Finding this book, this influential but long-lost item of my childhood, was no easy task. While I could remember whole poems and, especially, the cutely disturbing illustrations, the only part of the title I could recall was “Christmas Book”. Which is all but impossible to identify through googling. The search went on for a good few years, sparked up again each Christmas when I remembered its existence and tried, fruitlessly, again.
This year I cracked it – an imageless mention of “Sugar Plum Christmas Book” on Abe Books sparked off a lightbulb moment and when I found a picture of the cover it was a glorious moment. I couldn’t have told you what the cover looked like, and now I’m amazed I ever forgot. Something called “Sugar Plum” would, these days, be pink and fluffy and saccharine, and so the Eastern European peasant vibe, along with all the goblins, beasties and strange little elves inside, is quite striking. The stories and the rest of the contents is charming and nicely written by Jean Chapman, but it’s Deborah Niland’s illustrations which turn it into a special book for me.
The Sugar Plum Christmas Book, 1978
Im not sure where my original book came from. I remember my childhood reading consisted of rather a lot of sold off library books and charity shop finds. I had one of those personalised books where they fill in your name, town and family in the story, except it was second hand, and so it was someone else’s life inside the book. Which I didn’t think was odd at all at the time and I used to read it quite a lot, thinking about this other kid’s life and friends. I also had “St Michael” books from Marks and Spencer, and books bought from the intermittent book stall at school. My new Christmas Book is an ex-library book which apparently sat on a shelf for the whole of the 1990s (something I always find slightly sad).
I read and re-read it, whether it was seasonally appropriate or not. One of the joys of finding it again was that it felt like listening to an album you haven’t heard in 20 years, but you still know all the words to. This poem has certainly been rattling around my head for nearly my whole life.
As has the picture of the naughty dwarves in The Red Cap story, especially the one eating a burger, and the two playing what appears to be a strange nose wrestling game.
It’s full of songs, stories, crafts and recipes. None of which I actually made, but I feel that now I want to, with my own kids. Especially this Nisse puppet.
And maybe I’ll finally work out the tune to the Nasty Little Beasties song too.
The story of the mysterious strangers and the horrible Slybones family, The Way of Wishes, is another one which made a big impression. The descriptions of the Christmas food, and, especially, the vivid picture of the Christmas pudding fight.
But it’s this picture which sums up my memory of the atmosphere created by this book. A tiny cottage, like one of those seen in fairy tales, probably in a forest somewhere, full of archaic hospitality and whimsical cheer.
It would all be over by Christmas, thought the lads signing up to fight in the Great War in the summer of 1914.
By the time Christmas came, the war was far from over, yet the unofficial Christmas truce between the German and British soldiers over the holiday period produced what must be one of the strangest Christmas experiences ever seen. Hostilities weren’t put on hold everywhere along the Western Front, but in some places on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day soldiers on both sides met each other in no man’s land, mainly in order to bury their dead soldiers who had been laying in the open since the battles of the previous week. Between the two sides there was talking, singing carols, and, famously, games of football.
A statue commemorating this moment appeared in Liverpool’s Bombed Out Church last week. It was on show for a week and now it’s moved, appropriately, to be displayed in Flanders in Belgium.
A letter from one of the soldiers who was there was published in The Dundee Courier in the new year of 1915. It vividly describes the horror, the mud, the social awkwardness of chatting with the enemy, the Christmas trees the German soldiers had erected in their trenches, and the laughter that lightened the most extreme of situations.
6th January 1915, Dundee Courier
6th January 1915, Dundee Courier
6th January 1915, Dundee Courier
6th January 1915, Dundee Courier
6th January 1915, Dundee Courier
“Burying Dead in No Man’s Land.”
Broken Bodies of Friend and Foe Are Reverently Laid in Shallow Graves.
British and German Soldiers Chat During Armistice.
Reuter has received the following letter from a subaltern at the front:-
“Christmas Day dawned on an appropriately sparkling landscape. A truce had been arranged for the few hours of daylight for the burial of the dead on both sides who had been out in the open since the fierce night fighting of a week earlier. When I got out, I found a large crowd of officers and men, British and German, grouped around the bodies, which had already been gathered together and laid out in rows. I went along those dreadful ranks and scanned the faces, fearing at every step to recognise one I knew. It was a ghastly sight. They lay stiffly in contorted attitudes, dirty with frozen mud and powdered with rime.
