The true Spirit of Christmas…
The talk last week in the Bridge Club was all of making cakes, making puddings, making mince pies…I related the tale of my culinary misadventures. North was apparently a master of the kitchen table as well as of the Bridge table, where she certainly takes no prisoners. If you can read you can cook, she said. All you need to do is follow a recipe. I’ve never found it that simple, I say.
This week said Bridge Master approached me before the Turkey Competition began. See me after the game, she said. Make sure you speak to me before you go. Am I in trouble, I laughed. Just make sure to see me before you leave, she iterated.
After being blitzed due to the fact that I and my partner were listed to play with the bloody A players, masters, grand masters and what have you, we knew there was no chance of a turkey. Or even the giblets. Or the bottle of wine, or the box of chocolates. There was only one thing for it. Hit the pub on the way home and de-stress/de-adrenalize/drown our sorrows. Before we left, I threaded my way between the tables and waited until the Grand Master addressed me. I have something for you, she said and with that, handed me -a Christmas cake.
Thank you so much, I said as I hugged and kissed this person I only know from coming up against her in the Bridge Club and coming off worst at every encounter. What kindness. It’s not iced, you’ll have to do that yourself, she said. The cake was large, square and heavy; a real, proper Christmas cake. I thanked her again, and told her that I forgave her for annihilating me at the Bridge. J
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