Goblins and Snowflakes

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“Plum pudding, get your Christmas plum pudding,” Thomas, the baker’s son, called. Standing just outside the shop, the boy was wearing a tattered top hat trimmed with holly sprigs and red and green ribbons. I cast a glance at the bakery window. The holiday puddings, drying in holly-bedecked cloth bags, hung from hooks. Below them, row after row of bread baked to golden brown filled baskets. Biscuits and other holiday sweets, including a gingerbread house constructed in a likeness of the village chapel, also decorated the window. The sweet scents of anise, cinnamon, and gingerbread effervesced from the bakery. My stomach growled hungrily.

“Miss Rossetti,” the boy called, removing his top hat and bowing with a dramatic flourish. “Has Earl Walpole ordered his plum pudding? There’s no better than ours to be had in all of Twickenham.”

At Uncle Horace’s stately home, Strawberry Hill, the cook had already started preparing the holiday sweets. My uncle had a fabulous holiday gathering planned. Artists, scholars, writers, and tinkers—some of the best minds in the land—were coming, including my father, a renowned artist. He would return from abroad any day now, and I couldn’t wait to see him.

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