Now I know these two words may sound a little shocking coming from someone who writes non-stop about food, but I think this Christmas, finally, I’ve had my fill of food, glorious food.
It feels like all I’ve done since Christmas Eve is eat, drink and sleep. I’m sure there’s been something in between but for now it escapes me. It started fairly harmlessly – a little duck pate on crusty bread, orange juice and lemonade, a slice of ham, but it quickly escalated into a white wine-mini sausages-tin of chocolates-pickled onion-turkey picking-cranberry topped pork pie binge. Oh yes.
Christmas Eve saw the mulled wine, mince pies and the cold meat spread for friends. The breaded ham, the rare rib of beef and the potato salad were all laid out, enticingly beautiful. Oh, the temptation! Christmas morning started perfectly with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon and a chilled glass of Cava. Then off to Rob’s parents for a spectacular Christmas lunch with all the trimmings and plenty of wine all day. Cheeses in the evening rounded the day off nicely. Onto Boxing Day and our second turkey dinner. Don’t look at me like that, I have to cook a turkey every Christmas even if I’m eating elsewhere on the big day. Then it was turkey and mayonnaise sandwiches (of course), more cold meats with pickled onions and coleslaw. More wine, port, Tia Maria!
It was delicious, it was what Christmas is about, it was a feast fit for a King and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. But I’ve done more than my fair share of groaning on the sofa and I’m now entering that post-Christmas guilt-ridden time when I’m thinking I really must get back down the gym and I should perhaps cut back on the portions a little and I must cut down the alcohol intake. So enough is enough and I’m closing the fridge door and walking away. For now, anyway.