We think that we’ve embraced the Mallorcan way of life rather well, but some things from home cannot be forgotten at Christmas. So, in the past few days, I’ve baked the traditional Christmas cake. After it’s been iced, nobody will notice that it’s rather darker than it should be. For yet another year, the combined efforts of Delia Smith (the recipe) and myself (the hard graft) have been thwarted by our rather useless Italian oven. With its smart brass fittings and matte finish, it really looks the business – but then so do many Italian things. The problem is that the thermostat has never worked properly, (the grill packed up ages ago), and the temperature goes up and down (but mainly up) like a bride’s nightie. It’s been suggested that it’s because the oven is powered by butano gas . . . ?
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I’ve had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a haberdashery shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Here I must confess that the oven gets the better of me when it comes to making pastry. Thankfully, I’ve found a local shop that sells a natty little line in ready-made pastry cases: I fill them with my home-made mincemeat, top them with my special crumble mix, and – venga – delicious mince pies. The Boss is ever-so-slightly addicted to these little packages of Christmas spicy loveliness, so I’ll be on production line duty for the next few weeks.
Service with a smile
One thing we do miss is the Ecumenical Christmas service which used to be held in Palma’s magnificent cathedral in early December. It was the perfect warm-up for the festive season: singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir, Els Vermells de la Seu, and the wide-eyed children of the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Some of the verses of traditional carols were translated into castellano or mallorquín and, in some cases, it seemed that there were more words than available tune!
The service also included the 10th century chant known as the Sibil-la, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve – and Mallorca is now the only place where it’s performed. The story of Judgement Day, it’s sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there’s a heart-stopping burst of music from the cathedral’s booming organ. I’d sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one’s own misdemeanours, I suppose).
One year we were there, the length of the service proved to be too much for one little person, sitting close by. Just as the opening bars of “A Holly Jolly Christmas” were being played, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up loudly from a nearby pew: “Not another one!” The little boy’s parents’ faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors’ sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
Ah, fond memories. But I must go, Delia’s calling – Spiced Apricot and Orange Chutney, I think . . .