Esther McCarthy: I panicked about cooking Christmas dinner, but it's just a carvery with tinsel

Anyone know if Deliveroo is available over Christmas?

OK, we’ve done it. We’ve officially invited the in-laws to Christmas dinner. To be fair, it is our turn. And it’ll be nice not to have to change out of the jimmie jammers on the 25th. 

It’ll also save some time not having to go through the charade of trying to figure out who should drive (him, obviously) and who should be able to have a drink (me, even more obviously).

The kids can stay playing whatever moronic video game they’ve got, and we can make passive-aggressive comments about who forgot to buy batteries in the comfort of our own home.

The downside of this is, of course, that it means we’ll have to cook the dinner. THE dinner. The meal everyone’s been waiting for the whole year. We’re expecting a total of about 15, give or take a surprise uncle here or there.

I was in Douglas Shopping Centre the other day, and I started seeing butcher shop signs rotating before my eyes like an Alfred Hitchcock scene. “Have you ordered your Christmas turkey?”

Close up on my terrified eyes darting side to side, mouth wide in a silent scream of despair. Tippi Hedren thought she had it bad with those crazy crows; try imagining giant turkeys with that weird wagglely red yoke invading your subconscious. Gobble gobble, is right, but I have to buy you first, you modern dinosaur type creature.

And then I read a post that made me feel a lot better. Its basic premise is to just treat it like it’s a Sunday roast. What an epiphany!

We’ll have to cook the dinner. THE dinner. The meal everyone’s been waiting for the whole year. Picture: David Davies/PA Wire

Shur, I’ve made dinners for gangs before. It’s just stupid society, playing me like a cheap violin, making this meal into this mythical sacred thing.

Get over yourself, Christmas dinner, you’re just a carvery with a bit of tinsel. I’m breaking it down into manageable steps, like I tell the kids to do if they feel overwhelmed by a big project.

Right, the turkey. Why bother with a big yoke with legs and that weird pockmarked skin that just reminds you that feathers have been ripped out of the poor thing’s body? No. I’m going to get a few rolled and boned ones and shove them all in the oven. 

I also plan to wear an apron for the first time — one, to impress the guests; and two, more importantly, to protect my festive pyjamas from wine stains. If I’ve learned nothing from cooking shows in the 1980s, it’s that the chef must slosh some full-bodied wine about whilst creating culinary masterpieces.

Thank Zao Shen (the kitchen god), Keith Floyd was on the telly when I was growing up.

My brother-in-law is renowned for his hams (not a euphemism, get your mind out of the gutter).

He does something with cider or cola, I can never really hear over the sound of my own chomping, but damn it’s good. So a few well-placed hints (ie a text: Bring ham) and I can cross that one off my list.

Spiced beef, non-negotiable, I will boil that the day before, if only for the soothing smell and the Christmas Eve sandwiches.

Stuffing. Buying it. Easy.

Gravy ... I know there are whole books, blogs, and bibles dedicated to mastering the perfect gravy, involving reducing chicken polyps or pre-roasting vegetables or reanimating your grandmother’s ghost to get her to reveal her secret stock. But, do you know what, I’m going to buy a box of Bisto and I’m going to boil the kettle — whilst wearing my apron and sloshing my wine.

My brother-in-law is renowned for his hams (not a euphemism, get your mind out of the gutter).

Vegetables. Big deal. Throw a few packets of frozen sprouts and baby carrots in, and add a pound of butter and some parsley when they’re in the nice serving bowl. A doddle, what’s next?

Roasties. I make a good roastie, it must be said. But I’ve recently discovered a packet in the frozen section in Aldi, and Sophie Morris would be weak for me because the ingredients are just potatoes and beef fat.

I shall also add a pound of butter and some salt, and pepper and present them as my own. I might pre-nick a finger for the laugh. I’ll sigh, holding up my bandaged finger as we tuck in. 

At this point, I imagine both I and my pinkie will be well plastered.

Importantly, the Elf on the Shelf — that little snitch — will be gone back to the North Pole by then, so I should get away with it and stay on Santy’s good list.

Desserts, buy meringue cases, get the kids to chop up some fruit, finish with a pound of butter — wait, no, I mean whipped cream.

If I’m feeling especially optimistic/drunk in the lead up to the day, I might even dust off the ole Thermomix and try that lemon drizzle cake I made once before that didn’t poison most of the people who tried. Then Irish coffees, tins of sweets, sneaky farts, and a nice movie.

There is a tiny issue in that the kitchen isn’t exactly, well, in existence. It’s in that lovely in-between stage of the old kitchen ripped out, and the new kitchen in boxes. It’s like the house is pregnant with a kitchen, and its due date is around the third week of December. It will be GRAND.

On a completely unrelated topic: Anyone know if Deliveroo is available over Christmas?