Nine days old.

Pease pudding hot, Pease pudding cold,
Pease pudding in the pot, nine days old.
Some like it hot, some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot, nine days old.

Pease pudding, and please, none of your pease or peas porridge; pease pudding for me please.
I like it hot or cold or even nine days old.

Pease pudding holds a special place in my notion of Christmas; my maternal grandmother would always make pots of pease pudding at Christmas, and it was eaten on Boxing Day and after with cold cuts of turkey, ham or gammon. I like a nice piece of ham but I’ve always thought that gammon doesn’t get the praise it deserves, for gammon, nicely cooked and served with bubble and squeak, pickles, cheese and the afore mentioned pease pudding is a dish fit for royalty and sitting at grandmother’s table on Boxing Day we certainly ate like kings.

I was going to write something here about everything being in perspective and context or some such guff but no, we ate like and felt like kings and as we sat there, the table laid with tasty delights, grandad would raise his glass and make his customary toast, “May these be the worst of our times.”

I grew up, I think; I got older at any rate and that magical family Christmas faded but I still like to make pease pudding, just the smell of it in the kitchen says “Christmas” to me and when sat at the dining table or out for some special meal, I like to perpetuate Grandad’s toast,
“May these be the worst of our times.”