...and the fact that she came to eat it up.
No movement at the station. In fact, Zoe and her station of a stomach (plus Owey and Sage) came over for a slap-up dinner of chicken and Christmas pudding, enjoying the chance to chill with only one tired little tucker:
And o mi gawd, what a pudding.
My sister-outlaw, Naomi, made it and saved it for us. We picked it up on the way back from holiday as we swept through the Blue Mountains, and decided that it had to be eaten in the company of People Who Know Their Food. Which meant the collective company of Zowen, and I was ever so pleased that Zoe was still able to come and enjoy such a rare delicacy.
The photo above was actually taken after Owen had drowned the pudding in warm brandy and set it alight, like this:
We lit it three times, it was so much fun. Sage was very impressed.
Then we got down to the serious matter of eating it, with some deluxe (bought) custard (come on, it's midsummer, who wants to be stirring custard?). The way we ate that pudding belied the fact that we'd just stormed through an enormous roast chook (stuffed with lemon halves and herbs, with crushed pinenuts, coriander and garlic slipped under the skin and basted in olive oil and lemon), lemony Greek roast potatoes and a green salad.
It was cut and come again, in the immortal words of Norman Lindsay, each of us scoffing at least two platefuls, if not three in some cases. Cor, we let loose.
And when it was all over, Zoe wasn't the only person waddling around the house. Solidarity, sister.
And THANK YOU to Naomi for providing such a luxurious experience, all the better for being three weeks after the day we were supposed to eat it. But who cares?
"Hurrah, we'll stick together,
And always bear in mind
To eat our puddin' gallantly,
Whenever we're inclined."