Christmas dinner in the Farquharson household will be a bit different this year. Both my grown-up sons are pretty much vegetarian these days.
I say “pretty much”. There is the occasional lapse. A kebab on the way home from a night out. A roll and square sausage as the hangover kicks in. Accidents will happen.
Their mother and I have also been changing our ways, with only a couple of meals a week containing meat.
So no big bird for us this year. Not being a huge fan of turkey — perhaps due to my inability to cook it so it remains moist and flavoursome — I find myself relaxed about this change.
I am slightly less relaxed about the prospect of ditching the goose fat for the roast potatoes and — a big one, this — a Christmas dinner without pigs in blankets. An alternative centrepiece still has to be decided but a trusted friend has guided me towards a mushroom and chestnut wellington, flavoured with thyme, garlic and goat’s cheese. It sounds fantastic.
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My only hesitation in this domestic revolution is missing out on one of my favourite parts of the Christmas routine: the 100-yard queue outside George Bower butchers in Stockbridge while it is still dark on the morning of Christmas Eve.
People take flasks. There is often someone with a box of mince pies. There is good cheer. There is banter. There is reverse one-upmanship about how chaotic people’s Chrimbo preparations have been and how many presents still have to be bought. Ach, dammit, I might go along anyway, just for the craic.
Giving is still magical
Christmas is much simpler when your children have grown up, especially when they are boys. No longer do you have to forage in Toys R Us for the last remaining gimcrack du jour. No longer do you have to put out a glass of whisky for Santa and a carrot for his reindeer. Actually, I do miss that bit.
So what to get them for Christmas? They have particular taste in clothes, and anyway, what fashion-conscious twentysomething wants to be dressed by their mum and dad? All their music is streamed from iTunes, so CDs are no longer acceptable. DVDs have gone that way too, with the advent of Netflix.
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They have all the gizmos they need, for now. So presents tend to be money, booze and books. Despite this, there will be a couple of surprises under the Christmas tree. I can’t tell you what they are because my sons might stumble across this column and it would spoil the surprise.
But it wouldn’t be Christmas without some oohs and aahs when the wrapping paper is ripped off.
Some things don’t change, nor should they.
I’ve seen the light
Adopting a more vegetarian diet has been a revelation.
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I feel healthier in all kinds of ways, some of which are not appropriate for discussion in a newspaper column often read at the breakfast table.
My changing diet is just one part of a gradual shift towards a greener outlook on life, much to my own surprise.
I admit I used to be a bit cynical about environmentalism. While red and blue plastic boxes appeared on the pavement outside every other house in our street on designated collection days, I tended to file recycling under the heading “can’t be arsed”.
My sons have managed to change my mind. Like many other young people of their generation they have a healthy wariness of received wisdom.
Yet they approach the subject of the environment with intelligence, conviction and commitment.
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They make a compelling case for action and they have changed my mind. So now I am one of the neighbourhood’s most regular visitors to the big recycling bins at the end of the street that have replaced the red and blue plastic boxes.
My sons have made me a tree hugger. And I couldn’t be happier about it.