To narrate them all would be tiresome because I happen to be one of the really fanatical types, who will readily throw a tantrum when things are not as I expect them to be on this particular day.
Pull all the stunts you want on me all year round and I am likely to take it with a smile, but no jokes on Christmas morning. Give me dry bread from January to Christmas Eve if you wish and I will eat it with little complaint. What I will not accept is someone offering me bread on December 25 without pepper-pot to go with it. Of all that harsh things that anyone can do to me, this is perhaps the worst.
No thank you to sausages, ham, eggs, Brunswick sardine, cheese, peanut butter and jelly, butter etc. I will have none of it on Christmas morning. Not when I go to bed dreaming of white bread drenched in that dark delicious juice, and certainly not when I wake up smelling the aroma of pepper-pot and it has not even been heated yet! Yes, pepper-pot means that much to me.
Just to put it in context, I only eat pepper-pot once a year and that is during the holidays. More specifically, I eat pepper-pot on the 12 days of Christmas and this is every morning religiously with white bread. After January 5, please take the aroma away and anything that closely resembles pepper-pot or I will throw a tantrum.
It would be off beam to describe my Christmas spirit as that of a spoilt child who kicks and screams because mommy is against her idea of leaving the tap running so the new pool that was spotted in the bag of Christmas toys under the bed can be of some use. Funny how the years have slipped by like nothing, but I still remember those childhood days when I insisted on having things my way and always came out the loser.
But there is just something about Christmas Day itself that has me bubbling with excitement. And I must have pepper-pot, ginger beer and sponge cake. I know, I did not mention black cake but I am not one of those people who appreciate it. In fact, I cannot even swallow a tiny piece of it. Not that I would throw a tantrum because my mother decided to bake six pans of black cake and two sponge cakes, though I came considerably close to acting up one year.
Truth is black cake and I have a not so good history. I was eight years old and visiting an aunt, who is a black cake fanatic, when I decided to sample a pan unknown to her and based on the information I received after; it was my ‘rum boogie’ uncle’s cake. Two slices of the cake had me stumbling out of the yard and onto the road serenading neighbours and passers-by. People actually thought I was joking so no one paid me any real attention and a bicycle ended up running into me. It was my first and I still vow last experience of being intoxicated.
Sponge cake is my real love; it melts in my mouth like popsicles on a hot day and I love the moistness of it. I like it sweet too. Come Christmas Day around 6 pm sponge cake must be there waiting for me to indulge or, you know, I am likely to throw a tantrum. It is usually sponge cake and two glasses of Soca ginger beer.
Since I discovered Soca ginger beer nothing else works for me, which includes the homemade one that I drank as a child with some amount of hesitation; it was so hot. But I love ginger beer; it isn’t Christmas if ginger beer is not in the house, ask my grandmother and she would tell you.
Strange enough everything seems to be in place this Christmas before December 24 when it is tradition in my home to pick up the ingredients for pepper-pot and the cake and the ginger beer. This means I am not likely to throw a tantrum this year. However, a dear friend has reminded me that if I fail to get a couple of sandbags I might still throw one.
(This column was written on December 24.)
thescene@stabroeknews.com
