Cultureshock

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Video transcript

A baking tray like many others,  but for me this baking tray prompts memories. . . . . .

Memories of mince pies made by my mum.  Pastry filled with sickly sweet mince meat, my favourites covered with icing with half a shiny glace cherry on top.

Memories of mince pies and of Christmas.  The excitement of Christmas Eve, lying in bed for hours and not sleeping wondering what would be there for me when I woke up.

Memories of my dad's hiking sock - filled with goodies and always with a satsuma in the toe and a bag of chocolate coins which would be gone before breakfast.

Waking my brother and sister up to find out what they'd got - and then eating some of their coins too.

The lovely warm smell of roasting turkey wafting up the stairs whilst downstairs the bright, twinkling lights of the Christmas tree swamped by presents waiting to be unwrapped.  The yearly jokes about my grandma's wrapping paper - bought from Chester market and so thin that the corners of the selection box always poked through.

The ritual, followed year after year, of sitting on the stairs whilst my dad hands out the presents.  Ripping off the paper or carefully peeling back the sellotape to reveal what's inside. 

Playing new CDs and peeling sprouts.

Drinking sherry with my nan and lipstick kisses from my grandma.

This tray reminds me of eating til I think I'm going to burst then falling asleep in front of the queen's speech, so warm and full that there isn't any other  option.

Then tea and mince pies, hoping there'll be some left with icing and a half cherry on top. 

And when it's all over, the baking sheet goes back in its cupboard to be brought out again next December.