Nog and nostalgia: Del and Darragh whip up a storm of Christmas spirits

Del Hughes

Hello old pals, I know it’s been a while, but in mitigation, 2024 has been one hell of a shitty year. Health-wise, I haven’t been great.

Physically, it’s been the usual suspects – spine, leg, arm – but add in a grumbling gallbladder alongside an all-encompassing  existential dread brought on by selling Mum’s house, and I hope you’ll forgive my silence.

However, I’m almost back to my normal levels of disability (and mood – which will please Tim no end because frankly, this year, I’ve been a bugger to live with).

Annus horribilis

I’m also revving up to get Geoff, my Kangoo, back out on the open roads, destination: Adventure! But that’s for 2025, and now, with the worst of my annus horribilis behind me, I’m trying to wring every drop of enjoyment out of the last three weeks of 2024 …

… which, due to an extratropical cyclone, didn’t get off to the most auspicious of starts. I’d been soul-searching – more on that later – interspersed with occasional forays into the garden to retrieve fence panels, dogs, and next-door’s bins.

As Darragh was a beast whose fury showed little sign of abating, I decided it was the perfect day to tackle the Christmas decorations. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-BAH!

Honestly, I can’t say it was entirely my decision, and it was well before the ‘official’ Twelve Days, but a challenge had been issued in the innocuous yet powerful form of a holly wreath.

You know how it is – once you spot a gaudy circlet on any nearby front door, it’s impetus enough to force you to get your arse in gear and start decking your own halls, pronto. And yes, I’m looking at you, Neil (no. 27). I mean, who in their right mind puts out decorations during a ‘Danger to Life’ weather warning? Grr!

However, it wasn’t just Neil’s prickly ring that galvanized me into action. My pal, Helen, posted this on Facebook, and it struck a chord…

… Because she was right. Once Yule is ushered in with the annual John Lewis ad, with every card we receive (three – in November!) and with every gift ordered, delivered, and wrapped, I can feel my festive sap begin to rise. Plus, this year Tim and I are spending an exceptionally rare Chrimbo at home – just the four of us, counting Wolfie and John (our pony-sized lurchers) – so I wanted to do it right.

And doing it right takes time and effort. In fact, so much of both that I’m certainly not going to all this trouble for just twelve measly days. And where did that twelve-day ‘rule’ come from anyway? If it’s just because of that interminable song, the auditory equivalent of repeatedly stepping on Lego, then I say bollocks to that.

Side note: I looked it up, and the theological ‘Twelvetide’ celebrates the nativity of Jesus (which I kinda knew) and includes various religious feast days that culminate on the 5th with Epiphany Eve (which I didn’t). However, the pagans definitely had a hand in ensuring that this period should be marked with continuous feasting and merrymaking. Big up for the heathens!

Peasants

It was also a welcome break for those lowly peasants who worked the land, as all toil ceased until Plough Monday, the first Monday after Twelfth Night. Then, no doubt literally itching to show off their new sackcloth socks, they’d return to the fields, nursing the mother of all ale-induced hangovers, along with steaming pails of manure.

Anyway, I forced Tim up into the attic, and now our front room is a jumble of dusty boxes, bulging bin bags, and piles of sparkly paraphernalia, all tied together with impossibly tangled strands of fairy lights. Why, oh why, have I never adhered to my dad’s cardinal rule: ‘List and label each bag or box, and most importantly, put the tree lights neatly back in their original packaging. You’ll never need  to spend hours on unknotting ever again’? Heavy sigh.

So, the first job was the star of the show – the tree – and it was this that was the cause of my soul-searching. If you’ve read some of my other articles, you’ll know that since Mum died, I haven’t made much of an effort. Our last few Christmases were low-key, minimalist, and instead of the usual bushy fir, we used the faux silver birch from Mum’s Death Party.

See, I haven’t been feeling particularly merry since, and certainly haven’t had the hwyl to faff about with garlands, swags, baubles, and bows. Fancifully, it was as if her passing fused all the fairy lights, and it’s taken me three Christmases to get to the point where I’m ready to replace the bulbs.

But, before the decorating, there was a major decision to be made, a decision that could make or break our festivities: Which tree should I trim? Part of me wanted to ring the changes and get a real one, because who doesn’t love that piney-fresh outdoorsy niff? But I still have our old family fir, a plastic, six-footer which my parents bought from David Evans in 1976, and I’m sentimentally attached to it.

(We’d always had real, but in Christmas ’75, Dad developed an allergy to pine needles, which would have been funny, if it hadn’t caused his feet to swell to the size of footballs! Seriously, I’ve seen the polaroids and let’s just say that YouTube’s Dr Pimple Popper would have been in papule-pressing heaven. Bleurgh!)

And, of course, there was Mum’s death tree which had served me well during my gloomy three years. Could I really just leave that in the attic? It was a head-scratcher alright, so I sought to resolve it by abjuring all responsibility and laying the weight of the decision firmly on Tim’s broad(ish) shoulders. And he reacted with his usual sensitivity:

‘Which tree? Which bloody TREE? Hmm, okay, so let me just park this organ transplant dilemma I was grappling with and set my mind to your life-or-death predicament.’ Lol!

