By MC Fletcher,

I don’t know whether it’s the same in the States, but one thing there’s no shortage of in the UK at present is cookery programs. One of the dominant franchises is Masterchef—to the point that there are now three different incarnations of the format! The original Masterchef pits amateur cooks against each other in the now all-too familiar knock-out format, “And the chef leaving us is… (doom-laden pause).” Celebrity Masterchef puts celebrities through the same process (with the one difference that some of them appear barely able to boil an egg at the beginning), and Masterchef—the Professionals sees actual I-do-this-for-a-living folk going head-to-head in a swirling kaleidoscope of veloutes, purees, foams, and tuiles.

What all of them have in common (or had, until COVID made everything so much harder) is that at some point you see each chef working in a real live restaurant, placing their dishes on the pass and shouting “service please.” Their work done, they stand back and watch their creations go out to the waiting diners. And at some point, there is always someone who is late to the pass. Disaster. Diners waiting five minutes for their food.

This year, as usual, I was late to the pass. Not with my sous-vide confit of organic corn-fed guinea fowl, garnished with hay, smoke, and an oyster broth, but with writing my Christmas cards. I was reluctant to even begin. After all, it’s our second COVID Christmas. The UK is waiting to see what Omicron will do. Headlines blare imminent disaster. Will the boosters save us? How many might die in January? What about the economy? And just what did happen at those Christmas parties in Downing Street? And meanwhile wildfires blaze, again, in Australia, and extreme weather wreaks havoc in the USA… and please, don’t even mention Afghanistan…

With all that going on, it was a real struggle to get going. What would my friends and family think, especially those who are mourning the deaths of loved ones or struggling with their mental health, when a cheery “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year” landed on their doorstep? But equally, did they want “Oh woe is us, the end is surely nigh?” Perhaps better to say nothing at all.

And so the address book stayed in the drawer, and the cards remained resolutely unwritten.

Until I realized it was all right. I could do this.

I could send cards that contained cheerful greetings and wishes that my family and friends WOULD have a merry Christmas and a happy new year. That’s what I wanted for them, after all. And on the same cards I could add messages that acknowledged, and offered to share the weight of, their very real grief and pain.

My Christian faith teaches me that that the Creator sent redemption into the world in the form of a human baby, and that through that act, healing, wholeness and joy—yes, JOY—are available for all, however dark the world around us may seem. And so last week I finally sent my cards out—tiny glimmers of light, I hope, in a dark year.

And by means of this Reflectionary I get a bonus—that of wishing every single one of you reading this a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

MC Fletcher (she/her) is Lindy Gifford’s cousin. She identifies as a Christian, and lives with a grumpy but beautiful cat in the glorious Cotswolds. (Lindy Gifford is the editor of Reflectionary.)

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