An English Christmas on a Tuscan farm

Puneetinder Kaur Sidhu

In my mind, there is no greater pleasure than a glass (or three) of warm mulled wine to offset a dreary January drizzle as it runs its course in these parts. An easy DIY beverage derived, in its most basic form, from heating inexpensive dry red wine (cider, even) with whole spices, sliced oranges, lemon rind, a piece of fresh ginger, sugar or honey, and some cooking brandy.

A winter tradition that coincides with plummeting temperatures, it’s been warming hands and hearts since millennia. Cleopatra swore by its medicinal properties, as did Hippocrates, the Greek physician. The Romans would have us know they first came up with the idea of braving bitter cold in this manner. The brew was quite the rage in 19th-century Britain, despite the frowns alcohol invited those days. A generous libation of the drink kept me snug and spirited through the Christmas and Boxing Day revelry with friends in Tuscany.

Much of the conversation in the days leading up to Christmas revolved around food, with my hosts discussing meals and menus, as animatedly as the usually reticent English allow themselves. I am glad all that talk resulted in several unforgettable experiences. The day began with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting up to the attic, my lodgings. A leisurely breakfast of poached duck eggs, smoked salmon, aged cheese, truffle pate and freshly baked sourdough bread was washed down by rounds of champagne. Earlier, the wood fired oven out-front had been readied to slow roast our dinner — a bacon-wrapped, chestnut-stuffed and herb-smeared duck.

A baking tray laden with potatoes, carrots and balls of leftover stuffing topped with rosemary, queued up for its turn. Red cabbage stewed on the stove top inside, while a pot of spiced wine sat mulling beside it. In a corner, an iced fruit-cake waited to catch our attention and our dessert for the day, tiramisu, perched in the larder while we gorged our way through the day. We eventually got to it late evening, over a parlour game, once the kids had ploughed through their gifts and gone to bed. Did you know tiramisu tastes just as divine with spiced wine?

A few days later I was ringing in the New Year in Madrid, with another set of friends, gallons of Rioja tintos and a host of tapas. Platters of Manchego cheese, Granada-style spinach and chickpeas, fried eggplant soused in honey, Manzanilla olives, ham, chorizos, fried cod, shrimp in garlic sauce, and heaps of bread covered a better part of the dining table. Set to one side was a bowlful of grapes, 12 for each guest. As per Spanish tradition, they are to be consumed within 12 seconds of the clock striking midnight on December 31. Not doing so is said to bring bad luck. I believe my success in the matter was aided largely by huge gulps of the mulled wine I’d offered to make for the evening. Never mind that I mistook a vino rosado (Spanish for rosé) for a vino rosso (Italian for red)! I feel that counts as the culinary equivalent of a hit and a miss. Here’s to many such in the year ahead, for all of us. Cheers!