After a whirlwind 4 days in Edinburgh (which pips Paris as the Most Romantic city I’ve ever visited, though of a slightly more rain-slicked, gritty ‘there’s a high chance you’ll have your throat slit by a Demon Barber-esque’ vibe) I’m heading back to Oxford with my friends for Christmas.
A bit over-excited at the prospect of a Real British Christmas (ie. not one spent sweltering in 40 degree heat, baulking at the prospect of hot pudding or roast anything) we somehow agreed to cook turkey for 20-odd people. Well, it started out as volunteering to host for a few friends. Then, like a rotting salmon tossed willy-nilly into a dumpster, (and I say this lovingly), we somehow attracted all the Oxford strays. Everyone generously agreed to bring food, but patently ignored our ‘Perhaps a ham/other protein?’ suggestion in favour of the cheese and Bûche de Noël options.
I’m really looking forward to a big Christmas, just a bit apprehensive about being on poultry duty. Every TV holiday episode I’ve ever watched has involved a broken oven, attempts to cook the bird in the washing machine, or someone making an awkward declaration of love with a turkey on their head. And if there’s one Christmas gift that keeps on giving, it’s salmonella.
That said, Tori successfully manned the mocktail stall at our high school fete for 3 years, doling out winsome combinations of coconut cream, pineapple juice and Cottee’s cordial. I was self-declared Vice Chancellor of Barbeque. Freya comes from the school of cooking thought that anything can be improved by the addition of avocado or bacon. We’re pretty much 3 culinary geniuses.