Third weekend in November, my mother would go on a shopping
spree.
Stir Up Sunday was close at hand. The last weekend she could
make plum puddings or fruitcake before Advent.
It was known as Stir up Sunday. She took it seriously by
laying out mixing bowls, softened
butter, and paper bags for lining cake pans.
She’d buy crazy amounts
of raisins, brown sugar, eggs, apples,
butter, flour, spices, baking powder, currants, almonds, breadcrumbs, 10 pounds
of prunes, orange juice apricots and a good whollop of brandy to mush in.
Company was coming for tea the next day. Stuffy ladies,
looking for donations. Two sisters, Mrs. Wig
and Mrs. Wog (not their real names, of course) They always wore little hats with netting over their
eyes.
In the kitchen ,flour
flew, and eggs were cracked and brandy spilled this way and that.
My mother and I took turns with the stirring. Clockwise, while
making a wish. That’s how it was done on
Stir Up Sunday.
We cut up paper bags, slathered butter into pans, then
smooshed more butter onto brown paper, which we slotted into dark pans. Pans that used to belong to my
grandmother. Only used at Christmas.
My mother plopped
batter into the pudding mold. She covered it with foil and dropped it into
boiling water. It bubbled and burped and burped and bubbled.
Next day , as the grandfather clock chimed 2pm ,my mother had
the kettle perking. Hot scones wrapped in linen, huge hot mincemeat tarts,
enough to scald your mouth. Preserves warmed by the fire ready to be devoured.
Large slices of dark fruitcake
graced the antique cake stand. Tall
corners of Plum Pudding swimming in
thick cream and sugar sat beside each
place by the fire. Our tabby cat perched himself by us, hoping for a treat.
Mrs. Wig and Mrs. Wog arrived on time. Starving , they said,
eyeing the goodies. Positively famished.
Mrs. Wig smacked her lips as she swallowed a mincemeat
tart practically whole.
Mrs. Wog was the fun
one. She had false teeth in front that rattled. She took them out. Placed them
on the side of her teacup and saucer. My mother’s eyes widened as she poured tea from her shaking hand.
“Quite yummy” said the two ladies. They left their little hats
on top of their heads and just pushed up the netting so as to get more tea. They
gobbled up scones thick with butter and jam. Ooohed and ahhed at the plum
pudding, before digging in.
My mother indicated I
would play Christmas carols for their enjoyment. Operative word “their”
enjoyment. I scraped away on violin. I plunked away on piano, while the
ladies made appropriate noises. It was
torture.
All of a sudden there was a “crunch”. Not a nice crunch. I
stopped playing.
Mrs. Wig looked rather
alarmed. She spat a small silver thimble into her tea cup, plus part of a
tooth.
Turns out Mrs. Wig found the special silver thimble, a wish
for thrift, on Stir Up Sunday. My mother stuffed it into the pudding batter. A Special
thimble wrapped in foil. Or rather, it
found her. Mrs. Wig commenced with some
interesting screeching noises.
Mrs. Wog gulped her tea and giggled, followed by horrible
gagging sounds. In her zeal to eat
everything in sight, she bit on a prune pit and her false teeth fell off the
tea cup, and clattered onto the hearth.
Our cat, who had been snoozing
by the fire, grabbed it, and ran off . I toddled after him.
The sisters laughed
hysterically. Asked for more tea and more plum pudding .
They left without a donation. Just their teeth , wrapped in
foil…..
That is a great story!
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