Despite being stuffed... it’s still all about the leftovers

We can’t get away from it, and even after the over-indulgence of the festive season all Fiona can think about is food, glorious food

Twelfth Night is upon us – and I am just imagining the scene in your perfect house. Sparkly baubles wrapped in tissue paper and carefully boxed. Flimsy fairy lights deftly wound between hand and elbow and tied with string (to prevent nightmare tangles the next time they come out to play…).

Traces of silver and red tinsel are vacuumed up. Wrinkly red berries are picked from the backs of sofas.

The holly and the ivy are placed in the compost bin – chopped into pieces, of course, to break down waxy leaves.

Christmas cards are recycled, or better still, cut into gift tags, in readiness for next year’s present giving.

Bins that were brimming with paper and packaging have now been emptied.

Bottles have been taken to the bottle bank. Embarrassing, yes. Must do more next time. Or, perhaps that should be less…

And with luck, that band of merry folk that arrived on Hogmanay and decided to stay have slept off their bad heads and have also gone their way…

We are shovelling the festive season out of the window as fast as it will go. The question is, what to do with all the leftover food?

Over the last fortnight the experts tell us we have eaten for Scotland. Six thousand calories on Christmas Day alone, according to one helpful survey.

Which is three times the recommended intake for a woman. And two-and-a-half times the number a man should healthily consume.

It is all relative, I suppose. And in times past, our relatives did not baulk at the idea of a great feast... or two.

At one ancient repast in Iona, some 900 cows were reputedly devoured to mark the burial of a Lord of the Isles.

At one royal 16th Century wedding, the guests sat down to 50 courses. When they opened their napkins, tiny birds flew out of each one, filling the room with song.

Then that was Italy. I can’t see it happening here – even in the upmarket Fair City of Perth, or the Kingdom of Fife.

Yes, after the merrymaking, following all those smoked salmon breakfasts and turkey-filled dinners, it is back to reality.

I open the fridge to survey bits of sorry-looking glazed ham.

Then there is that wedge of stilton that’s getting mouldier by the day.

Those crumbs of Christmas pudding are only being kept alive by the alcohol inside them.

Our relatives did not baulk at the idea of a feast... or two

Not that this stops us thinking about food. The chief is having toast and he asks if we have any marmalade.

We do not. But we do have a jar of gooseberry jam I made last year.

Gooseberry is a first for me. And I am not sure it has worked.

It is runny and rather sour. Apart from that, I tell the MacGregor it is really rather good. He takes a taste and winces. Even the MacNaughties are not tempted.

I tell him any port in a storm. And talking of that, where is that half-empty bottle…?