Seventy sleeps to Christmas

Yesterday I made a start on the Christmas puddings.  There is something deeply smug about making the pud in October.   I can almost feel like a woman who has her life together.   Almost.

My bungalow is about forty years old but when making Christmas pudding I can feel like a Victorian cook.  Weighing a huge selection of dried fruits into a bowl, stirring with a huge spoon, adding booze, spices, suet, and all the other bits and pieces, makes me feel as though I’m in the kitchen at Downton Abbey.

I rather like the idea of making a wish while stirring. Mine would probably be for a peaceful Christmas, a tidy house and the ability to remember where I have put things.  

There is also something rather satisfying about preparing food weeks before it is needed. The pudding can mature quietly in its bowl while I get on with other things.  It will be stacked away at the back of the cupboard and over the next few weeks I shall see it and feel happy.

I say “it” but that’s not quite true.  I shall make around twenty puddings, mostly as gifts.  In return I will be given shortbread, sausage rolls, mice pies, Florentines.  Making the puddings is effectively doing most of my Christmas baking.

And now I can sit down with a cup of coffee knowing that I have made a huge start on my Christmas preparations.  I shall enjoy the feeling.   It won't last.