The digging parties were already busy on the two big common graves, but the ground was hard and the work slow and laborious. In the intervals of superintending it, we chatted with the Germans, most of whom were quite affable, if one could not exactly call them friendly, which, indeed, was neither to be expected nor desired. We exchanged confidences about the weather and the diametrically opposite news from East Prussia.
The way they maintained the truth of their marvellous victories was positively pathetic. They had no doubt of the issue in the east, and professed to regard the position in the west as a definite stalemate. It was most amusing to observe the bland innocence with which they put questions, a truthful answer to which might have had unexpected consequences in the future.
On charming lieutenant of artillery was most anxious to know just where my dug-out, “The Cormorants”, was situated. No doubt he wanted to shoot his card, tied to a “whistling Willie”. I waved my hand airily over the next company’s line, giving him the choice of various heaps in the rear. Time drew on, and it was obvious that the burying would not be half finished with the expiration of the armistice agreed upon, so we decided to renew it the following morning. At the set hour everyone returned to the trenches, and when the last man was in the lieutenant and I solemnly shook hands, saluted, and marched back ourselves.
They left us alone that night to enjoy a peaceful Christmas. I forgot to say that the previous night – Christmas Eve – their trenches were a blaze of Christmas trees, and our sentries were regaled for hours with the traditional Christmas songs of the Fatherland. Their officers even expressed annoyance the next day that some of these trees had been fired on, insisting they were part almost of a sacred rite.
On Boxing Day, at the agreed hour, on a prearranged signal being given, we turned out again. The output of officers of higher rank on their side was more marked, and the proceedings were more formal in consequence. But while the gruesome business of burying went forward there was still a certain interchange of pleasantries. The German soldiers seemed a good-tempered, amiable lot, mostly peasants from the look of them.
One remarkable exception, who wore the Iron Cross and addressed us in slow but faultless English, told us he was Professor of Early German and English Dialects at a Westphalian University. He had a wonderfully fine head. They distributed cigars and cigarettes freely among our digging party, who were much impressed by the cigars. I hope they were not disillusioned when they came to smoke them. Meanwhile the officers were amusing themselves by taking photographs of mixed groups.
The digging completed, the shallow graves were filled in, and the German officers remained to pay their tribute of respect while our chaplain read a short service. It was one of the most impressive things I have ever witnessed. Friend and foe stood side by side, bare-headed, watching the tall, grave figure of the padre outlined against the frosty landscape as he blessed the poor, broken bodies at his feet. Then with more salutes we turned and made our way back to our respective ruts.
Elsewhere along the line, I hear our fellows played the Germans at football on Christmas Day. Our own pet enemies remarked that they would like a game, but as the ground in our part is all root crops and much cut up by ditches and as, moreover, we had not got a football, we had to call it off.
That night the frost turned abruptly to rain. The trenches melted like butter on the fire, and all was slime and water instead of good, hard surface. A shuffle of company lines has now given me a captain as stable companion at “The Cormorants”, a gay young soul, with a penchant for building improvements. He constructed a top-hole fireplace inside with a real chimney and an up-to-date sloping fire-back, and utilised the last hour of the armistice to make the roof seaworthy with an ingenious arrangement of derelict waterproof sheets. We had a homely evening, and towards midnight were blissfully rejoicing in our dry spot amid the welter of mud.
Suddenly a horrible crackling like two or three clips of cartridges firing off made us jump. It was not a German infernal machine, as our first intuition told us, but merely a centre prop of the dug-out and the beam it supported had given way. The roof sagged threateningly three inches from our heads. A hasty retreat with a few valuables was beaten, and a digging party put on to clear off the earth to save a complete collapse. In the course of the next night the carpentry part was made as firm as a rock, but the waterproofing was a farce, and we never knew a dry moment till we were relieved. It was a lesson in trying to be too comfortable, but as usual, when things seem quite hopeless all we could do was to indulge in shrieks of laughter.
