I’ve started early this year. My excuse is that soon I’ll set off for my other life in New Zealand, where the bright light dims the Christmas feeling a little, and where nothing quite tastes the same, however familiar it looks.

The first mince pies of the year summon shards of memory. In my childhood, we made them from scratch. First the mincemeat was mixed together in the big pan and cooked on a little paraffin stove, before being put into jars. The pies were made in dozens, in the weeks just before Christmas. The fat (margarine and lard - butter was too expensive) was rubbed into the flour, a little water mixed in to make the dough. After rolling it out on the wooden board, two sizes of pastry circles were cut out. The larger circles were put into the tin with a spoonful of mincemeat. A touch of water on the edges of the smaller circles made them stick on to cover. And then, three actions over each pie to make the lovely crusty tops – brush with milk, sprinkle with caster sugar, and prick with a fork to let out the steam.

We made Christmas puddings too, and cake, from almost the same ingredients. The sultanas, raisins, and currants had to be washed and then dried on a rack for several days, covered with a cloth. Nutmeg and mixed spice, only used at Christmas. Demerara sugar, bought specially. And black treacle, with the bees around that poor lion, “Out of the strong came forth sweetness”.

These smells and tastes and textures were special to December and part of the building excitement that culminated in mysterious parcels waiting in pillow cases on Christmas morning.

With my mince pie, I think about our human labours and pleasures, and the precious new meanings being added year by year.