PANETTONE - ITALIAN CHRISTMAS BREAD

It’s only normal that after the oddest-ever-odd succession of Journeys to the edge of nobody’s empire, with a soundtrack of techno music and songs from your childhood, Feverishness and advice and the most sudden fear of owls, Madness, sponsored by emotional charity gone wrong under the ever so watchful eye of the Shard, and followed by Absolutely fucking nothing (topped with golden syrup, and stomach ache), Missions to the future and back, Jam on toast, toilet floors, fallen soldiers, Jamborees, the fairest sun, orphanages, Amazing adventures (or an anachronistic version of them), Sinking ships and planes to outer space, Obliteration, and Nervous breakdowns that cater for symphonies, breakfast, books, bites and warmth; it’s only normal that you find yourself in a state of sleepy, puzzled accomplishment, and you half-wonder whether all this that you managed to more or less gracefully survive was one of those Dreams that make you talk in your sleep; and whether or not you see what happens next, be it because you may be a dormant little witch with a temperance problem, or because you’ve just been given the gift of the self-proclaimed wisdom of the ages (that and snus, plus recipe books, and camera gear), you feel like you really deserve that slice of vegan panettone that is the very last, proper delicious bake of an oddest-ever-odd year; and you hope that the wisdom of the cake will work its magic just as well; for yourself, for all the cake eaters that have been sitting with you at tea time, J through to D, and, most of all, for those who still feel a little bit peckish and won’t mind sticking around for another year.

ROCKY ROAD SALAMI

When it doesn’t really matter whether changing the past was ever a real thing, you’ve got to focus on this more or less expected time of year, which turns out to be all about juggling Pexmas parties and slow-cooked death and retarded cookies and tarots, present shopping and present giving and present receiving, cake receiving and coffee receiving, and sharing, photo boothing, hair cutting and more or less extensive hair dying (yet, no flamboyaging), mulled whining and vintage weighing and recipe improvising, for cake giving; and if you stopped for half a second and looked in the mirror between each ing (or, if you were to spend four hours at the hairdresser’s sat in front of one of said mirrors), you would be astounded to find you could well be a red-haired modern-day version of Anna Karerinina because you’re smiley like that (and only worryingly less photogenic); but then again, why would you stop for even half a second, when the cross that you bear is half as heavy as you run around pushed by the cold wind, and amazing ventures and adventures await, and there’s the new best Engl-alian cake setting in the fridge, ready to be shared like your own special version of gold or frankincense or myrrh, except it’s made of Italian chocolate and English tea biscuits and a bucketload of Canadian marshmallows because you’ve got to make the most of what you’ve got, to wake that winter sun at last.

POMEGRANATE JELLY DESSERT

One may, with good reason, expect the world to stop when chocolate eating competitions in the kitchen at five in the morning, Italian cooking classes with a vegan twist, pain au chocolat engineering works and other amazing adventures to that effect abruptly cease until further notice, leaving you with a number of bruises on miscellaneous parts of your body, Hamlet’s dilemmas over your toothbrush, a smelly stuffed raccoon the size of a child as a door stop and almost socially acceptable eating habits.

However, surprisingly, New Wave songs keep playing and Italian Christmas cakes again will find their way to you and cupboards WITH FUCKALL IN IT sit untouched in the middle of the office and the world carries on turning; and just as surprisingly, you may realise that you kind of see some beauty in it, be it in the form of smiley hungry people, or tailored shopping advice, or punk department stores with breath-taking vintage ceilings and coconut cream, or Christmas presents coming all the way from China; so you don’t mind strolling along for a little while; and if you slip or stumble or don't win the lottery on the way, you’ve got a brand new Italian moka pot and two whole jars of the most delicious festive fruity dessert all to yourself; and in the unlikely event that no one else picks you up, they will; and they'll hold your hand and carry your bags and walk on with you.

MINCE MUFFINS

If I were to decide to become a part-time psychic when I grow up, I know one day I would look into a snow globe and see this time of the season, and a very pretty house in a part of town that, I’m sure, was well pretty fifty years ago; and there would be a white fluffy carpet and wooden things and bottles as candle holders (there’s got to be candles), and the inhabitants wouldn’t worry too much about leaving the heating on for a while, nor about anything that happens in the outside world for that matter; and they would be sipping hot drinks from big mugs and eating muffins, or mince pies, or both (it’s Christmas).

I don’t know all that much about warm cosy living rooms in Victorian houses or carpets or nice décor, but if I were them, I really wouldn’t complain about such a great selection of Christmas treats; and until I take the leap and become Head of Extrasensory Perception or that season comes and so the snow, I’ll stick to mince muffins and I know I’ll be gold.