Luke Honey

I’ve often thought it slightly odd that the Feast of St Valentine (that day of Love and Romance) commemorates a Roman martyr who was tortured and put to death in the most horrible fashion.  Having said that, for us simple creatures of the male persuasion, Valentine’s Day can be sheer torture if you get it wrong- and, Jiminy Cricket, can you get it seriously wrong. If you’re out to impress tonight, I would advise you to avoid restaurants at all costs.  You’ll discover dewy-eyed couples holding hands, while swarthy Lotharios flog over-priced roses, serenaded by squeaky violins.  It’s like appearing as out-of-work extras in an old episode of The Love Boat. Instead, how about cooking up a romantic dinner for two over at your place?

I’ve just bought my Burns Night Haggis, and it’s currently winking up at me cheekily from the kitchen table.  For those of you who claim not to like it, I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  Okay, it might sound—how can I put this—slightly gothic, but in reality it tastes a bit like a spicy meatloaf.  Mind you, all that stuff about “trenching your gushing entrails bricht” doesn’t exactly help the cause.

I’m fascinated by the history and mythology of Christmas. Up until the 1890’s, most English families if they were lucky, ate goose; turkey was a luxury only enjoyed by the few. The Anglo-American Christmas, as we know and love it today, is really a Victorian invention: influenced by the sentiment of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, Prince Albert’s cosy family celebrations at Windsor; and in the last century, the schmaltz of Hollywood movies such as Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. One of the most appealing things about the traditional British Christmas is an old-fashioned York Ham- dry cured with salt, saltpetre, juniper berries and pepper, and then matured for about six weeks.  I have to admit to preferring it to the ubiquitous turkey.

Not so long ago, in a futile attempt to foster the Special Relationship, I once offered to cook a Thanksgiving Dinner for my then girlfriend’s family in Los Angeles. The Americans tend not to eat turkey on Christmas Day itself, as they’ve already had the whole shooting match at Thanksgiving.  As well as roasted turkey, the dinner can include cranberry sauce, candied yams, corn-on-the cob, peas, carrots, and pumpkin pie.

I love Bonfire Night, with its promise of bangers in the sky, and on the plate.  There’s just something about that evocative smell of cordite; the taste of charred sausages and hot jacket potatoes cooked in the embers of a dying fire, and the general anarchic bonhomie that the Fifth of November encourages, year in, year out. My American friends are bewildered by our November fire festival. I admit that from their perspective on the other side of The Pond, it could look (dare I say it) a trifle pagan.  Especially with all those rum goings-on down in Lewes, with its cliquey Bonfire Societies, Wicker-Man type effigies, and night time parades through the narrow streets.