There really was no need to worry whether this Christmas would be a white one or not. At least for the inhabitants of the Grand Duchy and their guests. It was the whole of Europe actually that got covered in a white mantle and experienced sub-zero temperatures of the coldest order. Chaos ensued as the trans-continental flight system was submerged in a flurry of delays and cancellations and some airports succumbed to Jack Frost by closing their doors completely.
Baggages and luggages got lost, misplaced and/or temporarily misdirected and more often than not holiday plans had to be redrafted. There is nothing worse than finally making it to your winter holiday destination and discovering that your luggage has not managed to stay the whole ride with you. Actually there is. It’s when you finally make it to your holiday destination sans valises and discover that the weather outside averages minus nine and there are seven inches of snow on every pavement.
It ain’t no laughing matter when you are obliged to navigate through the white, cold stuff wearing nothing more than what you chose to don before you left sunny Malta.
Sunny?
Ah yes. Sunny Malta. Ha bloody ha. Very funny. Watching SKY news on the eve of Christmas I was not particularly amused by the weather report. A panoply of snow-related incidents were reported from Amsterdam to Zagreb and from Oporto to John O’Groats. All forms of transport were as frozen as the Christmas turkey at that point and there seemed no way out of this new Ice Age. Cut to the final, sweet little shot at the very end of the met report. That was when the cameras pictured some lovely hot babes sunbathing on the sandy beaches of what I assumed to be a very Mediterranean looking part of the Australian coastline.
My assumption was as far off the mark as the news was gobsmackingly surprising. The beaches were not on some vowel-and-dipthong constipated part of the Ozzie landscape but rather they were part of the historic island melting pot in the middle of the Med. The Sicilians interviewed for the news item had the bloody cheek to complain about the heat and the atipicality of it all. It all reminded me of the the famous Daily Telegraph headline “Great Storm in Channel. Continent Isolated”.
If you ask me I will personally hang, draw and quarter the next relative/acquaintance on the island who even ever so much as hints at complaining about the surprisingly clement weather being enjoyed south of Rome at this time of the year. What, may I ask, can people find wrong with the idea of singing “White Chrismas” while clad in t-shirt and bermudas? Anyone who does has obviously not experienced the schizophrenic vicissitudes to which we are exposed in these lands closer to the polar circles.
Chaud-Froid
It starts with the morning peek out of the bedroom window – white means atrociously cold, grey means insufferably cold, blue skies with sun means you must stop taking those drugs before you go to bed. Which means that you will slip into those six or seven odd layers of clothing that were normally designed to put a man within walking distance of the arctic circle but are equally useful and relevant on your trip to the local newsagent. Dutifully wrapped and clothed you can then safely go about your daily chores without that niggling worry that your most precious of extremities (or what Top Gear’s John May refers to as “wedding vegetables”) are not about to fall off.
Statistically speaking you are quite safe when donning this material on the text-book smash and grab shopping experience – in, out and straight back to the comfort of the centrally heated and double-glazed heaven of your apartment. The Michelin-Man undertaking is not so experientially instructive and satisfying when it comes to the longer trips away from the safe haven of the family domus. These involve longer walks in the streets infested by such demons as “Wedding Vegetable Shrinking Cold”, “Life Threatening Mini Ice Rinks Situated Mid-Pavement” and “Full Frontal Exposure to Winds Last Experienced by Roald Amundsen on his trip to the South Pole’. And that is only half the story.
Most times you have to walk in and out of a myriad shops while on that quest for that last Christmas present that is as easily sighted as a combination of the Abominable Yeti, the Lochness Monster and the Intelligent Voter rolled into one. Upon entering the shops you tend to discover that their assessment for heating necessities is based on the combined eventuality that (A) “hell will one day freeze over” and (B) “hell is now and the freezing has already happened”. In a very human attempt to defy the odds and the will of interested deities, the shopowners of this brave corner of human existence have taken it upon themselves to transform their shops into the equivalent of a Turkish Hammam.
Which only means that you enter a shop looking like the arctic moonwalker and then proceed to remove the excessive layers at every step. It’s tiring, it’s hot and it’s only a few minutes away before you venture back out into the cold having exhausted the mercantilistic opportunities this side of the warm safety of the shop entrance. In short (or maybe not so in short) I guess you have deduced by now that idyllic as a white christmas may sound there are quite a few drawbacks – and I have not even mentioned the obstacles thrown at my car by nature and her colder elements.
Food
I am fully aware that by know you would be expecting the end of the personal side of the introduction and the beginning of the dive into the nitty-gritty world of political observation, cynical criticism and tongue-in-cheek humour that normally constitutes the bulk of the weekly fare on this column. What has happened, you see, is that the general parent collective has landed in Luxembourg (delays notwithstanding) and once their suitcases caught up with them I have spent most of the time touring what little of Luxembourg we have been able to reach (without risking a night on the highway) in the conditions described above.
