It may be that the festive season is well and truly upon us. There is no dispute in my mind that this is the case, because in our house the lights are twinkling, the cat is stuck in the Christmas tree, pine needles adorn the floor and the scent of satsumas fills the air.
 
It would be a bleak midwinter if this magical celebration didn't bring joy to our world. It takes a cold heart not to revert to childhood at the sight of frosted windows, bobble-hats and mince pies. It is at this time of year we come together, with families and friends and revel in the warmth of what the season is about.
 
This year, we are none of us giving presents. Instead we are all just getting together, eating and drinking. Those of us that cook are bringing a course to the table, others the wine. It seems to me in this age of 'stuff' that we overlook what is important. I don't want anything else. Apart from maybe books, which I view as a necessity, I can't think of anything material I desire. And that feels like freedom.
 
One great thing is that every meal can be a luxury or ceremony from now on.  They don't have to be fandangos, they can be slow-cooked stews, rich wine based dishes where the meat falls apart in your mouth, a meataphorical cuddle. Or, they can be multi-course majesties, plates delicately piled high with slices of this and scoops of that. Warm spiced smells from the kitchen as cinnamon and cloves gently caress our memories.
 
Traditions at this time of year, as of any other, involve that comfort of familiar ceremony, which reminds us of time passed. And for me, there is nothing more comforting or ceremonial than afternoon tea. It may not be particularly Christmassy, but on cold and dark December Sunday afternoons it feels much more of a treat than in the clinking summer glasses of champagne afternoons.
 
Our table is loaded with cucumber sandwiches, slices transparent with a light sprinkling of salt and pepper. Thinly spread buttered white bread and some, maybe a third, have a few mint leaves in them. Next to these delights are the cheese ones. Grated cheddar it has to be. Triangles of soft white bread around the slightly tangy shavings of that wonderful Englishness. And finally, on the sandwich front, we must have some ham. Trashy yet fun, these offer a piggy counterpoint to the nurseryishness of the others. I prefer these to be fingers of bread, but others may need them somehow else. And of course, not a crust in sight.

The next plate has hot, steaming crumpets piled high. Butter melting into the holes and slowing gilding the plate. A small pot of jam sits nearby but I can never really bring myself to sweeten the purity of simplicity. Being Christmas, there may be a mince pie or two warming in the oven as well. However, the king of afternoon tea, as far as I am concerned, is the combination of a still slightly warm Victoria sponge cake with a china cup of real leaf tea. The pillowy air-light sponge, the dense, sweet buttercream and the exquisitely thin layer of strawberry jam against the slight tannins of the tea are a match made in heaven. Our tea was a blend of Kenyan and Assam, enough bite to match the sweetness, but not overpowering it with mouth puckering sharpness. Beautiful.
 
  And as outside the snow and ice froze harder and the lights on the tree twinkled brighter, we thought "who wouldn't want to be here right now?"