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| . | p20 Pre-War Christmas in Stoke Newington is a bright but blurred memory for those of us who can look back that far: flaring lamps over market stalls, flickering light reflecting off silver-paper wrapped tangerines, glistening layers of dates, bunches of holly, and cylindrical festoons of frosted chains, with stars and bells and spangles, like inebriated caterpillars. Others remember the pleasure of putting together much cheaper home-made paper chains and making cutout shapes, an agreeable way of keeping children occupied while the Christmas preparations were afoot. This annual manic frenzy of mince-pie making; the fuss around stirring the puddings, with the silver sixpences and lucky charms recycled every year; the angst over the massive Christmas cake ... Under such circumstances it was not only a duty but a pleasure for the men of the household to take themselves off to select and purchase the turkey. Sometimes from Smithfield market, or the butchers Walter Theade in the Essex Road, often involving the longer journey to Covent Garden, where Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson made that urgent evening trip the day after Boxing Day in search of the missing Blue Carbuncle, hidden in the crop of a fine white goose with a barred tail, reared intensively in darkest Brixton. No doubt a more succulent fowl than the swan liberated from Clissold Park by a homesick Pole, which proved to be tough beyond endurance. When chicken was an unattainable luxury and roast turkey happened only once a year, Christmas fare had a magic that our overindulged, over-fed times can hardly recall. The aroma of sage and onion stuffing was unique, the brandy butter was an exotic, slightly sinful indulgence, the smell of well-cooked sprouts a necessary evil, and the gravy ... never complete without its dose of slightly acrid, salty ,gravy browning'; and the wonderful whiff of cloves (a rare use of spice in the kitchen) from the onion and bread simmering away for the bread sauce. The greengrocers in Church Street used to sell over thirty 28lb bags of sprouts just before Christmas, and all the other vegetables would be sourced locally. Memories of wartime Christmas are bleak.
'There was nothing ..., I'm told, but then, bit by bit, come the recollections of scraping and saving, putting things by and hoarding bits of candied peel, a few currants, a nutmeg, and bags of blackmarket sugar hidden under the sink, the ingenuity of getting the expected Christmas spread together, with even a rare orange or small wooden box of dates to stuff into the not exactly bulging stockings (some posher kids in the streets north of Church Street got their loot in pillowcases; alright for some ... ) No trips to bright street markets. We were all rationed and registered with a particular local shop for this that and the other. The strange configuration of some of the properties in Chisholme Road is a reminder of the butcher, baker and dairy that were there during the war years. But children who never had any other Christmas remember only the magic, the anticipation and the enormous pleasure we had in small things - twigs painted with silver and hung with paper ornaments instead of the monster pavement-clogging commercial trees, strange edible sweetmeats wrapped in foil, sometimes stale survivors of previous Christmases, and the home-made presents, needle cases with 'pages' of soft flannel stitched into an embroidered felt cover, dolls made of pipe-cleaners, with dresses cobbled together from the rag bag, and a handkerchief case with the recipient's initials in chain stitch. Makes one appreciate some aspects of commercial present-giving ...
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