Whether it’s the amount of cynicism I carry on my shoulders since turning vegan, or simply due to getting older but, Christmas doesn’t excite me the way it used to. Since I let home and Santa Claus deemed me oficially too old to receive a Christmas stocking, I have almost come to dread the festive season; it brings a dent in my wallet, a spike in my anxiety levels during the extreme sport of last-minute present shopping, and an unshakeable feeling of guilt that I can never afford to gift my loved ones anything that accurately represents how grateful I am for them.
I know, I know — where’s my Christmas spirit? Although I have undoubtedly grown to become a twenty-two-year-old Ebenezer Scrooge (something that my mum reckons makes me sound even more like my Dad than I usually do), there are two things I have always looked forward to when it comes to Christmas — spending time with my family, and that infamous, widely-celebrated Christmas dinner. My mum cooks a mean roast dinner, and the Christmas variation is nothing short of a culinary masterpiece.
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