The Sunday Slice: my recipe for a Magical Christmas tree
Let's talk tree decoration. Plus the only frangipane mince pie recipe you really need
Our daughter came down from her room so excited to see the tree, which had been decorated over night by the Christmas elves (who else?). According to her, it’s “the most magical” — and she may only be almost three — but she really does know her stuff. This newsletter was always supposed to be about sharing the magic, and this year’s tree has had such an enchanted response, I thought a fun little piece about the method I use to create the ultimate in twinkling, magical, whimsical Christmas trees might be nice to share, as it’s a subject I’ve got some quite specific ideas on. The chances are you’ve already got your tree up, and if so, I would genuinely love to hear from you on your own decorating rituals. Do you stock up on baubles each Christmas? Is your collection complete? Do you make your own decorations? I’m here for it all, so talk to me. If you’ve not yet decorated, perhaps you’ll find some helpful morsels in my very opinionated recipe, or maybe you’ll bookmark it for next year.
I also thought it also might be a helpful time to remind you about my frangipane mince pie recipe, which I shared this time last year, because I know so many of you made and loved them, and we have lots of lovely new subscribers here — hi! so here’s the piece I wrote on these beauties, along with my voice note on why I boldly claim them as the only mince pie I ever make, and the only one you’ll want to make once you’ve tried these buttery, almond-y delights.
I really laughed when I watched this reel by George Lewis about a mother getting increasingly agitated as her small child tries to help decorate the tree. I hard related both to the mother, with her smile/grimace and creeping discomfort, but also to the child, as my mum before me was a stickler for a tree decorated her way, and while I used to try my best to help, she did usually end up rearranging half of the things I’d put on there. Making decorations with your kids is fun. Decorating together, less so, in my opinion, but then my girl is only two. We made dried clementine slices earlier. They are so easy and effective - you just thinly slice loads of oranges or clementines and dry them out on baking paper in a very low oven until darkened and translucent. You can either just nestle them into the branches or string them up with pretty butcher’s string.
Mum’s trees were always glittering and otherworldly, transporting me and my sister to a wintery pine forest dripping with icicles and sparkling with white lights, gnomes and colourful hand painted baubles, all things mum has collected over the years from junk shops, department stores or garden centres. I was fascinated by it, and would race downstairs to see it each morning, deeply inhaling the herbal pine scent that hit as soon as the door was opened. It was satisfying to see my daughter similarly enthralled, but the effort I go to isn’t purely for the kids, it’s something I’ve always done. When we lived in London, our flat had a double height ceiling, so we’d go all-out on buying the tallest tree we could find and making it beautiful. Here’s a picture of me from nine years ago to prove it.
For me it’s not about having a magazine-perfect tree with a carefully colour-coordinated scheme and designer decorations. I want my tree to tell a story. I want to feel something each year when I set about opening up the battered cardboard boxes and carefully unpacking my collection. I get a jolt of nostalgia and comfort when I pull out the shiny blue dog-shaped metal bauble my aunt let me steal from her tree when I was seven, or the pink pineapple a friend bought me one year from Harrods (long before the horrendous revelations). There’s a ritual to it. The Beach Boys Christmas album goes on, we mix White Russians — two ounces of vodka