Possessed

The other day I was explaining the Jekyll and Hyde syndrome to Alice in the supermarket carpark. I couldn’t quite remember the plot, but I explained that the book was about fight between good and evil, and the duality of human nature. I was using the literary reference to explain why a sweet, mild-mannered person like myself could turn into an abusive psychopath behind the wheel of a car. I was hoping to get out of putting 37 euros in the swear box after an incident with an old lady in a deux chevaux. I probably don’t need to tell you that the swear box wasn’t my idea, it was a cynical invention of my children, who wind me up until I’m forced to swear, then take the money to buy South Park CDs. The Jekyll and Hyde story got me a dispensation ‘while the engine is running’

It also set me off thinking about the concept of being possessed by another persona.... a few days later, by an eerie coincidence, it happened to me.

It was the winter solstice. We were sitting round the fireside in the Addams family mansion, and I was telling the children the Christmas Story, a family tradition going back through the mists of time. When I got to the end, they looked up at me with their little faces full of wonder.

“Why is Father Christmas a toadstool again, Mummy?”

“He was invented by the Sami people in Lappland, sweetie, after drinking reindeer pee laced with hallucinogenic substances from fly agaric toadstools that the reindeer had eaten. They saw reindeer flying across the fly and a mystical figure dressed in red and white, the same colour as the toadstools. He became Santa Claus, and when you think about it, he’s the human embodiment of a fly agaric.”

“Oh yes, of course.…. and do the reindeer see flying humans when they eat the mushrooms?”

As a parent I am meant to be omniscient, and I do my best. But there are times when I have to admit defeat. Is there a God? Where do babies come from? What is a quadratic equation? What do reindeer see when they hallucinate?

I went into the kitchen to try and work this one out. I was just getting ready to put on my holly crown and perform a Saturnalia ritual welcoming the rebirth of the year, when I stopped still, a glass of frozen reindeer pee half way to my lips.

A voice which seemed to be coming from slightly outside my body said, “I think I’ll start the gravy.” And that’s when I realised that I had been possessed by the spirit of Martha Stewart. 

(For those of you still living in the darkness, Martha is a high ranking domestic goddess and homemaking guru, the author of timeless classics like the the Martha Stewart Living Omnipedia and the Hors D’ouvres Handbook - the Creation and Presentation of Fabulous Finger Food. )

There was a stunned silence round the room.

“But, mum, it’s four days till Christmas,…...and you don’t make gravy.”

I hardly even heard Daisy speak, I was too busy slicing onions to put in the quail stock.

Daisy was worried. She started shaking a daquiri.

“Oh no, don’t we have any eggnog?”

By this time I had the magimix out and was making crumbs for the bread sauce, “It’s so much better to start early, I’ll freeze this and microwave it on the day.”

“Oh my God! Who are you and what have you done with my mother?” she gasped, forcing the medicinal daquiri to my lips.

But it was too late, I was on a roll. My family were coming over from London on Christmas Eve, and by the time they arrived the house had been totally re-styled. There were scented candles on the mantle piece, and scented pine cones on the tree: I had stencilled holly leaves onto the driveway with fake snow. I found myself stressing out about the napkins clashing with the side plates, and asking the children things like, 

“Do these place mats match the walls in the dining room?“

”We don’t have a dining room, mum.”

Perhaps the fact that this was going to be the first time I’d ever cooked Christmas dinner for my family might explain my bizzarre behaviour. 

To quote my guru, ‘What happens when the family is waiting at table for a delicious meal, and you find that your gravy falls short of expectations?’

If you're Martha Stewart, you probably have a minor breakdown, then write a book called Perfect Gravy, make another few million and cheer up. I don’t know where the pressure was coming from - if my mother has ever made gravy, it must have been before I was born. Although my parents like good food, but they wouldn’t really have minded if I’d served chicken nuggets and oven chips, as long as I had ketchup and a nice bottle of Sancerre to go with it.….

This went for a week, but I suppose I knew deep down that I could never compete with a woman who has 175 different recipes for cupcakes. 

Just as I was about to change the title of my book from Surf Mama to ‘52 ways with Vol-au-vents’, my family left, and the wind changed. It didn’t just change, it went offshore.….

So I went for a surf, and stopped at the frozen food store for some TV dinners on the way home. I’m in France, so this is not frozen food as you know it. You can buy Guinea Fowl stuffed with truffles, whole foie gras, salmon en croute, and champagne sorbet. I’m not saying I did, but I could have.

I got home, had a couple of beers and put the spring rolls in the oven. Then I went upstairs to check out Rock Band, the computer game Santa had stuffed down the chimney for Nat. I got a bit carried away playing the virtual drums on Eye of the Tiger, and the TV dinners came out of the oven a little crunchy and charred round the edges.

“You can come downstairs now, Nat. That other woman’s gone and Mum’s back,” Alice shouted up the stairs.

“Yes, Martha Stewart has left the building.…. shall we microwave some popcorn for supper?”