‘But . . .’ My shoulders sagged. ‘I thought we could just . . . buy that? Maybe?’
Oh God, who was I trying to kid? Like he’d go along with buying a jar of mincemeat when he could spend hours making it himself. Like he was ever going to ‘chill out on the perfectionist front’!
‘Joking,’ I mumbled as he opened his mouth to argue. ‘Of course we should make the mincemeat first. I was just joking.’
I was not ‘just joking’, if you’re in any doubt. Moreover, I was starting to wish that Jo had included a recipe for managing pernickety chefs in her collection: Take one large spoonful of patience and add to simmering rage. Grit teeth for at least ten seconds before opening your mouth. Most importantly, try to resist taking your heaviest frying pan to your chef’s head . . .
‘Ooh, these are good. Did Ed make them?’
I grinned at Annie and rolled my eyes. It was the Girls’ Night In that evening and the café was buzzing with twenty or so women from the village. ‘Of course Ed made them,’ I said. ‘I was just Muggins, the dried-fruit-weigher and washer-upper.’ I dabbed a finger to catch the last crumb of pastry on my plate and popped it in my mouth. ‘Bloody tasty though, aren’t they?’
‘They’re lush,’ said Martha, Annie’s daughter. ‘I hope you’ll bake some more for the Christmas Eve bonfire.’
‘Already on my list,’ I assured her. ‘Which is just as well, seeing as Ed made so much mincemeat, we’ll probably still be eating it next June.’
It had taken way longer than I’d expected for the mince pies to even get into the bun tins, let alone into my mouth. First, the combined mincemeat ingredients had to stand for twelve hours, before being gently cooked for a further three the next morning. This was not a recipe for an impatient type of person.
Despite the unbearable waiting around, there was no getting away from the fact that the resulting jars of mincemeat looked gorgeous, especially when I’d put red gingham covers over their lids and tied them with string. ‘That’s a row of Christmas presents right there,’ I said, lining them up on the scrubbed pine table and photographing them for the book.
The finished mince pies looked even better. We found recipes for two different varieties in Jo’s folder: star-topped pies and frangipane ones, made with almond pastry. Ed baked both sorts, so that added up to three new recipes in all for the book. Hurrah! Progress at last.
This was going to be the last Girls’ Night In of the year and I knew there would be a good turnout, so I’d piled up two big platefuls so that everyone could sample them. The Girls’ Night In was now a staple event in Carrawen Bay. I had started it back in the summer, basically because I was lonely and knew nobody in the village, and had issued an open invitation to any women who wanted to come along, preferably with a bottle of something and a plate of nibbles to share. We usually had twenty or so people turning up for gossip and a drink, and I now counted all of these ladies as firm friends – from teenagers like Martha, right through to silvery-haired, retired ladies such as Florence. Blonde, smiling Annie was my chief cake-maker, who’d supplied us with her creations throughout the summer months. Hawk-eyed, no-nonsense Betty owned the grocery shop in the village and had terrified me initially, but was an absolute pussycat when you got to know her. There was pink-haired Mags, the mobile hairdresser; well-spoken Elizabeth who ran the local book group, and many more.
‘Now I feel properly Christmassy,’ Betty said, munching her way contentedly through a star-topped mince pie. ‘These are the business. Couldn’t touch a shop-bought one now I’ve tried yours. Not that I’ll be going near any shops for a while, other than my own.’ She gave a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Finished my Christmas shopping this morning, didn’t I?’
‘Finished?’ I yelped, half-admiring, half-panicked. ‘Blimey, Betty, I haven’t even started mine yet.’
‘What are you going to give Ed for Christmas?’ Florence asked, eyes twinkling. She was a big fan of romance and had become the group’s unofficial agony aunt over the months. She’d certainly been instrumental in making me realize my feelings for Ed.
‘Hmm,’ I said. Good question. ‘I don’t actually know yet.’
Betty looked appalled. ‘You haven’t started your shopping and you haven’t even thought of what to buy your boyfriend?’ she said. ‘Come on, lass, shake a leg. Only three weeks to go now, you know.’
‘Three weeks and two days,’ I replied, correcting her. ‘And I’ve got tons of ideas for his stocking anyway. It’s just his main present I’m a bit stuck on.’