 Yeah, with hindsight, I had been overreacting, incapable of seeing the wood for the trees, and it took Tim’s brusque good sense to bring everything back into perspective:

‘Right, stop whittering and just put up both sodding trees! And if you want a real one, I’ll shove some lights on the hedge.’ Bingo!

Bottom heavy

It took longer than planned, quite a bit longer, because once I’d done the lower branches – great when you have to stay mainly sedentary – the upper half needed to be done in rapid bursts. And that’s why our tree is severely bottom-heavy in terms of baubles, ribbons, and lametta. Still looks lush though. And by the time Darragh had finally dissipated, we were totally Santa ready. Boom!

Well, almost, because for our Christmas to be truly traditional, there was one magical element that was missing – Del’s ‘Taste of Times Past’ Egg Nog! This is a tipple that I’ve made regularly over the years, but only after Mum died did I formally reinstate it, as an  eggy tribute to both her and Dad during the festive season.

I’d always thought nog was an American brew because it’s massive across the pond. But, clearing out Mum’s house, I discovered Grandma’s old cookbook and a recipe for a Spiced Egg Punch which had a lot in common with the generic nog method I’d been using. A quick google sent me spiralling down a noggy wormhole which detailed a history of that decadent drink that stretched back centuries.

Believed to have its roots in medieval Britain with a drink known as Posset – a warm ale punch made with eggs and figs – over time it evolved into a milk and wine (or brandy) mix. But it was when it hit the American colonies that it took on a new lease of life, morphing into the more appealing modern blend we’re used to today.

Those clever colonists opted for rum, which was more accessible and affordable than brandy or wine from England. And it was thanks to our American cousins that egg nog gained particular popularity over the Christmas season.

George Washington

George Washington even had his own egg nog recipe, which featured very generous amounts of alcohol – so generous in fact, that if he was around today, I’d wager the other Founding Fathers would be hiding the nuclear codes every Christmas, just in case.

My version isn’t quite as boozy as George’s, but it still packs a potent punch. It’s a rich, sweet, intoxicating concoction which, when done right, matures into a warming, wistful hug that elicits evocative echoes of times and people past, and is truly the most epic drink.

So, I’m excited to share my recipe with you, so you too can have a cwtch in a cup (or glass) this Christmas. Enjoy.

Del’s Taste of Times Past Egg Nog

Ingredients:

12 Large Egg Yolks (straight out of happy, free-range chickens – you can genuinely taste the difference in your nog!)

1 lb Caster Sugar

1 Pint of Full Fat Milk

1 Pint of Single Cream

1 Pint of Double Cream

300 ml Spiced Rum

300 ml Brandy

250 ml Bourbon

2 Teaspoons of Grated Nutmeg

2 Teaspoons of Cinnamon

Pinch of Sea Salt

(Toot, toot! Make way for the calorie carnival. Seems our tree won’t be the only thing getting bottom-heavy at Chez Hughes this Yuletide. LOL!)

Instructions:

1. In a large bowl, combine the sugar and the egg yolks, before whisking until it lightens in colour and has a smooth texture.
2. In a separate bowl, add the dairy, alcohol, spices, and salt, before combining with the egg mixture.
3. Beat until all ingredients are combined and have a smooth, lump-free texture.
4. Transfer to glass jars with air-proof lids, and pop into the fridge.
5. Keep refrigerated over the festive season and shake well before pouring.

Top Tips:

These days, egg nog can be kept for a long time, primarily because of effective refrigeration and the high alcohol content, which helps prevent the growth of bacteria and other microbes.

I age mine in the fridge for the two weeks leading up to Christmas Eve, but some traditional recipes suggest a maturing time of up to a year as it’s believed to improve the flavour. Spoiler alert: It does, big time! Just ensure your nog is stored in an airtight bottle or container, and use the best quality ingredients you can get.

If you decide to give this a whirl, please note that this is a non-cook method and contains raw eggs. Thus, it’s important that your alcohol content makes up at least 20% of the total volume of liquid; mine comes in at around 25%, which makes it suitably egg-safe.

Despite its deceptively mild and harmless taste, this tipple is strong enough to floor a reindeer, so enjoy it responsibly, serve it in small glasses, and don’t indulge if you need to drive, or for that matter, walk, anywhere!

And that’s it. If you’re wary of raw eggs, there are thousands of cooked nog recipes online – along with both boozy and tee-total versions, so the choice is yours. But I guarantee that, come Christmas Eve, when you’re snug in your pyjamas, tree lights twinkling, and with everything as done as its gonna be, a glass of this will be the best thing you’ll put in your mouth this Christmas. Guaranteed!

So, merry Christmas one and all, and let’s raise our nogs to a happy and healthy 2025. Iechyd da, pawb!

 If you’re interested, you can read more about the  science of nog making here, where you’ll also find the BBC’s non-cook egg nog recipe which I have tried. With no false modesty, this was not a patch on mine, it is still delightfully quaffable.

And, as mentioned, my last three Christmases have basically been real gloom-fests, and I’ve found getting through them quite a struggle. So, if you’re finding things difficult this festive season, for whatever reason, here’s the link to the Mind website which you might find useful. As well as tips and advice, it contains contact details for many charities and agencies who will be able to help. Stay strong and reach out if you need support.