I'm nesting again.
I decided to make homemade Christmas gifts for my office - because what do you buy the Finance Director and Managing Director? Exactly. I decided they could each have a jar of the previously blogged marmalade, and that I'd bake gingerbread biscuits to go with. I felt pretty smug just thinking about my cunning plan.
I made efforts to keep a Sunday free from engagements, and I holed up with my ingredients and festive spirit for a baking extravaganza. Miracle on 34th Street was on in the background, and I pottered around my kitchen in Christmassy contentment.... I tend to veer between the ages of 6 and 60 during December.
So it turned out the recipe was a bit complicated - separating eggs and creaming butter and sugar and all sorts of intimidating technical jargon which generally just means 'stir'. This is the bit where you add all the lovely Christmas spices and mix it all about a bit.
This is the bit where it nearly all went wrong and I broke my whisk. I was temporarily fooled by the technical jargon (creaming, incorporating, folding), and so resorted to the failsafe of stirring. Worked a treat. And yes. That is my Macbook dangerous close to a bowl full of sticky goo. Evidence of me living my life on the edge.
My dough! This had to sit in the fridge in clingfilm for an hour before the intensive manual labour of rolling it all out - enough time for me to see Santa Claus speaking sign language to the deaf girl. A Christmas tear was shed.
The fun bit! Rolling and cutting and baking.
The best bit. Sampling. Before applying Vogue treatment to the unashamedly un-Vogue cookies - wrapping them in chic black tissue and placing in overpriced boxes. The only way to smuggle this amount of festive cheer into the building. Sarah-1, Humbug-0.
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