January 1, 1915.
A Happy New Year to you! We are awakened in the middle of the night by a frantic outburst of musketry. We instinctively thrust out a hand towards our boots and gazed apprehensively at the door, expecting every moment the arrival of a messenger to summon us instanter to the trenches to repel a furious attack. But nothing happened, and presently we relapsed into slumber. This morning we heard it was merely a mutual feu-de-joie to celebrate the New Year.”
It’s the time of year where every magazine and newspaper has its gift guides – for him, for her, for the kids, presents under £50, under £10, inexplicably expensive stocking presents, even stocking presents for adults (do grown ups really get stockings, still? If so, I want one.)
Ever wonder what kind of presents people would get in centuries past? I generally imagine a kind of Dickensian setting where the kids are getting an orange, some nuts, a hoop and stick and maybe some kind of improving book.
So I was interested to find this advert from what sounds to be a bookseller or general stationer, from the Norfolk Chroncicle in 1791, advertising potential gifts to include in “Christmas boxes”. It’s also fun to see that you can still get a lot of them now, if you wanted to recreate Christmas in 1791. Actually, I do kind of want to do that.
Norfolk Chronicle, 24th December 1791
There’s card games, such as Cent Dix, there’s a book that I really want to read called “A New Moral System of Geography“, the Bible and various history books, something else called “The Royal Engagement Atlas” and almanacs for the coming year of 1792. There’s also some ideas for the ladies – thread cases, “etwees” (or “etuis”, decorative needle cases) and purses. There’s dictionaries, ink stands and paints. “Reeve’s Cake” sounds a like a historic curiosity, but you can still buy this now – it’s Reeve’s watercolour paints.
Reeve’s were a market leader in these watercolours as they had successfully found a way to prevent the paint cakes from cracking in storage by adding honey to the mixture.
My favourite item is the “La Partie Quarree” (which means “foursome”) conversation cards for ladies. Conversation cards were cards with pictures and vague suggestions to be used to break the ice and start conversations. I love the idea of it, it’s like a parlour game without the actual game, like feeling you’re playing “Just a Minute” while having a chat.
I found some 18th century conversation cards, from this antique dealer also in Norfolk, appropriately enough. Small talk begone, let’s talk about some meatier subjects – death, crimes and punishments, the passing of time and the wheel of fortune.
Conversation cards, 18th centuryConversation cards, 18th century
Beautiful pictures in that 18th century satirical style. Not sure why the fop is what seems to be some kind of goat-man, but he looks a bit like an enlightenment-era hipster. The doctor has a huge wig, which I presume is a comment on his wealth. “Hymen or Marriage” – well, there’s a topic and a half.
The idea is still very much out there – this link will give you some ideas for the conversation round a family dinner table, but there’s loads of variations out there. And, strangely enough, as often happens when I find something for this blog, I happen to come across other relevant bits of information from completely unrelated sources. The Pool have just advertised some absolutely lovely conversation mugs, with exactly the same idea, except for a chat over a cup of tea. They’re from the brilliantly-named shop Dept. Store for the Mind
My first thought on conversation cards, though, was this, from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, which was possibly the first thing of theirs I ever saw. A rather unsuccessful conversation on philosophers (which is also very 18th century).
I used to work in a hippy-ish shop which sold all manner of things and Christmas time was a nightmare. Especially Christmas Eve, when the shop would suddenly have more male customers than we’d maybe had for the previous six months, grabbing anything that looked like a candle off the shelves, buying oil burners (this was the late 90s – they’re not so popular these days, are they?) and essential oils, and then asking as an afterthought, “What exactly is this?”
So, there obviously was always a bit of a market for Christmas shopping advice for men, and in 1933 “a London Store” catered to this by opening a “Husband’s Advisory Bureau” for the purpose, as seen below. That’s assuming they hadn’t adopted the “methodical system” recommended in the article, keeping a notebook updated all year with gift ideas for the whole family, “employing a special secretary for the purpose” if they’re rich, and then buying the cheapest thing in there when Christmas comes round. Of course they haven’t done this, no one ever has.
