It's five minutes past ten (or it is as I start writing this) and I've just poured myself a large glass of my first drink of the night. And I have to work tomorrow.
If you're thinking that's a little late, then screw you. I've just spent the last two plus hours making this damned drink, I'm going to drink it.
I'm of the school of thought that Christmas food isn't Christmas food unless you shed tears and maybe even blood in its preperation, and I'm now apparently ready for Christmas. I don't know what kind of eight people the author of this eggnog recipe
was thinking of when they said "serves eight", but I should have taken a proper look at the quantities before making it - I thought it's just be a few drinks for the flat tonight then another couple of nights finishing of. I did not expect to be in tears over the search for a bowl big enough to fit it all in. But then, I was also under the impression that I owned a working mixer and wouldn't be hand beating eggs and cream - three sets of beating in general. I hate hand-beating; I'm crap at it and always have been. Really. Phone my ex-boyfriends and ask.
My arm hurts, my kitchen is an utter state, and I have a very strong rich drink to get through. AND I'm frazzled and stressed.
Yep, feels like Christmas.