he Vidame's desolate bachelorhood, the kindly custom long
ago was established that he and all his household every year should eat
their Great Supper with the farm family at the Mazet; an arrangement
that did not work well until Mise Fougueiroun and Elizo (after some
years of spirited squabbling) came to the agreement that the former
should be permitted to prepare the delicate sweets served for dessert at
that repast. Of these the most important is nougat, without which
Christmas would be as barren in Provence as Christmas would be in
England without plum-pudding or in America without mince-pies. Besides
being sold in great quantities by town confectioners, nougat is made in
most country homes. Even the dwellers on the poor up-land farms--which,
being above the reach of irrigation, yield uncertain harvests--have
their own almond-trees and their own bees to make them honey, and so
possess the raw materials of this necessary luxury. As for the other
sweets, they may be anything that fancy and skill together can achieve;
and it is in this ornate department of the Great Supper that genius has
its largest chance.

But it was the making of the Christmas dinner that mainly occupied Mise
Fougueiroun's mind--a feast pure and simple, governed by the one jolly
law that it shall be the very best dinner of the whole year! What may be
termed its by-laws are that the principal dish shall be a roast turkey,
and that nougat and _poumpo_ shall figure at the dessert. Why _poumpo_
is held in high esteem by the Provencaux I am not prepared to say. It
seemed to me a cake of only a humdrum quality; but even Mise
Fougueiroun--to whom I am indebted for the appended recipe[1]--spoke of
it in a sincerely admiring and chop-smacking way.

Anciently the Christmas bird was a goose--who was roasted and eaten
('twas a backhanded compliment!) in honour of her ancestral good deeds.
For legend tells that when the Kings, led by the star, arrived at the
inn-stable in Bethlehem it was the goose, alone of all the animals
assembled there, who came forward politely to make them her
compliments; yet failed to express clearly her good intentions because
she had caught a cold, in the chill and windy weather, and her voice was
unintelligibly creaky and harsh. The same voice ever since has remained
to her, and as a farther commemoration of her hospitable and courteous
conduct it became the custom to spit her piously on Christmas Day.

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