It's Okay… Not to Feel Guilty About Your Pleasures

Every year, towards the end of November, my Mum starts to make mince pies, enough so that we can stockpile them in the freezer, frozen on trays, and later decanted into zip loc bags or Tupperwares to make space for the next tray.

She makes her own pastry, cutting cold butter into flour, adding a little milk, then rolling it out once, twice, however many times she has the patience for, popping it back in the fridge to chill and then out for the next rolling, and the next, and the next.

This year, she did her mince pie-making in my house, a constant stream of narration telling me how to do this for myself next time, as if I would ever deprive her of the unrivalled joy of providing festive treats for her family.

I got 24 mince pies, frozen and tucked away in my freezer; she took 28 to Beatrice, not quite proportional when you consider family sizes, but it was my butter, my flour, after all.