Today, we remember a Christmas . Glazed December 24, 2008, bin January 20, 2009. We also honour a , rescued from brining in 2010, only to perish by New Year’s Eve. We recall, with regret, a nut-roast, December 25, 2011—the year of my remorse. Two kilograms of that thing, surprisingly tasty, got chucked. This was an affront to all .
Heck, this is an affront to you. You who are good, and not given to order an outrage of ingredients, or posh crackers, or small-batch verjuice for which you have no actual culinary plan, just because it’s Christmas. You don’t hear someone blessing Ye Merry Gentlemen, then forget all sense of portion control. You are no monstrous consumer who orders a bird equivalent in weight to three Kardashians. Even when you will not, in fact, be cooking any meal.
“We’ve just saved ourselves $2.99,” is the sort of thing I say to a fist full of my homegrown mint. Then Christmas flips me into a food-snob.
The way I shop and cook in December conveys that I have lost (a) my marbles (b) connection to all physical matter and (c) the right to use a credit card. And this is particularly jarring because in June, or any month those Herald Angels stay quiet, I find true fun in kitchen thrift. “We’ve just saved ourselves $2.99,” is the sort of thing I say to a fist full of my homegrown mint. Then Christmas flips me into a food-snob who will not visit ALDI, and into a beast who can never buy enough of far too much.
Perhaps there’s something about Mary, and her Holy Son. Because when I look at pictures of these figures, I begin to believe I, too, can perform a loaves-and-fishes miracle in reverse. One New Testament tells that Jesus nourished a multitude with a miniscule amount. I believe I can do the opposite: cram food fit for an entire football league into one small aunty, one partner and me.
It is never wasteful to be truly generous.
And then I believe in every specialty store I visit that I have miraculously expert taste. In a temperature-controlled cheese cellar this week, I ran hot and ordered things with names I had never encountered. The bill was a horror, and so, to be honest, was the Appenzeller. It may be the best of all the Appenzeller cheeses. The point is, I would not know and have no business pretending that I do.
My conduct is a scandal. My Christmas shopping habits would appal. I should be banned from December. All of this is true.
Okay. Perhaps not quite so true as I have enticed you to believe. Maybe my poultry was not half the size of a celebrity family. Maybe Aunty Joan was only a little bit ill from over-feeding. Maybe an abnormal weight of Christmas has not perished in my post-Christmas fridge. Although, yes, I do go a bit potty in the supermarket the minute I see synthetic snow begin to fall upon its shelves and, yes, Appenzeller is a cheese that I should never have tasted.
Maybe, though, you also turn to moments of thrilled excess at Christmas, Iftar, Passover, Diwali or any occasion at which food is served with extra concern for people.
Maybe you will over-bake a little this weekend. You might, say, double that recipe, in case a pal pops by. This is lovely. It is well within the spirit of loving abundance that all feasts in all faiths permit. This gesture of yours says to others: you are my neighbour, and I will give you just a little too much.
It is never wasteful to be truly generous.
It is always wasteful, however, to truly order too much ham.
Helen Razer is your frugal food enthusiast, guiding you to the good eats, minus the pretension and price tag in her weekly Friday column, . Don't miss her next instalment, follow her on Twitter .
