It was Christmas morning in the small village of Cawston and the sun was shining on the glittery trees and hedges from last nights snow and ice.  There was also a little ray of sunshine on the dying geraniums standing on the kitchen windowsill in Molly’s home.  She was expecting her son and his unparalleled family for Christmas dinner.  Discovering that she had run out of potatoes she now appeared to be under a deep neurotic strain.  Sitting there alone nibbling at a pale pink wafer and drinking large quantities of Earl Grey tea, considered by many to be the best English remedy in a moment of crisis, Molly put down her fag and started to think of a solution.  Blowing her nose on an oblong  piece of loo paper she realised that a woman’s life on Christmas Day was not easy as so much more tends to fall on the her shoulders in terms of organisation and cooking.     

Molly’s family avoided her for most of the year except on occasions such as Christmas, christenings, weddings and funerals.  The most popular were christenings and funerals as they were by far the shortest.  But today, being Christmas Day, they all had to make the most of it.  Planning this nightmare started early in November and like the majority of English families Molly would never dream of spending her Christmas anywhere but in the midst of her family, considered by the neighbours as a nest of vipers.  Last year Christmas ended in tears over her over-boiled winter cabbage floating in lukewarm, salt water which took them almost six months to get over.

Gazing at the bird that had been hanging by its feet for a few days to tenderise and now ready for the oven, Molly searched the cupboards for a culinary inspiration to replace the potatoes.  Italian pasta seemed suitable but might remind her son of the bad hotel he once stayed at in Italy.  She had plenty of rice but did not want to hear any remarks from her self-confident and fearless daughter-in-law about the art of using Chinese chop sticks.  Although foreign travel in recent years had considerably improved British eating habits, Molly just had to cook the British way at Christmas.  Remembering her mother’s addiction to Norfolk dumplings, eaten by hungry peasants and farm workers in times when money was scarce, she now had the solution.  Well, if they don’t like them, they can give them to the dog, Molly thought to herself.

Starchy belly-filling and protein-stretching ‘fillers’ called dumplings, like many other medieval recipes, have been passed on for generations by thoughtful or some less thoughtful housewives.  Good plain cooking, plainly presented, is central to the tradition of Norfolk cooking.  They are simple, wholesome and satisfying food made from the products of the rich harvests in and around Cawston and have a long tradition in the county.

Demonstrating the true Britishness of a typical Cawstonian, Molly knew that it was easy to make the basic dumpling; a mixture of flour and water, or a mixture of flour and shredded suet mixed with water for a richer dumpling.   In an attempt to satisfy her unsatisfying family at Christmas she wanted to be a purist and made her dumplings with bread flour, yeast, lukewarm water, milk and a pinch of salt.  She remembered how she once made flavoured dumplings for her family which with a little mustard disappeared fast on a cold day.

To prepare a successful Christmas dinner for a hypercritical family she had to be endlessly resourceful and innovative.  She therefore added to the dough parsley rich in Vitamin C, thyme with its strong aromatic flavour as well as chives and a few other herbs that were originally used hundreds of years ago to disguise doubtful flavours in cooking.  Just what my daughter-in-law does everyday, Molly said knowingly to herself. 

Looking at the steam rising from her gorgeously moist Christmas pudding with a subtle hint of lemon, spices and brandy, she suddenly had an idea that she thought might go down well with her unthankful family.  Why don’t  I put a pound coin in one of the tennis-ball size dumplings, just like we put a coin in our Christmas puddings, she asked herself.  Irrespective of any modern beliefs in potential choking hazards, Molly added the coin to the ingredients.  She hoped that according to the tradition of the Christmas pudding whoever found the coin in their dumpling that day would also enjoy wealth and happiness, a seldom feature in her family.    

To disarm her potentially critical visitors she had decorated her front door impressively and the front room was ready in terms of a cosy Dickensian domesticity.  But her good intentions failed as her daughter-in-law complained about the door knockers not shining and noticed the milkman’s finger print on the doorbell.       

With twinkling twigs and red candles forming the centrepiece on the table, they sat down for their Christmas dinner.  She started to bring in the food not forgetting an extra large portion of cranberries for her daughter-in-law to help her urinary infection.  Her daughter-in-law was a charmless, wild extremist and absurdly prudish woman who insisted upon asserting her individualist and independent rights.  Last year when she was drinking potato wine, she brought up the subject of finding an old people’s home for Molly much sooner than anyone else had predicted.  It was Christmas Day again and Molly preferred not to hear the horror stories about the family of her first husband’s Estonian wife or details about her itching chilblains and bleeding haemoroids. 

Her children, dressed in baggy sweaters and novelty Teletubby slippers, were no different as she had brought them up to become humourless and rather comic characters who scoffed constantly at custard cream biscuits and always grabbed at second helpings.  These oversized boys were constantly overfed with fats and carbohydrates that had unmistakably led to their double chins and boxer noses.  Under the influence of their interest in the Feminist Housewives Mormons Society they constantly talked about the black hole, outer darkness and doomsday.  Molly will never forget how they once raised their index finger telling her to rearrange the linen hanging on the outdoor line in a symmetrical fashion to look more graceful before the end of the world comes.

Her son was an unmistakeable figure, dressed in an old fashion, ill-fitting brown jumper.  He was interested in pigeon-fancying, ball games, tiddlywinks and exhuming his allotment next to Cawston cemetery.  He considered fish and chips as the quintessential English food and always pretended to love his wife’s awful creation of chop suey served with mushy peas and soggy chips.  Since a child he suffered from a bowel disorder and had been brought up to take a keen interest in the irregularities and wretchedness of his constipation by consuming little liver pills and caster oil.  He refused to use bowel stimulants such as glycerin suppositories for fear of staining his Y fronts.  Molly never forgave her son for paying the one thousand pound bill for private surgery on his wife’s backside so it would fit into her thermal underwear again. 

Loaded with food the dinner table was ready for everyone, even for the gloomiest pessimist.  Nervously she explained to them what had happened and the entire family laughed out loud when they saw the dumplings which they were expected to eat with the roast chicken, battered organic sausages, a variety of vegetables, rich nutty stuffing, Yorkshire pudding and hot gravy.  After tasting the dumplings and finding the hidden pound coin even the daughter-in-law unexpectedly praised Molly for her innovative and tasty cooking for the first time in years.   With no signs of animosity in the air this was the talk of the day.  Sipping tea served from an old cracked teapot bought at a car boot sale, they nearly forgot to listen to the traditional Christmas message from the sovereign considered by many to be the ideal personification of Britain in the early years of the 21^st century.