Tolerance in the face of abuse

Other than one misjudged prank when she hid the Sous Chef's spatula within the anal cavity of our house sheep Margaret, Ms Smith had given us little trouble during her probation period - but she more than made up for it when I sat her down to explain how to make a Christmas pudding.

"You stupid bitch', I distinctly recall her screaming at me with bulging eyes and a purple face when I told her that June was the best time to make a Christmas pudding, 'I've got better things to do than make Christmas bloody pudding in the middle of the bleeding summer, you must be f*****g joking."

Sadly she was serious.  But as an instinctive leader of women I soon talked her round and, putting her outburst down to a show of youthful petulance, I was only too happy to forgive her.  That is until nine days later, when I called into the kitchen after returning from a ride, to check on her progress.  She was calm and smiling when I entered - and standing proudly beside the 72 pound pudding that I had instructed her to prepare.  "My dear Delia, what a wonderful pudding you have made,' I said, 'hearty congratulations and I am sure my descendants will enjoy every last morsel." She giggled and looked at me quizzically.  "Descendants, Mrs Wills-Doncaster?  Aren't your babies a little young for such a rich sweetmeat?"

"Oh you poor naive little gosling' I laughed, 'didn't I mention that a Wills-Doncaster Christmas pudding has to mature for one hundred years before it is consumed?  Bless your heart, what a shame ..."

Yet before I could complete my sentence her eyes were bulging again, the veins in her neck were throbbing and her breathing had become erratic.  I was sure she was about to have a seizure, when she picked up a meat cleaver and hurled it at me - embedding itself in my Colonel Harry* and preceding an outflowing of vitriol and bile which led me to having to thrash her for several minutes with my riding crop in order to bring her under control.

*a riding hat - named after Colonel Harry Llewelyn - a great fried of Daddy's

Absconding to infamy

Being of charitable nature, I strapped her to the Aga for a couple of days in the hope that she would see the error of her ways, but she seemed to possess the strength of a madwoman and during the second night somehow tore the cooker from its footings and escaped through the scullery, dragging the appliance behind her, never to be seen at The Old Rectory again.  She then clearly went into hiding for a while, for the next we all heard from her was as the supposed cookery expert on the Daily Mirror in 1969 (all fish, chips, jellied eel and Angel Delight, so she was well within her culinary limitations).  Two years later she published her first book - How to cheat at cooking - which, sadly, rather says it all.

Ramsay's revenge

By the mid-1990's Bloater had somehow manoevered herself into the role of the nation's favourite cook - single handedly driving down gastronomic standards to the level of a Leeds cafeteria - and at that point I decided 'enough is enough'.  I remembered a rather handsome and talented young man of great refinement and natural charm, whose good looks, articulate speech, subtle management style (and patience) had so impressed Rupert and myself when he ran our kitchen in 1991.

I contacted Mister Gordon Ramsay and suggested I was prepared to invest in his captivating personality and limitless talent over an extended period, in order to help him usurp Ms Smith's position.  I am pleased to at last reveal that he agreed to my proposal - and I think you'll concur that as his mentor and benefactor I have achieved my objectives.  Bloater has not presented a television programme since 2003 and is now a renowned football hooligan - whilst loveable, modest, hardworking dear little Gordon goes from strength to strength (with my continued support and encouragement).

I would love to be a fly on the wall in 2066 and 2091, when new generations of Wills-Doncasters savour the Christmas puddings prepared by Bloater and Gordon respectively.  I have little doubt which Christmas luncheon will be the more memorable.

Grandmamma's Plum Pudding recipe

As my own contribution towards the eradication of nouvelle cuisine (or food for mice, prepared by poofs, as my Rupert terms it), I have decided to finally publish the family recipe first created for our 1852 Christmas guest Mr Isambard Kingdom Brunel.  Provided the pudding is made and stored before the first hedgehog is seen, it is in fact palatable by Christmas of the same year - but as I have indicated, no Wills-Doncaster pudding is ever removed from its lead-lined storage casket in the family vault at St. Crispin's cemetery until it has matured for precisely one hundred years.

The pudding I create this year will therefore be consumed in the first decade of the next century, whilst the pudding made personally by my thumbless great grandmother Lady Willemena Wills in June 1906, will be served at The Old Rectory throughout the festive season and then every Sunday until the summer equinox.

Below I bestow our family recipe upon the nation.  If you really must consume it during your own lifetime, I must insist that you to allow the pudding to mature for a bare minimum of six months (it is essential that you of course omit the formaldehyde and ethyl alcohol, otherwise you will be responsible for the death of all to whom you serve the pudding) ... but my hope is that the good people of Great Britain will bequeath this sweetmeat of all sweetmeats to their great, great grandchildren as an insurance against the re-emergence of latter-day Delia Bloater Smith's:

The three bushel Plum Pudding open separate window for recipe