My great grandma Dangerfield was born and raised in Something-or-other-shire England. She brought with her all sorts of weird traditions (and superstitions) that ruled her thoughts and deeds into her late nineties.
I hope I got some of those longevity genes–or perhaps there was some truth to her ideas.
Anyways, every Christmas Eve, on great-grandma’s instruction, my grandma would pour brandy over carrot pudding (supposed to be plum, but a dark, motley, bread-composed mass all the same), turn out the lights and set it ablaze. Blue flames encapsulated the lump; they oscillated about it’s surface for a good 2 minutes or so. We ooed and awed. It was then cut it up, an alcohol-derived sauce was portioned over the pieces which were finally distributed to its audience for consumption. It really didn’t taste all that great. But I loved the warm, stupid feeling I felt after eating it.
Thanks go to my family for nurturing my love for alcohol at a young age!
