Don't count your turkeys before they're cooked

Christmas Eve is always a busy day for me. It involves making giblet stock, preparing the vegetables for tomorrow’s lunch, keeping the children occupied yet not over-excited, wrapping last minute presents, welcoming the visitors, feeding the flock several times over, making the stuffing, going to the crib service with the children, lighting the candles on the tree (a nod to our many Christmases spent in Germany) and then slipping off to midnight mass once everything is finished and the rest of the house is sleeping soundly.

This year I was feeling rather smug. Instead of a day in the kitchen armed with the peeler I had passed on detailed instructions to the Dream Team, namely Annie and her recently arrived younger sister, Veronica, aka Clarabel, as all readers of Thomas the Tank Engine will appreciate she just has to be called. We in the meantime spent a lovely day on a junk far out in the New Territories with Grandma and Grandpa feeling nostalgic and several friends feeling chilly.

We got home and got the tired children to bed, whereupon, by force of habit I thought I’d take a look at my prize organic imported turkey which had made the Pioneering Accountant wince when he paid for it yesterday afternoon. I should just add, at this point, that I am in a considerable minority for rolling up my sleeves and cooking Christmas lunch in Hong Kong. It is a public holiday and therefore, not unreasonably, helpers get the day off. With no-one to cook for them, many families opt for the carry-out Christmas dinner option and order the full Monty, turkey, trimmings and all, ready cooked and delivered by a caterer or one of the larger hotels. Others compromise by ordering the turkey cooked and reheating it and others go out to a hotel or restaurant for Christmas dinner. Many others just go home to mum, back in England.

The smell of giblet stock is one I associate with Christmas Eve and when I didn’t see either a pan or jug of it anywhere in the kitchen I asked Annie where she’d put it. “I threw it away, Ma’am.” She answered. “Oh,” I said, tight lipped, “What a shame.” Bugger, I thought, no gravy. Never mind, we’ve got stock cubes, and Bisto….

When I took the turkey out of the fridge in readiness for tomorrow’s roasting (I am a true disciple of Delia Smith) I couldn’t help feeling it didn’t look quite right. On closer examination I realised I was looking at a cooked turkey and I began to whether I had indeed ordered it raw and not subconsciously decided it would in fact be easier to order one ready roasted.

“What do you think, Veronica?” asked Grandma. “Don’t you think this looks cooked?”
“Yes Ma’am,” she said, “Annie boiled it, with the giblets, for two hours.” Then she giggled.

There are some situations when it is better to say nothing. I could have wept. I could have screamed. For Christmas lunch in Hong Kong we’ll be having cold, boiled turkey.

Happy Christmas to you all!

P.S. At 8.40pm we realised the shops would be open until 9 and seeing my dismay Grandma has rushed out with the Domestic God to save the day and buy us another bird. All will be well but there’s going to be an awful lot of turkey curry in this house!