Tearing off the glad rags, tucking into love

By Ivan Morgan

When I mention a traditional old time Newfoundland Christmas dinner most readers think of Nan and Pop and all the trimmings. Mine couldn’t have been farther from that. Allow me to recount my surreal Newfoundland Christmas dinner memories.

I have been thinking a lot about my grandparents lately – my mom’s parents. I think that’s because they were my age I am now when I was little. They were in no way typical grandparents.

My grandfather, a successful Water Street merchant (dry goods not fish, I was raised to remind people) was Lieutenant Governor when I was born. He was very distant, and formal. He had no idea what to do with a grandson, which was fine because I had no idea what to do with him. My grandmother was very grand, and very imperious. She was also, I was later to learn, a decoration, which led to a deep unhappiness. All that some other time.

All I knew when I was little was how they went out of their way to pour cold water on Christmas Day. Maybe not on purpose, but nonetheless…

When I was little, like many boys and girls, Christmas was a magic time. Christmas holidays (no school!) Santa, family and friends. There was, however, one big, black hairy housefly wiggling in the ointment. We had to have Christmas dinner at my grandparents’ house.

That meant a white buttoned up starched collar shirt, a tie, long itchy grey flannel pants, a blazer, and black leather lace up Oxfords. That meant sitting still in a large drawing room full of people who, even at my early age I could gather didn’t like each other very much. My grandmother’s maxim, “Children should be seen but not heard,” was in full effect.

My grandparents had many servants, all of whom had to come in Christmas day to prepare and serve us our Christmas dinner. The cook would have to be in by six a.m. to start the turkey and the ham. I loved those people and hated that they had to work on Christmas. My Mom would pitch in and help, which made my grandmother angry. I remember the cook’s entire family crammed into a tiny room in the servant’s quarters waiting patiently while she cooked up our meal. Not for them – for us.

After what seemed a lifetime, we would be ushered into the formal dining room where portraits of old men – dead ancestors – stared down at us. When we were all uncomfortably seated my grandmother would ring a little silver bell by her placemat, and all the servants, in uniform, would file in from the pantry with the first course: beef consummé. What was ever the point of beef consummé? Then they’d file out leaving us to the clinking of spoons on china and small talk.

Another tinkle of the bell, servants filed in again with the main course. I remember everyone, servants and us, watching my grandfather carve one slice from the turkey. Everyone applauded, then he sat down and the servants would carve the rest and serve us as we sat there. They were sweet and nice to me, and it was intensely embarrassing.

Another tinkle and then dessert, the servants all filing back to stand against the wall as my grandfather poured expensive cognac on a plum pudding and set it alight. Frankly, we all loved that. Setting a plum pudding on fire was a tradition I kept for my family.

But to this day the sweetest memory I have was the happy drive home. We got through it! We were done! My parents, especially my Father, were relaxed and happy. There was laughter. Christmas was back! We would race into the house peeling off our glad rags, everyone off to their happy place, my parents with books, us with our toys. My mom would pile treats on the kitchen table for the taking and be done with us. We were in Dowhatyawantsville. Christmas was revived!

That was a very long time ago. After my grandfather died we stopped that tradition.

(Side note: my grandfather was a good guy and by way of apology – and behind my grandmother’s back – made sure the families, who had to surrender their wives and moms for our Christmas dinner, always left lugging large heavy hampers groaning with food and clinking with bottles of black rum.)

That was then and this is now. I am now the age my grandparents were when all that happened. What are we doing this Christmas day? Taking the dogs up in the hills, lighting a big fire and having a boil up.
My grandmother would be horrified.

Ivan Morgan can be reached at ivan.morgan@gmail.com