Tag Archives: christmas

Tea towel

Red, yellow, green and cream stripes, hanging crumpled and suspect-stained-looking like a clammy, wet, foreign flag. The smell of socks and old bread. Seriously not the best thing to be drying dishes with, and long overdue for a wash.

Improvised Nativity costumes – fabulous shepherd headdress – I wonder what the population of the Middle East make of a generation’s-worth of “My child in Bethlehem” parent postings.

The taste of cinnamon Christmas biscuits sneaked early off the tree, needles prickling the skin on the back of my neck, the tree tottering worryingly as I reach too far. The biscuit resolves to a spicy paste, dissolving on my tongue.

Bread dough rising in the warm cupboard, smelling gloriously of yeast and delight. Damped tea towel swells as if covering a pregnant belly. They say to wear vertical stripes to appear slimmer – take my advice, dear.

Knock back the dough and knead sensuously on a floured surface until it is de-floured. Traces of dough dry onto my palms and encrust behind fingernails, and around them. Washing hands will require a nail brush.

The formed loaves are beautifully rectangular and bevelled and sit low in the tins, biding their time. Soon, oven’s warmth will spur them on to rise up, ripening and strengthening.

Computer simulation

I stayed up until 1.30 am. The little ant-like bots still wouldn’t bounce off the walls for me, and I’m buggered if I can understand Donald’s code. Going to bed with that sick-like “It’s way too late!” feeling, knowing my weekend will pay for it.

The ants lay a pheromone trail as they carry chunks of food home to the nest. Pretty soon, others stumble on it, and a busy traffic jam forms, like cars backing up to cross the Forth. (Bridge out of action now. Colleagues today said I should start a water taxi service from Queensferry, with my dinghy. I think not.)

Bombay Mix is a great savoury snack, but I didn’t expect ants to go for it. Still, I hung the food bag on a coat peg out of harm’s way. When we woke in the morning, a river of ants, in spate, was pouring up and down the wall, out onto the hook, into the bag. Spicy toasted lentils and deep-fried noodle fragments disappeared into a crack in the timber panelled wall – not far from the unnoticed “Look out for ants!” sign. A good hour after I’d binned the stuff, disappointed foot soldiers were still following that trail and returning hungry.

There’s a point in the code that says “If there’s no place to go, don’t go!” Luke and I set up the world with a big building against the wall, between the food and home. Pretty soon, an encampment of trapped bots were just sitting there, knowing home was beyond the building, but too stubborn to walk the long way round.

It would have been fun to add sound, and make them grumble while they waited there – and especially, to add a “Yay!” each time an ant found food.

Essentially, I know I don’t have time for this. Christmas and birthdays loom, and the pressure to organise a wonderful festive season slowly builds the uncomfortable tension in my chest. I’m running out of time.

I snap the laptop lid shut and blearily find my own way home to bed, without lentil or noodle.

Marzipan

It comes in a brick-shaped block from the supermarket, and needs rolling out on a flour-dusted board. I thump the rolling pin down, ending up with ruts that take subtle coaxing to eliminate. Eventually it’s down to a quarter inch thickness, ready for a first attempt. Too sticky – and with patchiness, it fails to lift from the surface. A crumpled mess.

After some persistence, I can lift the sagging umbrella of dough up and drape it over the cake. It curtains around, spilling out in an untidy skirt. With knife point, I encircle it and gently tug the off-cut, peeling it up into a scrunched-up ball of leftovers. To eat now, sneakily, or mould into cute bunnies and Santa hats? I opt for the former.

The choral music, dragged out of dusty cupboards once a year, accompanies this pre-Christmas ritual. Soon I’ll add royal icing, a tree, a deer, and some chocolate sprinkles for deer poo. And so, a multi-generational tradition is maintained.

The excess of beer in my system dulls my concentration and mildly dizzies my head. Damp jeans from the homeward downpour chill my ankles, and bare feet fear chilblains, hiding under fleece blanket.