Page 60 of The Tartan Thesis

“Well, you must’ve needed it then, dear,” she coos.

“And I’m guessing you probably need coffee,” Freya says, handing me a mug.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a sip.

Margaret begins bustling about again, pulling bowls and ingredients onto the counter. “Do you need any cream or sugar, dear?”

“Black is fine,” I say. “No need for the extra calories this early in the morning.”

Freya shoots me a look over the rim of her cup. “I hope you won’t be saying that once breakfast is on the table. I’m counting on you to do some serious damage to the giant stack of blueberry pancakes Mum is preparing.”

“Are blueberry pancakes a Christmas tradition around here?” I ask, my mouth watering.

Margaret pulls her head out of the pantry and says, “No. Torin mentioned you liked pancakes, and I thought you might like a little taste of home.” She hesitates. “I hope that’s alright.”

Torin remembered my granny’s pancakes.

“Yes,” I tell her, heart warming at the gesture. “More than alright. That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Ramsay.”

“Good,” she says, her smile returning. “I learned the American way to make them from a video by someone called ‘The Pioneer Woman.’ I think she’s from somewhere in or around Texas, like you, and has red hair like me, so I figured she would be the best guide.”

“Ree certainly has never led me astray when I’ve followed her recipes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m sure they’ll be great.”

“Good,” she says. “And I told you to call me Margaret.”

“Of course,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast, Margaret?”

“How do you feel about frying eggs?”

Freya and I play sous-chef while Margaret mixes batter and pours perfect circles onto the hot griddle. The pancakes puff up almost immediately, their edges turning golden as the kitchen fills with the warm smell of butter and blueberries. Breakfast is almost ready when the back door opens, and Callum calls out a hearty, “Happy Christmas, all!”

We return the greeting as Flick comes bounding in ahead of him, tail wagging.

Something stirs in me when Torin enters the house dressed in heavy brown overalls and gray wool sweater, the collar of a green flannel shirt just peeking out, his hair mussed from his cap. A tentative smile crosses his face when he sees me staring. I smile back, holding his gaze another moment before turning back to the eggs.

“This looks delicious, my jo,” Callum says, kissing Margaret on the cheek as we sit down at the table.

There’s ample chatter as plates are passed and food piled high. The pancakes are perfect, and I abandon any earlier talk of restraint, stuffing my face with large amounts of carbs and fat. After all, everyone knows calories don’t count on Christmas.

I watch Torin when no one is looking. He’s always been sexy to me, but this version of him, the one I’ve only heard about until now, is something else entirely. The hardy farmer in the rugged clothes, working outside with his strong, calloused hands. Another layer of him revealed, another part of him to admire and adore.

I must stare for too long because when I finally pull my eyes away from her brother, Freya is smiling at me as she chews.

“So, are there any specific Christmas traditions in Scotland?” I ask, hoping to cut her off at the pass.

“There are a few,” Margaret pipes up, “but Christmas was banned in Scotland for over three hundred years. It was only reinstated as a public holiday in 1958!”

“Mum, he’s studying Scottish history,” Torin says. “He knows.”

“I’m just making conversation,” she chides.

“No, I’m interested,” I tell her, setting my fork down and giving her my full attention. “I know the ban came as a result of the Reformation, but I honestly don’t know much beyond that.” I do know more, I know a fair bit, but I want to hear the story from someone who grew up here, not just from a book.

Margaret blushes and goes on. “Well, back in the seventeenth century, you know that the Kirk of Scotland was staunchly Presbyterian and did not like any Christian celebrations that were not explicitly stated in the Bible, so they convinced the Parliament of Scotland to place a ban on Christmas. For centuries, it was treated as a normal day. Nothing was closed, no special services were held, and even taking time off wasn’t permitted.”

“I think I read that certain food items were banned?” I ask.

“In a way,” she says, considering. “Since feasting wasn’t allowed, there were things that people avoided in order to stay out of trouble. Things like yule bread were obviously not acceptable any time of year, but even eating sugar or spices on Christmas Day could bring down the Kirk’s wrath and lead to fines or imprisonment. Most families intentionally ate bland meals on Christmas to keep from violating ambiguous laws.”