This time of year, I tend to spend a lot of time in the kitchen. There’s a lot of pre-Christmas Day stuff to prepare, as well as the almost continuous need for mince pies. Add to the usual, the fact that we’re going to celebrate ala Sweden tomorrow with a Julbord, and it means a lot of kitchen time at Chez Gaz.
Not that I’m complaining. No, I love it. I especially love my mince pies though they do keep mysteriously disappearing.
Mind you, the pastry’s a bit thick on this latest batch. I reckon St Delia would be very disappointed in me. Hopefully she’ll not see the photo above.
I was going to make the rodbetsallad (beetroot salad) but realised late on that I’d finished the mustard on the ham the other day. Never mind, I said to no-one in particular, I’ll do it tomorrow.
Fortunately, I could manage today’s biggest job, which was the makin and pouring on of the royal icing for the cake. It’s pretty labour intensive but well worth the effort. Not that my artistic skills are anything to write home about.
As can clearly be seen from the above photograph, the snake from yesterday has completely vanished beneath the thick, white snow. I’m a bit concerned for the kid lying down. He is sitting dangerously close to the serpent’s mouth.
In the meanwhilst, Mirinda was busy making a seriously good centre piece for the dining table. As well as bits and pieces of garden foliage, it also includes some tiny little figures she bought on one of her lone forays into Stockholm.
Mirinda didn’t add the pine cones. They were Emma’s contribution.
Note that the white balls are not mistletoe but little lights. I’ve gone off mistletoe after discovering that it killed Baldur, one of the most loved of the Norse gods.
All of that aside, the best news today was that the cottage, the millstone around my neck, the constant worry and worst purchase of our lives, might be very close to being finally sold. After a year and three months, it might all be ending early in January. Of course, I’m not being too optimistic, but this is the closest it’s been.
