Apple Betty

It was decided a few weeks ago that we would go out for Boxing Day dinner. So at 3pm, we all head out to this Beefeater-style pub in Enfield Island Village: six of us, plus Pam and Lynne, my grandmother, my aunt and uncle, and two of their five children - thirteen altogether. Since it was originally for fifteen people, there was going to be spare meals going around, but because no-one had taken note of what they had pre-ordered two weeks ago, it was all rather hit-and-miss.

Starters came out and we all just grabbed what we fancied the look of. I managed to swipe chicken coujons, which surprisingly came with cranberry jelly… A few of the group were disappointed to discover that the spicy prawns were actually regular prawns with curry sauce thrown over them. Not really what we had in mind…

Second course was a choice between turkey, beef or salmon. I avoid beef and don’t eat fish, so I had turkey for the second day in a row. Now, I know that restaurants serve dinner en masse and it can be hard sometimes, but it tasted just like school dinners, or something you would cook at home. When you go out, you expect something a little better than you’re used to. I wasn’t particularly impressed and left most of it.

Third course came up and the choices were supposed to be Christmas pudding, waffles or brownies. Plate after plate of brownies arrived, and eventually one Christmas pudding made an appearance. And then my father was handed what appeared to be treacle tart.
“I ordered Christmas pudding,” he told the waitress.
“It’s apple Betty,” she replied.
“Apple Betty?” my father repeats.
“I thought she said ‘Alphabeti’,” my uncle offers.
“Isn’t that spaghetti?” I ask.
“This is apple Betty,” the waitress insists.
“Alphabeti?” my uncle asks, clearly perplexed.
“It‘s looks like treacle,” my father says, lifting the bowl and inspecting the contents as if they were highly contagious.
“It‘s a surprise,” the waitress offers, trying a new approach.
“It certainly is,” my uncle says. “I thought Alphabeti was spaghetti shapes.”
“It‘s a horrible surprise,” my father says pointedly. “I want Christmas pudding.”
The offending apple Betty is removed, brownies are consumed by the entire table (except Sian who snagged the only Christmas pudding available), and my uncle is still insisting that the waitress said ‘Alphabeti’. My grandmother finally pipes up and explains that apple Betty is actually caramelised apples served with a crumble topping and custard, and was often served to schoolchildren for lunchtimes as it was cheap and easy to cook in large quantities. We all munch thoughtfully and my uncle and aunt disappear outside for a smoke.

Presents are handed out over coffee and Rosemary got a mystic orb, which is really cool. It’s like a bowling ball but much lighter, and you are supposed to ask it a yes/no question, channel your energy through the orb, and then turn it over to see the answer. The bottom has a circle cut out of the outer shell and you can see that the ball is fill with a black watery substance and a triangle that answers plainly ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and then gives 'maybe' answers like ‘It could be’ and ‘The stars shine favourably’. Of course we’re asking it really stupid questions like ‘Is Chris gonna be a rock star?’ and ‘Will I live to one hundred and three?’ and then laughing hysterically at the answers. Maybe we're just a bit punchy from the endless stream of fake smiles and niceties.