Can you hear that crackling sound? That’d be Mariah Carey defrosting for Christmas – a surefire sign that soon enough, you’ll be in the middle of an argument about who scoffed all the purple Quality Streets while staring into a glistening graveyard of discarded wrappers, as the dulcet tones of All I Want for Christmas Is You jingle away. Sigh.
If, like me, you’re a food and drink journalist, ’tis also a sign that this could, possibly, be the season that you finally meet your fate. You see, to write about consumables is to find yourself constantly tiptoeing a tightrope suspended above the very real (read: practically inevitable) threat of gout. Why? Because much of my job hinges on, er, diligent journalism. In a world blessed by the creativity of countless chefs, producers and makers, my peers and I are responsible for highlighting the best there is on offer. Between writing, attempting to adhere to deadlines and writing some more, this involves a whole host of artery-clogging activities, such as delving into the nuances of comté; reviewing the ever-multiplying hot-takes on the good old ‘tini; and discerning which butter-drenched dishes to digest courtesy of the country’s newest restaurants – all while attempting to remember something, anything, about fine wine.
At this time of year, the tightrope is more precarious than ever. In the run up to the upcoming religious holiday it’s my job – nay, my duty – to sample an obscene number of festive (read: cinnamon-dusted), so-called ‘gourmet’ nibbles and bubbles in the name of finding out whether they’re worth your hard-earned cash come Christmas. And so, the months between July and January are a blur of beige indulgence, because here in the UK, nothing says “thrilled!” about the birth of Jesus more than throwing calorific caution to the wind. Champagne, ethically questionable goose liver products, mince pies with actual meat in them (yes, really), stollen flown in by jetpack and panettone crafted by Italian elves become my five-a-day – a not-so-gentle reminder of why Father Christmas’s belt finds itself under so much strain. That and why it’s often so difficult to look at one’s bank balance throughout November and December.
Admittedly, though, most journalists aren’t paying to sample such delights. Print media is, of course, in decline, and the expense accounts which once allowed for truly unbiased, unquestionably ethical journalism are now practically non-existent, meaning most of us plod between Christmas preview shows slinging back free bubbles like it’s 9am at Wetherspoons in Stansted airport (from experience). Needless to say, it’s fairly easy to get used to – especially if, like me, you’re from a working-class background.
In case you hadn’t already guessed, this clashes with a large proportion of the British media. According to the NCTJ, 80% of the British media are from professional and upper-class backgrounds, and at this time of year, the difference between the upbringing of my peers and me becomes all the more obvious. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the world of food and drink writing is yet another microcosm in which snobbery thrives (well that and body-shaming, sexism, racism and nepotism – but let’s pick up on that another time), providing simple, accessible ways for those with privilege to sneer at others, whether that’s via a bottle of £7.50 prosecco, a Cadbury’s easter egg or – god forbid – New Zealand sauvignon blanc. And me? Well, I love Dairy Milk, because when I was growing up in one, then two, working-class households, a few squares of Fruit & Nut were the ultimate treat.
The world of food writing is yet another microcosm in which snobbery thrives
My parents – a former electrician and a nighttime care worker – separated yonks ago, and so to Macaulay Culkin’s delight, my sisters and I have celebrated Christmas twice a year since. Depending on how you look at it, this is either a blessing or a curse. On a good day (overlooking the inevitable arguments over Monopoly, the remote and politics) it’s the former – an excuse to indulge in twice the cheer, and turn an otherwise ordinary day in late December or early January into a celebration of family, friends, organised fun and gravy. Plus, I can only applaud my parents for managing to stay together for almost 18 years, considering their approach to food is about as similar as sriracha and salad cream.
For my mum and her longtime partner, their love language is abundance. Ensuring that their cupboards are always full to the brim is a matter of pride, and one less thing to worry about when they come home from work. They’re big on food and, like me, love experimenting, so they’re always buying whatever wacky flavour combination is on offer down the shops. At any time of year, making a pilgrimage to their home is a joyous, one way ticket to snack city, turning my sisters and I into cupboard goblins who make endless cups of tea as an excuse to try the new Club bars they picked up at B&M, before being sent home with a trolley load of instant ramen, snacks, or green beans plucked from their garden.
Christmas is no different. Actually, scrap that. Christmas is on another level. Comfortable clothing is mandatory and a Mr Kipling mince pie, box of Celebrations or festive-flavoured crisp will be offered to you at 15-minute intervals. After a fry-up and Freixenet prosecco for breakfast and a nibble of a Mars selection box for brunch, we celebrate with plates that are the antithesis of the considered, curated ones which fill my food-focused Instagram feed.
Joanna Taylor's Christmas feast
David Harrison
At home, more is more. And while some might consider mountains of turkey, gammon, roasties, veggies and cauliflower cheese with Paxo stuffing and Bisto as the immoral, middle-class sin against the rule of ‘quality over quantity’, it brings me the utmost satisfaction – especially when washed down with my step dad’s favourite pairing: Casillero Del Diablo merlot. Plus, that’s just the precursor to my favourite bit: my mum’s enormous Bird’s trifle straight from the box, topped with a cartload of hundreds and thousands.
For the most part, Steve (that’s my dad’s name, FYI), has a different approach to food. Unlike me, he mainly views it as fuel and nutrition – eating only when he feels hungry, and adding garlic and fresh tomatoes to just about anything and everything to “thin his blood” or for the general benefits of “loads of vitamin C”.
This has a lot to do with the reason he doesn’t know much about what I do – because he’d think it was absolutely ridiculous (which, yes, it kind of is). He does, however, remember the things my sisters and I have enjoyed throughout our childhoods, and at Christmas he goes all out, gifting us lumpily wrapped multipacks of our favourite Cadbury’s chocolate bars from Poundland in lieu of selection boxes because “you get more for your money”; stocking up on the big one-litre bottle of Baileys; and splashing out on Tesco’s own brand pistachios, which he’ll ration for fear of being accused of gluttony.
At home, more is more
Sometimes, a roast chicken will be the main event, studded with enough garlic to keep Dracula in Transylvania and accompanied by his mother’s closely guarded gravy recipe. We eat Pringles while we play Monopoly Deal and inevitably fight over who left only crumbs at the bottom of the tube before someone brings out everyone’s favourite… (sparkle emoji, please) the Boursin, which is considered a very foreign cheese. In fact, there was once widespread outrage when I deigned to bring a quirky assortment from Neal’s Yard, for it was “stinking out the fridge.”
To any self-proclaimed foodie (ew) looking in, my festive feasts don’t exactly resemble those of an expert – a person whose job it is to seek out and critique the best day in, day out. And while I’m well aware that mass-produced chocolate, cheese and wine don’t exactly scream ‘I know what I’m talking about’, ‘support small’, or ‘I have an unrivalled palate’ (whatever that means), I couldn’t care less. Why? Because these food choices bring me the utmost comfort. Because it’s not just what my family can afford, it’s what we enjoy – and unbeknownst to the Tory government and many of my privately educated peers, it’s far more than what so many people have access to.
So, no matter how many awards I win or articles I write, catching people flare their nostrils at the whiff of a Pringle or calling Boursin “cheap shit” will never bother me – whether it’s designed to provoke shame, cement superiority, or as a matter of taste. After all, it’s all about perspective, and for me, that “cheap shit” is anything but. Instead, my family’s choice of festive fare offers a taste of treasured memories, inside jokes and unforgettable tantrums. It’s a love language only we can truly understand. Anyway, talk of blends, ageing and yields is boring when there’s Scrabble to win. Plus, the other 363 days, I’m on the clock. Well, unless there’s a piping hot Greggs steak bake looking my way…