Aberdeen Press and Journal, 6th December 1933
Advice to Husbands
A London store has just opened a Husband’s Advisory Bureau to help in the buying of Christmas gifts. It should be a welcome institution. If there is one thing which more than another puzzles the average man, it is the selection of a suitable present for Christmas or a birthday, whether the recipient is a woman or a man. In the family, of course, it is easy if done in one way. The methodical system is to start a notebook on the first of January and write down under the names of various members of the household all the things they sigh for in the course of the year. Wealthy heads of families may employ a special secretary for the purpose; they are likely to require one. The in December, assuming that the list has not been tattered by much use in the interval, all that is necessary is to consult it. It may be that the desires of wife and daughters and sons has been so numerous that choice remains difficult, but this can easily be overcome by purchasing the least expensive item in each case, or, in a crisis, losing the list and falling back (as is customary) on the advice of the lady of the house. There might also be an Advisory Bureau for Wives with two stringent mottoes – “Husbands don’t want ties” and “Husbands don’t like your taste in cigars.”
Of course, there’s always Bill Murray’s system in Scrooged – divide your gift list into “towels” and “video recorders”, depending on how much you like/want to impress the recipient:
A proper Victorian Christmas Pudding recipe, from Hieroglyphic, a tiny little magazine-style pamphlet from 1884. It’s not so much a magazine though, as an extended promotional piece for a company called Goodall’s, and its various wares. Note their custard is sold by “…all grocers and oilmen throughout the United Kingdom.” Oilmen?
Materials –
One pound of raisins;
One pound of currants;
One pound of beef suet;
Half a pound of moist sugar;
Half a pound of flour;
One pound of breadcrumbs;
Four eggs;
One gill of rum, brandy or whisky;
Half a pint of milk;
Quarter of a pound of citron;
Quarter of a pound of candied lemon-peel.
Process –
Stone the raisins, wash the currants thoroughly, chop the beef suet as fine as possible, cut the peel into small strips, and place these ingredients, with the sugar, flour, breadcrumbs and eggs, in a large bowl, pour the milk over them, and mix until the whole is well incorporated. Lastly, add the spirit; stir the mass again for a few minutes, tie it up in well-floured pudding-cloth, plunge it into boiling water, and boil for four or five hours. This should be done the day before the pudding is wanted, on the following day, boil for two or three hours more. A rich plum-pudding of this kind cannot be boiled too long, the longer it is boiled, the more wholesome it is.
I’ve had a lot of fun since I started this blog. I’ve had the excuse to read more and also add to my old book collection. I’ve discovered the joys of the Ebay ephemera section and now have old letters, receipts from 1913, bits of Liverpool history, old pages from children’s books that I’ve framed for the baby’s room and strange old Happy Family cards. And the ephemera led me to discovering about Victorian stereoscopes and stereographic photographs, the collecting of which could very likely become a new hobby of mine. I’ve had two excellent guest blog posts (and I’m keen for more, if anyone’s got any interesting old stuff they want to write about out there).
But surely the greatest thing that’s happened so far is finding out about The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. Not that I found it, it’s more that it found me. A blog post about a celebrity cookbook from 1986, that crucially contained some Worzel Gummidge recipes, alerted the Pertosphere to my presence – here. The Pertosphere also being known as this forum dedicated to the study of this (definitely canon) book.
And so I obviously needed my own copy. When it comes to locating specific out of print books, I’ve never been more grateful for the existence of the internet. I mean, imagine, in those mid 1990s days before I had even sent an email, I was busy doing…..er, well, all those things I used to do before the internet. Playing the card game Pit, watching Steve Coogan’s Live ‘n’ Lewd video on repeat, going out and playing pool while drinking terrible and terribly cheap drinks, all that kind of thing. Just imagine trying to locate a copy of an old book from 1973 when you aren’t really sure what it’s called anyway, just by going to charity shops and hoping.
Because that’s one of the best things about The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. It’s not called The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. And it doesn’t mention Jon Pertwee once within its pages, either. What it does have is this picture on the back cover, of BBC TV’s Doctor Who:
And it’s actually called Baking your Cake and Eating it, a budget cookbook from the Co-op, with recipes sent in by members of the public.
