Christmas Eve and a story for Sara

And I'm in my kitchen.

I went for a walk in what I think of as my wood this morning. The picture posted here of the holly was taken there earlier this week. I had hoped to take another photo of a water vole, but he wouldn't stay still. Then there was a robin.

I'm now in my kitchen starting the preparations for tomorrow's meal. I love cooking Christmas dinner. I love the way it takes so long but only because for once I have the time to take care over a meal.

So the picture I post here is of my first steps towards the celebrations. I am making Giblet stock for the gravy. When it's finished it will go in the fridge till tomorrow.

Next up is the red cabbage and apple (with cranberries this year).

Whilst I am thinking about doing that I want to say something about mothers, mine in particular but it applies I think to many other women.

I'm not a mother and never will be and for that I think I'm quite grateful. It's a tough job, and some people don't get it right. I dont think I would have done.

My mother died aged 51, the same age that I am at now. She was very beautiful, but she had a terrible temper. She suffered a lot in her life with mental and physical ill health, but even when well was a very difficult person to be around. She was a popular person outside of the family.

She practised emotional blackmail beyond compare. I've forgotten most of it as we became friends before she died. However, I will never forget being landed with the thought that her ill health was rooted in the very difficult labour she experienced having me and that how she nearly died! Try living with that!

I finally had enough when I was 27. She said some very nasty things to me and I snapped. I queried whether she really loved me and she said of course. I said that it was hard to believe that considering she never had a good thing to say about me or to me, and that she hated just about everything I stood for. I told her I never wanted to see her again.

She tried phoning me on several occasions and calling at my home - something she did frequently without invitation no matter how inconvenient it was for me. I refused to take her calls or come to the door. One day I forgot not to answer the phone and she was there at the other end. She was very quiet, very hesitant and asked if she could come to visit (a first). I said it was OK. From then on I realised that a mother has far more invested in her children than her children have in her. I realised she needed me. It doesn't sound much but it was a revelation. Our relationship changed. We became friends. It lasted about three years.

Now! Back to the red cabbage.





I love Christmas

Mary