I love Boxing Day. True, it lacks the excitement of Christmas - the midnight mass, the hanging of stockings, the Bucks Fizz, Nigella's Christmas Morning muffins, the ripping of wrapping paper, the candlelit dining table, the silly cracker jokes, the sparkling wine, the flaming pudding, the Christmas specials on the telly ...
But there's joy in waking up (late) the day after, that even a pile of unwashed dishes cannot dampen. It's a slower gentler sort of day. There's a fridge full of food to be eaten, a mountain of books to be read, CDs to be listened to and DVDs to be watched, a jigsaw to be started, boxes of chocolates to be explored - and all the time in the world to do it.
Less expectation. More enjoyment.
PS I may get round to posting a photo later on today. But then again, maybe not.
PPS In case anyone was wondering, the confit turned out alright. A touch salty, as I feared, but no one seemed to mind.
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