I sit here on Christmas night tapping away under the influence (of a particularly exquisite Grappa di Brunello di Montalcino) in the hope that the muses of columnists past and present inspire sufficient thoughts to fill this dominical contribution that falls bang in the wait for the night of Saint Sylvester that ends this our year of 2009. The thoughts in my head are swimming among culinary recollections of pintade with prunes and armagnac, the obligatory christmas turkey and a lovely concoction prepared by yours truly. It’s a soup based around that lovely delicacy known as Saint Jacques medallions that is full of surprises like autumn cider, chestnuts, chorizo and cream. It may sound weird but trust me… topped up with a special huile de ciboulette (chives blended in peanut oil) it has become the absolute winner from this year’s christmas buffet.
Yes. I was proud of my soup and it did go down well with the guests. At this point in time I deem it to be a much more interesting point of discussion than a mad person attacking Pope Benedict XVI or any other news item that forced its way on the screens this holiday. It’s been food, drink and more food this holiday (until now) so do not blame me if the only inspiration you get from this week’s missive involves giving more work to your digestive system.
Shopping
The talk of a festive season that falls bang in the middle of a world recovering from recession was inevitably the spending. It may have been the wont of anything else to speak about but we did hear the usual differing points of views. Shopowners and amateur representatives would bring out the old yarn that there is less spending by the people this Christmas (as they have been claiming for several christmases now). You did not have to wait for Saint Sylvester’s feast day for most of them to be given the lie.
Take the UK for example. The Brits have been among the worst hit by the recession. Spending power is down in the dumps, unemployment is high and the recession shows no sign of waning for now. Yet they were out in droves and they even managed to break a few records in the last minute shopping on Christmas eve. We must also not forget that more and more people are opting to shop from home via the internet. It does turn out to be cheaper (and warmer) to make those choices at the click of a button.
The church (the Catholic one) too brought out the usual spin of its own with the yawn-inducing attack on the anathema that is materialism in Christmas. Funny that how an institution that is almost 2000 years old has only just now come around to the irony of the fact that its hijacking of the primordial festivals of the Winter Solstice and saturnalias might just about explode in its own face. Historically – and we are speaking of a broader swipe of history than the one in which the Catholic Church established itself as a heavyweight on the world scene – man has been prone to “celebrate” the shortest day of the year.
From Stonehenge to Ggantija early man has attributed particular significance to this period and festivals and rituals have been performed ever since a few stones could be thrown in a circle. It’s a long enough period to believe that it’s in our system – bears hiberate and human beings instinctively celebrate the winter solstice. Which does not mean that the Church does not have a point whenever it acts as a social conscience and warns against the dangers of extremes. At the end of the day, as always, a good sense of balance is just about right.
Ending
As this happens to be the last article for the year I am proud to announce this year’s winner of the J’accuse Personality of the Year. I was asked what would be the exact criteria for the choice of the aforementioned personality. The careful Fausto tried his hand at identifying the criteria and came up with the following description. Someone who: (a) hogs the media limelight, (b) makes a right royal fool of oneself, (c) is a right royal nuisance, (d) acts like a good goody two shoes … even when the country would rather go barefoot.
I must say that Fausto was not far off the mark. I’d say it is all that and more. In essence it is a personality who has contributed on a regular and incessant manner to providing fodder for columnists like myself to comment upon. This year J’accuse even hosted a poll on the issue and at the moment of going to press Franco Debono was the readers’ favourite. J’accuse does not however work on democratic principles and the poll was an indicative but not final answer to the question.
In the end both Bertu and myself had to agree that the prize had to go to GonziPN – the hybrid animal that is half-party, half-superhero that has been created by the Dr Frankensteins at the nationalist party PR and Spin house. The “monster” is distinguishable from Lawrence Gonzi the man and politician who stepped into the shoes of The Man Formerly Known As Eddie what seems like ages ago. GonziPN has a life of its own and quite honestly now seems to be beyond the control and power of even the party that created and spun the idea in the first place.
While waiting for Sylvester
This has been the year that has been. I don’t have much to add at this point except to raise a metaphorical glass to everybody wishing them a special 2010. It’s been a year well spent in your company full of good moments and exciting subjects. Take it easy on the booze and remember that all the food ingested will mean a hike on guilt-gym subscriptions come February.
Get out and celebrate the past year for auld lang syne (whatever that may mean)… last one out switch off the light. You think it’s all over… it is now.
Jacques is having a gourmand special for the end of this year. Lights are currently dim at www.jacquesrenezammit.com/jaccuse. See you in 2010.
This article and accompanying Bertoon appeared in The Malta Independent on Sunday, 2
