Out with the old, in with the new

The trouble with buying gifts is the risk of purchasing something for yourself, a selfish act that goes against the spirit of Christmas and the concept of giving unto others. I should have held out till the Boxing Day sales, but what the heck, I splashed out and bought the cookbook and have been working my way through the recipes.

And you know what that means. You have to spring for a whole swag of new condiments and intriguing ingredients you’ve never heard of before.

I take my hat off to supermarket personnel. They possess an encyclopaedic knowledge of the shelves and can immediately direct you to the exact aisle to find that exotic ingredient, something belligerent males of a previous generation would refer to as ‘‘foreign muck’’.

There comes a time in every amateur cook’s life when their signature dishes simply don’t cut it any more. What was once a looked-forward-to favourite dish has become tired and unexciting.

Interestingly enough, I have noticed that even the favourite dish gets sick of itself and will sabotage the creation of it, even though you swear you included the same ingredients and repeated all the old familiar steps. But the cook knows what she did wrong, she took that dish for granted and didn’t show it any love.

When you live by yourself, you can easily fall into slack eating habits. Often I have caught myself eating like a wild animal, wrenching great chunks off a loaf, slapping something dodgy over it and wolfing it down, as if other wolves were about to steal it from you. Just throw a piece of newspaper down on the floor and throw something down on it, why don’t you?

‘‘After all, it’s only me,’’ you growl as the beast in you can’t be bothered knocking up a nourishing repast. A bowl of cereal and milk, or heating something simple up and eating it out of the saucepan, will do. Hey, keeping the dirty dish count down is good for the environment, isn’t it?

Good grief. Time to take oneself in hand. Hence the new cookbook and the vague attempt to do as Julie did, in the film Julie & Julia where Julie Powell, an ardent fan of Julia Child, cooked 524 of Child’s recipes in 365 days.

I’m not going to attempt that herculean task, but I am going to endeavour to bake a chocolate cake with beetroot in it, complete with icing.

I was born of a domestic goddess whose signature dish was her legendary chocolate cake, and she would be dead proud that finally I have taken up the spatula. If I pull it off, I will take a piece of said cake and leave it on the goddess’ grave on Christmas Day. It’s never too late to make an offering.

My new cookbook is a vegetarian one because, to trot out the oft-used quote of the age, ‘‘I want to be part of the solution, not the problem’’.

This year I’ve switched from milk to soy in my coffee in order to be part of that solution.

My cafe of choice has been amazed by its customers’ defection from milk to all the myriad alternatives on offer. We’re drinking our way to a quiet revolution.

To all the cooks out there slaving over your hot stoves on Christmas Day, I take my pinny off to you, and wish you all the condiments of the season.