This Christmas, it’s safe to say that there hasn’t been a cooler cucumber ever to exist than yours truly. You see this year I rested safe in the knowledge that my trifle would NOT ruin Xmas….thank you very much. But such Kanye confidence in my own abilities has not always permeated from my very being. No, several years ago on Christmas Eve I was in a spin to the point that I could no longer attribute it solely to riding high on a bellyful of sugary cream. Generally, sweet nectar makes me squirm in my seat, but not while simultaneously pilfering one of Mumsie’s cushions for lint balls while balancing inanimate objects on my head! Absolutely, there was so much more than carbohydrates going on, and after much reflection, the only culprit I could narrow it down to was- buckling pressure to perform. Somebody (me) was said (by my sister) to be bearing the potential for ruining Christmas, and I was concerned that they were right. Allow me to take you back in time…

I arrive in Sydney to partake in festivities with family. I’ve been up since five in the morning for an early entry into the gauntlet of transport that interstate travel involves. Finally, my weary frame staggers through Mumsie’s front door. Now, any normal human would have sought retirement, but I am fuelled by holiday cheer — the kind that clings to one’s heart’s cockles like the sugar and cream I spoke of, just prior. Despite my wretched state, I present myself as a volunteer offering (a saintly elf, if you will) to the job of “setting up”. The house is alive with a preparative flurry — everyone working in unison on separate, allotted tasks. My two sisters are both crafting and cooking with the same level of technique required for rubbing your belly while patting your head. One brother-in-law is literally building a sleigh out of a nappy box, while the other is prepping three meats. And lastly, Mumsie is buckling under the tallest order of all — staying off her phone for one day of her life! As you can imagine, everyone is carrying a weighty load.

With the enthusiasm of a child, I penetrate the motion to enquire of my task and to this, one sister answers, ‘ONLY the trifle!!’ The same sister then swoops to shield the holiday season further from potential threat, as she leans in to hiss: ‘Don’t. Ruin. CHRISTMAS!’ No doubt her alarm bells are set off by my inability to adhere to recipes, and my more recognized ability to turn every cooking venture into either a la carte, or take-out, with nothing in between.

Her point that Christmas is not the time for experimenting with trifle recipes is a valid one, and so, with the gravity of the situation in mind, I get to work… experimenting… But this time, with much more meth-lab precision governing my steps than usual (I’m deathly afraid that it will all blow up in my face). I cut, cook, measure, and regularly inject my throat (for testing purposes, of course) until I finally declare the results of the perfect hit of cream, fruit and sherry.

And now looking back, I’m proud to say that despite concern, my trifle recipe did NOT ruin Christmas… thank you very much! Nor did it ruin it this year when I took it for yet another spin. But if you care to scroll to the bottom of the page you can see who, on the other hand, DID crumple under pressure all those moons ago…

Here she is, cracking under intense phone pressure. There. Are. No. Words!