Monday 13 December 2004

it's beginning to taste a lot like christmas

This weekend, I did a ton of Christmas baking. I made millionaire bars (shortbread base, ooey gooey caramel layer, topped with melted chocolate), Nanaimo bars, and gingerbread cake. Good news: if you work at my office, I will be bringing in said Christmas goodies later this week or early next week. Bad news: they are currently sitting in my fridge and I have been scoffing them down every time I visit the kitchen - I may have to lock some away to ensure I've got some to share at a later date. Next weekend, I will be making peanut butter cookies (not very Christmassy, but my father in law loves them) and something called "snickerdoodles", which Nigella assures me taste like baked cinnamon doughnuts in cookie form.

I usually overindulge in Christmas treats every holiday season. Sadly, this year, I physically cannot stuff myself because the baby is using all of my stomach real estate. I am hungry - eating for two is a delightful concept - but I cannot eat more than an average plateful of not terribly rich food. Gone are the days of dunking Christmas pudding in my egg nog, whilst shoving turkey legs in my mouth (and chucking the bones over one shoulder). No more teetering mountains of tin foil balls from the 305 chocolate santas I've ingested in front of the TV. Candy canes go undunked in my hot chocolate, second helpings go to my husband, and all you can eat buffets are wasted on me unless I bring Tupperware to take food home with me. I might have a glass of port on Christmas Day, wacky gal that I am.

Not only do I lack the stomach room, I seem to be developing t-rex arms as the weeks go by. Last night during our roast lamb dinner (half a leg, it was marvellous, plus we have leftovers), I pulled my chair up to the table as far as I could. Sitting a good two feet away from my plate, I tried to get slices of gravy-covered lamb into my mouth without dribbling on myself. My short arms couldn't compensate for the belly bump, and even though I was leaning as far forward as I could, gravy spilled down the front of my shirt. There's just no graceful way to recover from something like that, especially when the dog takes an interest in cleaning your shirt for you.

It'll still be like other Christmas holidays, come to think of it. I'll be falling asleep on the sofa shortly after lunch with my trousers unbuttoned. I just won't wake up with a hideous hangover this time.

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