Happy Holidays, ave_eva!
Title: Father Christmas, Father Time
Recipient: ave_eva
Author: Mum's the word.
Rating: PG
Characters: Agnes Nutter, Anathema Device, Newton Pulsifer, and others.
Notes: Under Cromwell, Christmas was banned. Most of its attendant traditions, therefore, were forced to go underground. From there, considering Anathema's particular conundrum - being part of a mixed household where philosophical/religious backgrounds are concerned - the situation seemed to grow all the more relevant. No mince pies were harmed in the writing of this story!
Summary: Holiday traditions, whether forbidden or irritating, don't change.
Agnes had never enjoyed mince pies, but her son, unfortunately, did. She remembered her mother's as being dry at best and bitter at worst, the culprits on either side being unskilled cookery and foul ingredients. Besides, her mother had never bothered to write down the recipe: she'd never bothered to learn to write, either. If nothing else, Agnes prided herself on having bothered to do that.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and some flour trickled into her eyes. The pastry was taking longer than it ought to gain the right consistency, and she was nearly out of water. Her grandsons were out in the yard, and neither of them was likely to respond if she were to shout for more. They were more interested in tossing things down the well than they were in drawing water out of it.
How much good the men of her line would do in the long run, she could guess. In fact, guessing wasn't necessary; she'd prophesied their general uselessness a dozen times over. It would take one of her descendants' womenfolk, somewhere down the years, to bring in a man of any notable worth, however dubious his particular talent. She'd had fun writing that bit, but she suspected the girl-child - so foreign a concept when one was accustomed to boys, literally anathema - wouldn't have fun reading it.
Just then, beyond the closed kitchen curtains, Robert shouted, "Look - armed men on horses!" Will replied with a delighted shriek: "Where?" In the sitting room, their father - John, the chief cause of her confectionary heresy - snored on.
Humming, Agnes ceased to knead and brushed off her hands. She strolled up to the window, waving cheerfully to her grandsons - then to the men on horses, who drew closer by the second. Let them come and take her if they would. She'd been in her coat for an hour, and if they were going to go on wasting her time, she might as well sit down.
After all, she knew recipes far deadlier. There was more than flour under her fingernails.
* * *
"You mean you actually believed in him?" asked Anathema, running her hands under the hot tap. "You're not just saying that to win my pity, are you? You've still got to do the lights. I'm not leaving the kitchen until the dough's right."
"I was naïve," replied Newt, miserably. "Very naïve. Didn't Father Christmas visit your house when you were young?"
"No," Anathema said, shaking her hands off before burying them in the nearest dishcloth. "My parents and relatives are all intellectuals, witches, pragmatists, or some combination thereof. I never had any illusions about where my gifts were coming from. I pitied my schoolmates, actually."
"Is that a kind way of saying you made them cry when you debunked the whole fantasy?"
Anathema glanced guiltily over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Newt's fiddling with the cookie-cutters spread out on their small table.
"Maybe," she admitted, reaching for the bowl of dough, which still wasn't behaving.
Mince pies had always been the tradition, but Anathema - unlike her grandfather - had no knack for making them. She'd traded the old family recipe for a vegan-friendly biscuit recipe. Anathema's childhood American pen pal had been the first to introduce her to the concept of sugar cookies, which, fortunately for her, Newt happened to like.
"You're a regular fun-killer, you are," Newt muttered, yawning.
Outside in the driveway, a car pulled up. Anathema heard Newt rise from the table and walk over to the window. The drapes rustled gently as he parted them. Unconcerned, Anathema picked up the ball of dough and threw it down on the floured counter-top, hard. The rolling pin was exactly where she'd left it the year before, in the tin with her mother's old wooden spoons and whisks.
"You've got visitors," said Newt, uncertainly. "What's with the fancy old car? Do I know these guys?"
"I think you might," Anathema replied, smiling, and started to roll out the dough.
- end -
Recipient: ave_eva
Author: Mum's the word.
Rating: PG
Characters: Agnes Nutter, Anathema Device, Newton Pulsifer, and others.
Notes: Under Cromwell, Christmas was banned. Most of its attendant traditions, therefore, were forced to go underground. From there, considering Anathema's particular conundrum - being part of a mixed household where philosophical/religious backgrounds are concerned - the situation seemed to grow all the more relevant. No mince pies were harmed in the writing of this story!
Summary: Holiday traditions, whether forbidden or irritating, don't change.
Agnes had never enjoyed mince pies, but her son, unfortunately, did. She remembered her mother's as being dry at best and bitter at worst, the culprits on either side being unskilled cookery and foul ingredients. Besides, her mother had never bothered to write down the recipe: she'd never bothered to learn to write, either. If nothing else, Agnes prided herself on having bothered to do that.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and some flour trickled into her eyes. The pastry was taking longer than it ought to gain the right consistency, and she was nearly out of water. Her grandsons were out in the yard, and neither of them was likely to respond if she were to shout for more. They were more interested in tossing things down the well than they were in drawing water out of it.
How much good the men of her line would do in the long run, she could guess. In fact, guessing wasn't necessary; she'd prophesied their general uselessness a dozen times over. It would take one of her descendants' womenfolk, somewhere down the years, to bring in a man of any notable worth, however dubious his particular talent. She'd had fun writing that bit, but she suspected the girl-child - so foreign a concept when one was accustomed to boys, literally anathema - wouldn't have fun reading it.
Just then, beyond the closed kitchen curtains, Robert shouted, "Look - armed men on horses!" Will replied with a delighted shriek: "Where?" In the sitting room, their father - John, the chief cause of her confectionary heresy - snored on.
Humming, Agnes ceased to knead and brushed off her hands. She strolled up to the window, waving cheerfully to her grandsons - then to the men on horses, who drew closer by the second. Let them come and take her if they would. She'd been in her coat for an hour, and if they were going to go on wasting her time, she might as well sit down.
After all, she knew recipes far deadlier. There was more than flour under her fingernails.
* * *
"You mean you actually believed in him?" asked Anathema, running her hands under the hot tap. "You're not just saying that to win my pity, are you? You've still got to do the lights. I'm not leaving the kitchen until the dough's right."
"I was naïve," replied Newt, miserably. "Very naïve. Didn't Father Christmas visit your house when you were young?"
"No," Anathema said, shaking her hands off before burying them in the nearest dishcloth. "My parents and relatives are all intellectuals, witches, pragmatists, or some combination thereof. I never had any illusions about where my gifts were coming from. I pitied my schoolmates, actually."
"Is that a kind way of saying you made them cry when you debunked the whole fantasy?"
Anathema glanced guiltily over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Newt's fiddling with the cookie-cutters spread out on their small table.
"Maybe," she admitted, reaching for the bowl of dough, which still wasn't behaving.
Mince pies had always been the tradition, but Anathema - unlike her grandfather - had no knack for making them. She'd traded the old family recipe for a vegan-friendly biscuit recipe. Anathema's childhood American pen pal had been the first to introduce her to the concept of sugar cookies, which, fortunately for her, Newt happened to like.
"You're a regular fun-killer, you are," Newt muttered, yawning.
Outside in the driveway, a car pulled up. Anathema heard Newt rise from the table and walk over to the window. The drapes rustled gently as he parted them. Unconcerned, Anathema picked up the ball of dough and threw it down on the floured counter-top, hard. The rolling pin was exactly where she'd left it the year before, in the tin with her mother's old wooden spoons and whisks.
"You've got visitors," said Newt, uncertainly. "What's with the fancy old car? Do I know these guys?"
"I think you might," Anathema replied, smiling, and started to roll out the dough.
- end -