On the Significance of the Mince Pie.

We start with a simple quiz:

‘What are the two great culinary icons of Christmas in the British Isles?’

Turkey and mince pies.

‘Correct. But suppose you’re vegetarian?’

Then the humble mince pie stands alone and proudly aloof as the only culinary marker of the festive season.

Correct again, and that’s why one of my very few nods to the Christmas tradition is to buy and eat a box of mince pies. And I pay due homage to the yuletide connection by never eating the first pie until Christmas Eve, and making sure that I leave the last one until New Year’s Eve.

Excuse me.

‘What?’

You have a bottle of port as well.

‘I know, but you don’t eat port; you drink it.’

Does that make a difference?

‘Yes.’

Oh.

My mother used to make her own mince pies, of course, and so did a neighbour of mine called Dorothy who was the closest I ever encountered to a Christian in the nicest sense of the word. But Dorothy belonged to a previous incarnation in another Shire many leagues from here and many moons in my past. And my mother is well settled in the undiscovered country, so these days I buy them in a box from the supermarket.

And so the tradition is now firmly established. Some time shortly after nightfall on Christmas Eve I open my box of mince pies, remove one carefully so as to spill no crumbs, and then declaim: ‘Greetings, oh humble icon, and compliments of the season to you. I am about to devour you so as to prove to myself and any others who take an interest in my spiritual wellbeing that I have no truck with prisons or workhouses, nor any desire to see the surplus population reduced. Your humble life is, therefore, and though short, of great significance, and you stand rightly esteemed before the heavenly host.’ And then I eat the mince pie (hoping all the time that I've just been talking to something entirely lacking in sentience because it would bother me a lot to see it shiver.)

My hero

And mince pies are not always humble, you know. All you have to do is add a little more butter to the flour, make the pastry thicker, stir something alcoholic and posh like brandy into the filling, and you have a confection fit to take pride of place among those smug, self-satisfied suburbanites smiling their sickly smiles on TV cookery shows. Or so I'm told.

But mine are humble. They come packed in a box of six for £1 from Tesco. Seems more fitting, somehow.