Budge up, Delia, love, there's room at the back.
The last time I made Christmas Pudding I was at school and I grated half my finger into the mix, thus rendering it unsuitable for vegetarians.
This time things are a little more exciting, thanks to the divine Steve Wellington, who sent Mr PBBB back to London with a bottle of Queen's Ale, which is what Her Madge gets to sample in her very own royal pudding.
It was a touching hand-over from Mr PBBB, who obviously wanted to snatch it away and spend the rest of the year with it clutched to his chest, rocking gently. But hand it over he did, god love him, and it's now gently plumping up about a kilo of Waitrose's finest raisins, currants, sultanas, cherries and mixed peel.
I've combined several recipes, which means that either it's going to be delish or a total and utter disaster from which Mr PBBB will never recover (he'll be sucking the Queen's Ale from the burnt husk of the pudding way into June).
So fingers crossed for the big mix tomorrow. Tradition dictates that everyone who stirs it makes a wish. I wish for a non-beer-related Christmas present. Pete wishes the Queen's Ale was in his tummy.
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