Helen Johnson

We’re snowbound.  It started snowing on Thursday night, with more yesterday and last night.  The village looks like a Christmas card.  The sheep’s fleeces seem golden against the blue-white snow, and everywhere that there’s the slightest hill, children are sledging.

But it’s not so good for driving.  I did my bit for the community, spreading grit on the hill outside my home – but I can’t grit the whole village.

So I stayed in, and have had the most enjoyable afternoon, listening to music, cooking, and watching the sun go down over the snowy garden.

The garden is full of birds: blackbirds and fieldfares eating the fallen apples, while sparrows and chaffinches peck at the crumbs and bacon fat I put out.

I put marzipan on the Christmas cake, then made Stollen with the trimmings of marzipan.  Even when it’s Christmas, I can’t resist the urge to turn left overs into something delicious.

When I started to cook, the garden glowed brilliant white in the sun.  The sun cast golden light onto the pristine snow, dotted with fat blackbirds, fighting over the fallen apples.

Then the sun turned red behind the intricate tracery of the of the bare trees.

I cut up some apples to extend my last two spoonfuls of mince meat, and gave the cores to the hungry birds.  With the apple, I’ll squeeze another dozen mince out of those last two spoonfuls of mincemeat.

With the mince pies and the Stollen, I’ll be well stocked when visitors come.

Sun setting behind my apple tree in the snow