Recipe for Scandinavian Christmas Vodka

In a complete change of tack from my usual blogging, here is a recipe for a lovely (and definitely alcoholic!) Christmastime drink. I have been making this with enthusiasm for several years around this time of year and consuming it during the Holidays with even greater enthusiasm! I recommend it as an accompaniment to pre-dinner nibbles - I'd choose blini and caviar! Enjoy and go steady - it's pretty potent stuff! Remember breathe OUT after swallowing unless you want, literally, to take your breath away

You will need:
700ml ordinary vodka (no need to buy the fancy stuff here)
2 tablespoons of granulated sugar
2 sticks of cinnamon
12 whole cloves
12 whole cardamon seeds
1 orange (you only need a strip of fresh peel - you can eat the rest!)
An empty one litre bottle or other glass container with a tight-fitting lid- use one with a wide neck it will make life easier later on and be sure it's been thoroughly cleaned
Empty bottles to decant finished liquor later on

Here's what you do:
Put the sugar, cinnamon, cloves and cardamon seeds into the clean container.
Pour the vodka on top of the sugar and spices.
Fasten tightly, shake thoroughly and leave in a cool place, such as a pantry, for two days, during which time you should shake the bottle several times.
At this point cut a long strip of orange zest, drop it into the mixture and leave for another 24 hours.
You can alter the flavour slightly either by infusing the spices for a few days longer or adding the orange zest along with the spices.
Strain the liquor and pour into the other empty bottle(s). Serve very chilled.
Skal!

Being pale is not a crime!

WHAT is this obsession with getting the perfect tan? I don’t mean by roasting yourself in actual sunlight. Let’s face it, chances are that the long-term sun worshipper risks the permanent appearance of a wrinkled prune, never mind the well-documented health risks.
No, I’m talking about that WAG favourite: the fake tan.
Come on, admit it. If you’re a girl of Northern European complexion, you’ve probably been slathering it on by the bucket load. Now I’m beginning to think I may be the only pale woman left in Britain.
You see, this year I decided to go “au natural”. Not, you understand, that I’m in any way opposed to artifice. I rarely leave the house without a decent coat of make-up and my hair long since lost its colour virginity.
But, while I might, from time to time, assume the mane of a blonde or redhead, I’ve become bored by the weekly ritual of streaky ankles, orange fingertips and the constant aroma of digestive biscuits.
OK, I’ve never been what you’d call a natural beach bunny. At the first sign of sunlight I encase myself in layers of clothing and SPF50. But this year I’m content to be what I am: fair and freckly.
Yet this seems to bother other people. Just try being truly pale and buying make-up. Assuming you can find a colour that matches your ivory tones, you still can’t go to a beauty counter without the saleswoman setting about “warming you up” with her latest bronzer.
Why do I need to be golden to be happy? I’m not sad, I’m not sick. I’m just pale.
You might be wondering why my photograph shows me with a decidedly golden glow. Let’s just say that without the intervention of Photoshop, all you’d see would be a mop of hair and a pair of eyes.
Last year, The Year Without Summer, I’d gradually allowed my fake tan routine to slide. There’d been no sunshine, so absolutely no-one had acquired a natural tan. Everyone knew that all those golden girls were faking it; it didn’t seem necessary to go through all that rigmarole.
Until, that was, a young man promoting a new beauty salon stopped me in the middle of Derby. I say stopped, it was more like grabbed, but anyway, he kindly informed me that I looked “in need of a makeover” and invited me to visit the establishment.
Perhaps I’m being harsh on the lad. Perhaps he was showing refreshing honesty rather than relying on outrageous, if predictable, flattery. But it struck me that he might be a more successful salesman if he avoided insulting potential clients.
Could I possibly look that bad? I called on my so-called friend for moral support. She said I looked “a bit peaky” which is code for: “To be honest, you look so pale I want to bring you smelling salts.”
I protested: “But I’m not ill. This is what I look like. All the time. Underneath all that blusher – this is me.”
She looked confused and then her faux-glowed nose crinkled up in sympathy. It wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for, but it was the moment I decided to stop pretending. To embrace my natural pallor and play the pseudo-sun-kissed game no more. To just be me: pale – and content.
And I’m not the only one rebelling: there’s even a Facebook group for those who refuse to conceal their alabaster skin. It’s not because we don’t care, or because we’re ill, or even that we’re being brave. It’s just that we’re, well, comfortable in our own skin.