243. The Christmas pudding (2/2)

I ceremoniously started pouring the butter brandy over the pudding, aware of the filming going on and thinking in all modesty that I was setting a family tradition for generations to come. 

Even if it did occur to me that the pudding was steaming hot and the buttery alcoholic mix was fridge cold yet enthusiasm got the better of me and I proceeded anyway. The result was that the butter instantly melted and glided down the slides of the pudding to gather all around at the bottom. 

‘Oh no! That’s not so good for my Instagram story.’ Someone moaned.

‘No holly twig?’ Someone else commented but I ignored them.

‘Hang on!’ I said. 

I emptied the contents of the pan onto the pudding and ignored everybody’s comments. I drew a twirl at the base of the pudding and it now looked like some tropical volcanic island in a sea of buttery yellow. That seemed to please the crowds. 

‘Come on! Strike a match!’

Someone stroke a match and brought it near the cake. Someone shouted.

‘Dad! Turn the lights off! Quick’

It was true that the delicate faint blue flame would look better if the lights were off. My husband could not see the urgency of the situation and there was a rattling of chairs. As the lights finally got to be turned off we could definitely see a pale thin blue light hovering over the cake. Then it vanished.

Not quite the one-in-a-year Christmas thing.

I rushed back to the kitchen, grabbed the first clean pan I could lay my hands on (a small but deep frying pan), seized the bottle of rhum, poured the liquid into the pan which I placed on the stove for a few seconds. Then I rushed back to the table.

‘Ok. Camera?’

‘Check.’

‘Match?’

‘Check.’

‘On tourne!’

I poured the hot alcohol onto the pudding and whoosh! Blue flames rose up and shone in the now dimmed dining room. Screams of delight (kids and me) and screams of worry (my husband and granny) mixed in the now perfectly Christmasy ambiance. Baby was taking her role seriously and saying:

‘Pour it all! Pour it all!’ 

So I poured the contents of the pan onto the pudding, now a shimmering mound of dancing blue flames perfectly matching the yellow of the brandy butter sauce. The Christmas tree lights were flickering in the background, the glasses twinkling. 

‘Merry Christmas!’

Suddenly the magic was brought to a halt by Miss Muddy-Boots:

‘The table cloth! The table cloth!’ 

Everyone laughed (I got a fleeting bad-mum feeling) and Miss Boots furiously put out the runaway flames with her napkin. Everyone gave a round of applause to the chef (me) and my husband could not decide whether his wife was a crazy pyromaniac or a brilliant chef who could make the English pudding the star at a French Christmas dinner table.