It's only bloody Christmas AGAIN - it feels like it's only been a year since we were last celebrating, and then there was the one before that, and at least five before that one...and with every passing year Christmas starts that little bit earlier. This year, I'll be looking to get my Turkey in mid-August to beat the back-to-school rush. However, nothing can diminish the glee I take in Christmas
I am particularly excited for this one. The last few Christmas's have been overshadowed by things like the collapse of my career, or the searing pain from a recently inserted catheter, but this Yuletide is going to be different. Obviously I'm still on dialysis, but at Christmas I 'forget' about my high potassium level and eat as much chocolate as I can cram into my mouth before I have a heart attack - and by 'Christmas', I obviously mean 'December', so I am certain to start the New Year 1/2 stone heavier with shocking blood work, but the alarm on my consultant's face is all part of the festive fun.
This year, I have (inexplicably) offered to host Christmas Day for my family. I am currently two weeks away from C-Day but my enthusiasm is still peaking (despite my colleagues actually, physically laughing in my face when I told them) because I am blissfully ignorant about exactly what it is I've agreed to. 2010 was the year I discovered my latent skill in the kitchen, but most of my recipes involve a maximum of 2 pans and usually involve tossing everything into a wok. I have never attempted a roast dinner. I have been warned that preparing Christmas lunch involves timing, planning and organisation of a military standard, but these are not what I'd consider my key skills: I discovered my passport had expired 2 days before I was due to fly to Tenerife and only because my father told me to.
I am choosing not to dwell this; instead, I am focusing on the superfluous fun bits: the table centrepiece; the baking; the gift buying...so, ok, no, I haven't yet checked to see if my oven is begin enough for my turkey but I am determined to stand tall in the face of everybody's cynicism and remain composed and so far, so good: the (possibly redundant) turkey is ordered, my shopping is complete and I have decided on the centrepiece, even though I have concerns about how long it will take to stud ten oranges with cloves. As the host on Christmas Day, it will be my job to create a calm and pleasant atmosphere for my guests; ergo, I have created a Chopin playlist and bought cinnamon candles. Neither will be enhanced by the sound of gravy pans crashing to the floor and the word "fuck" coming repeatedly and volubly from the kitchen, so apart from doing as much in advance as possible, I have elected to follow the advice of The Guardian and take my guests up on offers of help. By midday my kitchen will resemble a Mumbai sweatshop but if it means we eat by 2pm, so be it.
There is one minor glitch, just a small thing really: I had been planning to do the bulk of my food prep on Christmas Eve and spend the evening wrapping presents by the glow of the tree whilst Carols played from Kings...but as it turns out, what I shall actually be doing is dialysing and trying to avoid eating the hospital food Christmas dinner the nurses bring round on a trolley. Hospital food Christmas dinner is an oxymoron. Although they also wheel round a booze trolley, even though you can't get drunk because the machine cleanses the alcohol right out of your system - and believe me, I've tried. I have yet to figure out a way around this, but I remain undeterred: I'll have to pack as much into the morning as I can - and I hear red cabbage can be frozen. Today is 9th December (or so my Dairy Milk advent calendar tells me - that's right Mummy, IT'S GOT CHOCOLATE IN IT) and I am a paragon of poise. Of course, there remains the possibility that I'll give my family E-Coli, or burn down the kitchen, or we'll have to re-use our cutlery God forbid...but that's the beauty of Christmas: there'll be another one next year. And I hear it's due to kick off in March.
I am particularly excited for this one. The last few Christmas's have been overshadowed by things like the collapse of my career, or the searing pain from a recently inserted catheter, but this Yuletide is going to be different. Obviously I'm still on dialysis, but at Christmas I 'forget' about my high potassium level and eat as much chocolate as I can cram into my mouth before I have a heart attack - and by 'Christmas', I obviously mean 'December', so I am certain to start the New Year 1/2 stone heavier with shocking blood work, but the alarm on my consultant's face is all part of the festive fun.
This year, I have (inexplicably) offered to host Christmas Day for my family. I am currently two weeks away from C-Day but my enthusiasm is still peaking (despite my colleagues actually, physically laughing in my face when I told them) because I am blissfully ignorant about exactly what it is I've agreed to. 2010 was the year I discovered my latent skill in the kitchen, but most of my recipes involve a maximum of 2 pans and usually involve tossing everything into a wok. I have never attempted a roast dinner. I have been warned that preparing Christmas lunch involves timing, planning and organisation of a military standard, but these are not what I'd consider my key skills: I discovered my passport had expired 2 days before I was due to fly to Tenerife and only because my father told me to.
I am choosing not to dwell this; instead, I am focusing on the superfluous fun bits: the table centrepiece; the baking; the gift buying...so, ok, no, I haven't yet checked to see if my oven is begin enough for my turkey but I am determined to stand tall in the face of everybody's cynicism and remain composed and so far, so good: the (possibly redundant) turkey is ordered, my shopping is complete and I have decided on the centrepiece, even though I have concerns about how long it will take to stud ten oranges with cloves. As the host on Christmas Day, it will be my job to create a calm and pleasant atmosphere for my guests; ergo, I have created a Chopin playlist and bought cinnamon candles. Neither will be enhanced by the sound of gravy pans crashing to the floor and the word "fuck" coming repeatedly and volubly from the kitchen, so apart from doing as much in advance as possible, I have elected to follow the advice of The Guardian and take my guests up on offers of help. By midday my kitchen will resemble a Mumbai sweatshop but if it means we eat by 2pm, so be it.
There is one minor glitch, just a small thing really: I had been planning to do the bulk of my food prep on Christmas Eve and spend the evening wrapping presents by the glow of the tree whilst Carols played from Kings...but as it turns out, what I shall actually be doing is dialysing and trying to avoid eating the hospital food Christmas dinner the nurses bring round on a trolley. Hospital food Christmas dinner is an oxymoron. Although they also wheel round a booze trolley, even though you can't get drunk because the machine cleanses the alcohol right out of your system - and believe me, I've tried. I have yet to figure out a way around this, but I remain undeterred: I'll have to pack as much into the morning as I can - and I hear red cabbage can be frozen. Today is 9th December (or so my Dairy Milk advent calendar tells me - that's right Mummy, IT'S GOT CHOCOLATE IN IT) and I am a paragon of poise. Of course, there remains the possibility that I'll give my family E-Coli, or burn down the kitchen, or we'll have to re-use our cutlery God forbid...but that's the beauty of Christmas: there'll be another one next year. And I hear it's due to kick off in March.
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