Trisha Ashley - Footsteps in the Snow and other Teatime Treats

You can see Holly, the heroine of one of my novels, The Twelve Days of Christmas, preparing and cooking for just such a Christmas feast and she has it all well in hand by the day itself. And when I got married, for the first few years I too produced the kind of Christmas I’d been brought up to expect, with roast turkey, cake, pudding, trifle and mincepies … but always in a laid-back manner. I mean, if the legs drop off the turkey as you take it out of the oven, it’s a pretty good sign it’s cooked, isn’t it? And if you don’t have a set time for Christmas dinner, then it’s ready when it’s ready. And remember, there will be no Christmas police checking that the crackers match the tablecloth and decorations, that there are chestnuts in your stuffing and you’ve bought a hideously expensive but trendy kind of Christmas pudding, or even popping back later to ensure you’re all watching the latest Dickens TV adaptation: God Bless Tiny Tim … again.

But as the years passed, I began to change the Christmas traditions to suit myself, mixing old and new and forging our own way of doing things. For instance, none of us were mad about turkey, but we all loved roast duck – so now we have a Christmas quacker, with delicious potatoes roasted in the fat and petits pois. This is followed by profiteroles with chocolate sauce. We do have Christmas pudding – but on Boxing Day, when we are not quite so stuffed full and can appreciate it more.

I make my Christmas cake in November, to the same rich fruit cake recipe (which you can find at the back of my novel Wedding Tiers) I use for most celebration cakes, though using dark rum instead of sherry. Then I marzipan and ice it, before adding a polar bear cunningly poised on a snowy hummock, ready to leap onto a jolly and unsuspecting Father Christmas, who is waving at an oversized reindeer. Behind this little group are three bristly green bonsai pine trees and a giant robin. A fringed red, green and silver paper band is wrapped around it, secured with a dab of icing.

Nearer Christmas I’ll bake a ham and a few mincepies – but a lot more of the yummy mincemeat flapjacks I devised a few years ago, when pondering what to do with the inevitable bit of mincemeat left at the bottom of the jar.

There’s a large trifle to create, too, in the cut-glass bowl with a gold rim that was my grandmothers. I can take three days over this, one layer at a time. But there’s no rush, is there? It will be ready for after dinner on Christmas Eve, covered in fresh cream and with a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands melting into rainbow swirls.

Then, just for fun, I’ll make a batch of fondant sugar mice with string tails and dozens of spicy, crisp gingerbread stars to hang on the tree.

In early December I’ll have made the annual expedition to the frozen attic in search of the boxes containing the tree and baubles, not to mention the large porcelain-faced figure of the Angel Gabriel, who seems to like to hide himself away, so that a second expedition usually has to be mounted to find him.

And when it comes to decorations – well, forget themes, for I’m the least likely person to wake up one day thinking, “Mmm, I think I’ll have an upside-down black tree this year and a black and blood red theme throughout the house. Wonder where I can buy matching holly swags and door wreaths?”

No, out will come the cheap gold tinsel tree that my toddler son fell in love with so many years ago, to be heavily loaded with every treasured old glass ornament from the box – birds with fibreglass tails, violins, trumpets, bears, dogs, icicles, Santas and snowflakes. And then, the crowning glory, I’ll top it with a papier-mâché Santa that my mother’s sister bought when she was four, which makes it over ninety years old now. The red robe has turned the colour of Brown Windsor soup and at some point he’s been misguidedly embellished with a white cotton wool beard and a smattering of scarlet glitter glue, but he’ll still benignly preside over all.

It looks quite magical when it’s done and the house, garlanded and redolent of Christmas spices, seems by Christmas Eve to have acquired a heady sense of mystery and expectation, even if it doesn’t remotely resemble anything in the magazines.

So … I suppose you could say that I am a traditionalist; only most of the traditions are of my own devising and make for an easy and stress-free Christmas.

And every year, just as I’m starting to wonder if those are snowflakes or seraphic feathers lazily swirling down from the sky, the Angel Gabriel finally turns up.

In Annie Moss, James thought he’d found the perfect tenant for the cottage he’d inherited from his great-uncle. She was in her mid-thirties, quiet and widowed, with no children to trample mud onto the newly-fitted carpets. Then he remembered that she was a gardener, so might well do that herself!

But as if she could read his mind, Annie smiled at him and said, “I’ll look after the cottage really well and leave my muddy gardening boots in the porch, I promise.”

Their eyes met … and held. His were a forget-me-not blue, reminding her of the fresh promise of an April sky, while her brown ones made him think of the dark velvety softness of pansies …