‘If you have to hide a cash incentive inside a food, it’s almost certainly not worth eating’

Sorcha has pushed the boat out in a major way here. She’s having – get this – a Christmas mother and daughter day with her old dear and Honor and she’s gone about it in her usual try-too-hord way.

She's bought matching jumpers and aprons for all of them – oh, and yeah, no, reindeer antlers. She's got Bublé on the CD player and she has me making my famous mulled wine. And she keeps reminding everyone, at 60-second intervals, that they're supposed to be having fun.

“Honor,” she goes, “your turn – favourite Christmas memory. Mom, put your antlers on.”

But her old dear is having none of it. She's there, "I've just got my blow dry done. I'm going carolling tonight with the Glenageary Lawn Tennis Club Christmas Choir."

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"Mom, please! I want to put it up on Instagram and I want it to look like we're all having amazing, amazing fun!"

“I’m perfectly capable of having amazing fun without putting antlers on my head.”

“Ross,” Sorcha goes, “is the mulled wine nearly ready?” Because she definitely sounds like she could use a drink.

There's a secret Christmas pudding recipe that's been in Sorcha's family for, like, more than 150 years

I’m stirring the pot and I’m like, “Yeah, no, just adding the last of the secret ingredients, Sorcha.”

"Oh my God, Mom, you have to try Ross's famous mulled wine! It has to be tasted to be believed!"

Her old dear's there, "I can't drink, dorling, I'm driving."

“You’re not going for hours. You can have one glass.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

"Nothing's wrong. I just don't know what this is all about."

“Oh, pordon me for wanting to spend some time with my mother and my daughter. I thought if the last two years have taught us anything, it’s the importance of family.”

Honor goes, “When am I getting my €500?”

Sorcha’s old dear is like, “I beg your pordon?”

“Mom promised me €500 to do this.”

Sorcha’s old dear takes off her apron and goes, “I am leaving right now unless you tell me what I’m doing here.”

“Fine!” Sorcha suddenly goes. “I want your Christmas pudding recipe!”

“I knew it! I said it to your father! ‘This will be about the pudding again – you’ll see!’”

I probably should fill you in on the backstory here. There’s a secret Christmas pudding recipe that’s been in Sorcha’s family for, like, more than 150 years. It’s been passed down through the generations from mother to daughter. Apparently, it’s incredible – although I’ll have to take everyone else’s word for it, not being a fan of Christmas pudding. For me, it’s like colcannon on Halloween – if you have to hide a cash incentive inside a food, it’s almost certainly not worth eating.

"Mom," Sorcha goes in her serious voice, "I'd like to make the pudding this year".

But her old dear is like, "I shall be making the pudding this year – just like I make it every year."

“I’m just saying that maybe it’s time you handed the job over to me.”

“Sorcha, I told you I will give you the recipe when the time comes.”

“And when will that be?”

“When I’m no longer capable of making it myself.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

"I beg your pordon!"

“I’m not being morbid, Mom, but if we’ve learned one thing over the last two years. . .”

“Stop telling me what we’ve learned over the last two years!”

“You told me you’ve never written the recipe down. If something awful happened to you, the secret of your great-great-great-grandmother’s Christmas pudding would be lost forever.”

Sorcha's old dear goes, "Like I said to you last year, and the year before, and the year before that, I am not giving you the recipe," and she's definitely storting to lose it with her.

Sorcha refuses to take no for an answer, though. She opens the cupboard and whips out her mixing bowl.

"Okay," she goes, "I know there's definitely cinnamon in it?"

Yeah, no, Sorcha's been trying to, like, replicate the recipe for years. Except she can never get it right. There's always, like, something missing.

“You definitely do something with the fruit,” Sorcha goes. “Do you soak it overnight in, like, rum?”

“Sorcha, I’m not telling you,” her old dear goes – and she’s, like, red in the face now.

“I’m storting to think the secret is actually in the ratios,” Sorcha goes.

And that's when her old dear suddenly loses it. She goes, "For God's sake, Sorcha – I buy the pudding every year in Dunnes Stores!"

Oh, it’s a definite conversation stopper.

Sorcha’s like, “what?”, the colour draining from her face.

Even Honor goes, “Oh! My God!”

Sorcha goes, 'I definitely need a drink. Although I'll probably find out next that Ross's famous mulled wine comes from one of those awful Schwartz sachets that you just throw in the pot'

Sorcha’s old dear bursts into tears then. “I buy a Dunnes Stores own-brand pudding every year,” she goes. “I tip it on to a plate and I put it in the microwave. I wrap a euro coin in greaseproof paper and I push it inside. Then I pour brandy over it and I set it on fire.”

“But the story – about how your great-great-great-grandmother got it from Queen Victoria’s husband.”

“I made it up.”

Honor’s like, “Hill! Air!”

Sorcha’s there, “Mom, please tell me this isn’t true!”, and she says it like it’s some, I don’t know, massive, massive betrayal.

“It storted the year your father and I got married,” her old dear goes. “We had his parents for Christmas dinner. And you know that nothing I ever did pleased them. But his father complimented me on the pudding. The nicest Christmas pudding he ever tasted, he said. I was too proud to say it was shop-bought.”

"Oh my God!" Sorcha goes. "Oh my literally God?"

"And then it just became this thing. My pudding. So I just carried on buying the same one for years. When they stopped making it, I switched to the Dunnes Stores one. And none of you noticed. You all just kept asking, 'How does she do it?' and 'What's her secret?'"

I’m like, “Mulled wine anyone?”, tipping the contents of the pot into the sangria jug we bought in Quinta two summers ago.

Sorcha goes, “I definitely need a drink. Although I’ll probably find out next that Ross’s famous mulled wine comes from one of those awful Schwartz sachets that you just throw in the pot.”

I’m there, “Drink up, ladies,” unable to even look her in the eye.

And Sorcha’s like, “Ross?”