When I think about cooking at Christmas, I don’t remember recipes or timings — I remember being small, probably under someone’s feet, watching everything happen from the edge of the kitchen. I was born in 1983, so my Christmas memories are all late-80s warmth and noise, when the kitchen felt like the centre of the universe.
Christmas morning always started early, my sister and I we’re often up way too early (4-5am some years even earlier) to open presents! We’d all pile into mum and dad’s bed, excited that Santa had visited once again. The sounds of wrapping paper being torn, mum and dad moaning its way to early and the gentle boil of the teasmade in the background. Eventually we would get up out of bed and make our way downstairs with arms filled with our Christmas spoils. A few hours would pass and the smells began to waft through the house!
The radio was on, playing the same songs every year, and something was already cooking long before I fully understood what it was. The windows were steamed up, the oven door was opened far too often, and the whole house smelled different — richer, warmer, more important than an ordinary day.
I remember adults talking in half-sentences, checking things, tasting things, telling me it wasn’t ready yet. Vegetables were peeled by hand into bowls that overflowed, The kitchen was busy but calm, full of movement and quiet excitement rather than stress.
When it finally came time to eat, everything felt louder and brighter. Christmas crackers were pulled with exaggerated seriousness, paper hats were worn at ridiculous angles, and the same bad jokes were read out every single year — somehow still funny just because it was Christmas. Plates were piled high, seconds were expected, and eating too much wasn’t just allowed, it was encouraged. The table felt endless, full of food, laughter, and the kind of full-bellied happiness that meant you’d definitely need to sit down afterwards.
Food marked the passing of the day. There were little snacks that didn’t count as meals, chocolate that somehow appeared before lunch, and the long wait for dinner that felt endless when you were small.
What stayed with me most was the feeling — that cooking wasn’t just about food. It was about being together, about warmth, about the slow rhythm of the day. Even now, when I cook at Christmas, I’m still chasing that same feeling I felt as a kid in the 80s, standing quietly in the kitchen, watching something special come together.
I hope you get chance to cook something that makes you smile this week.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
