Propa Crimbo

It's that time of year again! And I couldn't be more full of holiday cheer if you hooked the stuff up to my veins, or if you killed me, hollowed me out like a turkey, made holiday cheer stuffing, and crammed it up my ass.

I'm just one of those people who loves the Christmas Season. I can't help it. I wouldn't want to help it. While the rest of you scrooges were moaning about how the sudden drop in temperature these last few days has been giving you nipple frostbite, I've been relishing in this winter wonderland, licking frost off the ground like there's no tomorrow (not actually licking frost off the ground, because that's just dirty, but I was licking it with my eyes, as a watched it from the comfort of a warm fireside couch indoors, if that makes any sense at all, which it doesn't). Maybe it's my memories of last Christmas, which I spent in Canada with my cousins in their big mansion (expect some kind of look-back-to-last-Christmas blog in the near future for reasons why this was so amazing), which mean the cold weather evokes a sense of joy in my usually bitter and cold heart, I don't know. Whatever the reason is, I'm Christmas crazy and I'm hear to stay.

What do I love the most about Christmas you ask? Well, I'm a self-confessed lover of literally anything and everything to do with Christmas, but this year for some reason I've developed a deep desire, a craving much like the ones I assume pregnant women get, for mulled wine. I've only ever had mulled wine once, and that was years ago. I can barely remember the taste. But for some reason I want more of it, I want it so damn bad, I want pots and pots of it right now, steamy, sweet, warming, wholesome, liquidy, tasty, alcoholic, sexy mulled wine, and I want to be sitting around a real fire with my friends and we all have mulled wine in our hands and it's just starting to snow outside and there might be carollers somewhere maybe outside down the other end of the road I don't know.

When I sit and look at the frost outside I remember coming into my cousins house last year out of the bitter cold after a morning spent skiing - the wave of warmth when you get inside, the relief of peeling off the awkward ski-gear - lying down on the couch with the Little Sis watching Christmas with the Kranks drinking 'hot apple cider' to get some heat back into our frozen limbs. In fact, I like to imagine that mulled wine tastes a LOT like that hot apple cider did, which is probably just shameless nostalgia but anyway... it's weird though, who don't I just want hot apple cider? That would actually make sense... How fucked up do you have to be, honestly?

I went so far as to look up mulled wine on the interweb: it's a lot more complicated than I thought, I thought you just fucked wine in a pot and heated it, but as it turns out there are a number of finicky flavourings you need which probably make all the difference, most of which we just don't have, no matter how many times I empty the contents of our entire kitchen in search of them. So I've decided to make the Big Sis do it (what are women for anyway?); she'll probably make it better, and it means I don't have to do anything. So expect a euphoric after-sex mulled wine blog to follow this one, hopefully with a photo of me and the mulled wine in all its hot apple cider-esque glory. Alternatively, expect this to be my last ever blog, as I may die if and when the mulled wine does not taste exactly like the hot apple cider I had one time last year in Canada.

Adieu!