The most striking recipe is this, Banana Doolittle. Which has been attempted, impressively, by a member of the aforementioned forum, with interesting results. And this isn’t even the only 1970s recipe I have that crosses the pork/banana nexus. It was a strange decade. I like to think it’s something even too outré for Heston Blumenthal.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
But there’s also such delights as the Pensioner’s Casserole (I think I can smell the cabbage all the way from 1973):
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
Mock Roast (basically meatloaf):
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
And Cheese Whispers, an impressive cocktail savoury made with instant mash. Well, it says it’s impressive. I haven’t made it.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
I’ve still got all the coupons in the middle too – I could have saved 2p if they hadn’t expired in 1974.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
I’ve made one of the rather more seasonal recipes. Last weekend it was Stir-Up Sunday, time to get the Christmas Pudding on the go. Here’s another, rather quicker, variation – Christmas Bunloaves by Mrs Margaret Edwards of Everton, Liverpool. Her family have been making it for at least 80 years, so that’s back to the 1890s, and it means it also fulfils my remit of making vintage recipes. I’d made a big pot of scouse for dinner, so surely this local delicacy will be perfect to follow.
Christmas Bunloaves (From Mrs Margaret Edwards, Everton, Liverpool who says the recipe has been handed down in her family for over eighty years)
-—-——————————————————————————————-
2 lb plain flour
1 lb soft brown sugar
1/2 lb white sugar
2 tsp baking powder
4 tsp mixed spice
2 tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 lb lard
1/2 lb margarine
1/2 lb raisins (stoned and chopped)
1/2 lb sultanas
1 lb currants
2 oz chopped glacé cherries
2 oz candied peel
1/2 pint milk (or slightly more)
5 eggs
1/2 tsp almond essence
Lemon juice
1. Mix dry ingredients together, rub in fat, add fruit and candied peel.
2. Beat up eggs in milk, add essence and a few drops lemon juice.
3. Mix all together until moist but not too stiff.
4. Line two large loaf tins, pour mixture in and cover well with greaseproof paper. To give a shiny top, pat a little milk gently over the top before covering.
5. Bake at Mark 3 (325 degrees F, 160 degrees C) for 3 hours. Will make two 3 1/2 lb loaves.
——————————————————————————————–
I only made half portions – I think Mrs Edwards might have been cooking for a big old Liverpool Catholic family at Christmas and I don’t have a mixing bowl up to the job.
For 1970s authenticity, I used Stork.
Stork and lard. Look at all those lumps of fat.
Add the spices. OK, I’ve misread the instructions and added the spices too late. It’s fine, though.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
And into the Kitchen Machine it goes. Hawkwind’s Silver Machine is usually the tune in my head when I use this – not only does it scan, but….it’s also silver! BBC TV’s Doctor Who is helping out here. The spices being rubbed into the fat and flour start to smell pretty amazing now.
Being a Christmas recipe, a ton of dried fruit is in order. Currants, sultanas AND raisins are called for, of which currants are deemed most important.
The fruit, with candied peel and a meagre amount of glacé cherries.
Stir up the milk, eggs, almond essence and lemon juice, mix it in and dollop in your loaf tin. I don’t think this part is very budget-y, I had to buy a bottle of almond essence for just 1/4 teaspoons-worth. Still.
Then clumsily brush some milk on top for a shiny top, and decorate with the aforementioned currant, raisin and sultana, if you’re being fancy. Make sure to cover with the greaseproof paper because this baby is going in the oven for three whole hours and you don’t want a burnt top. This is the heaviest thing I’ve ever baked.
And here it is, a lovely shiny-topped fruity loaf.
Serving suggestion – get every Pertwee-related item in your house and arrange it around the Bunloaf. It turns out that about half my possessions are Pertwee-based.
Worzel serving suggestion – a cup o’ tea and a slice o’ cake.
Verdict – this is definitely a vintage recipe, it tastes very much like it’s from 1890. Like tea round your nan’s house. Slightly dry – better with a little slick of butter, and even better toasted first. The budget nature of the cookbook has possibly scrimped on glacé cherries, I’d add about 4 times as many next time. And a bit of booze wouldn’t go amiss. But – good! Very Christmassy and traditional.
