let them down.
Other ‘necessities’ will include 16 cans of beans and eight bottles of kitchen cleaner. After all, with the end of the world approaching and Santa calling, who wouldn’t want a spotless cooker!
Christmas for me has always meant being spoiled rotten. As the baby of the house, my four siblings, who have all managed to fly the coop, bought me – and only me – presents. However last year’s introduction of Kris Kringle has meant that that gravy train has officially ended. Austere measures if you ask me.
Speaking of getting used to new introductions, The Eagles track ‘New Kid in Town’ comes lilting in my ear. This year, my title of ‘baby of the house’ is up for contention, and if I’m honest, has already been taken.
All attention will be on my 12-week-old niece Saoirse. Her introduction now means that when anybody says ‘She’ll be OK once she has a nap and a feed’, I’ll have to remind myself that it’s not me they’re talking about and refrain from saying, ‘Ya, I’ll be grand honestly’.
Her takeover of the house was swift, like Navy SEALs infiltrating a Pakistani compound, except her tactics were more of the ‘utterly adorable’ and less of the ‘counter terrorism’.
It’s been 12 weeks since she made herself known, All Ireland weekend, and only now am I coming to terms with no longer being known as ‘the little pet’. I have become resigned to filling my own hot water bottle (sometimes) and even tucking myself in. I mean seriously, what do they think I am, a grown up?
Back to Christmas Day, this year the duties will fall to our resident Gordon Ramsays – the three wise men and my male roomie. They will attempt to create what no Michelin-starred chef has ever done, take our eclectic array of ingredients and pull them all together to produce Christmas dinner.
After all, creating a Christmas Day feast out of bread, an industrial amount of kitchen cleaner, and two crates of beans would test even Jean Christophe Novelli et al.