Christmas cookie box for comfort
Welcome to The Christmas Menu
Welcome to The Christmas Menu #1. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing a selection of indulgent festive recipes. Today’s edition features my first inaugural Christmas cookie box/selection. Five biscuit recipes with multiple creative variations - plus, for your convenience, all the recipes are in a downloadable pdf - hurrah!
Oh, and this is a rather long post, so feel free to view via the website or app if the email cuts out.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my Christmases as a child. They were, what some might call, idyllic. The house, festooned with soft vintage Christmas lights and smelling of cinnamon and cranberries, seemed to be a hive of activity. With the fire roaring in the hearth, and the Christmas tree groaning with gifts for friends, cousins, aunts, grandparents, great-aunts, and other relatives, whose exact kinship was always a mystery, there was a palpable sense of expectation.
My Mother, somehow managing to move at a million miles an hour, would be cooking something hearty and comforting whilst wrapping presents, and entertaining an endless stream of guests. The only sign of her exertion was the faint blush on her cheeks, earned from hurriedly whisking dishes in and out of the oven with an ease that, to me, seemed almost magical. The enchantment of the season wasn’t in the decorations or the traditions, but in the way she wove joy into every detail — with her hands, her voice, and the quiet, tireless orchestration of it; now I realize, Mum was the magic all along.
Somewhere between my twenties and thirties, something imperceptibly changed. The magic of Christmas didn’t vanish entirely, but there was definitely a subtle, bittersweet shift.
Lately it feels as if there is a heaviness, as if time is bending and folding. Have you felt it too? The world that once brimmed with promise and delight now feels layered, blurry, its weight pressing in from all sides.
A few months ago, my father told me he has cancer. It's the kind that doesn't go away. Some mornings, I wake up filled with joy, momentarily forgetting—only for the melancholy to return, heavier than before.
It’s funny, when confronted with something like our own mortality, which we try, everyday, so desperately to ignore, a strange shift occurs. You begin to value, in ways that might sound clichéd, each moment. The things that once seemed so important begin to lose their hold, becoming distant, abstract. You begin to view your life, the quotidian practices, through a new lens — one with a sharper focus. There’s a necessary and unavoidable stripping away of the old, a quiet dismantling of what no longer fits.
I remember when I was a child, on cold, rainy, miserable December days, when complete darkness settled in by 4pm, Mum and I would ward off the melancholy by baking. Biscuits, muffins, cakes, peppermint creams — the tactile process of cracking eggs, chopping cold, very cold butter, dusting the rolling pin with flour, pressing down, and rolling out would bring a sense of excited anticipation. Skin to wood, wood to dough. Before long there would be gift boxes of sweets nestled in tiny gold paper cases and cellophane bags of biscuits secured with coiled lengths of red ribbon.
As the cookies baked, sweet spiced fumes would escape the oven. It’s impossible, I discovered, to feel sad while inhaling the scent of sugar slowly caramelizing. Dad would return from work and eagerly grab a handful of cookies still warm from the baking tray. To my delight, he’d gobble them up right before supper, laughing at my mother’s feigned outrage. Crumbs sticking to his beard, he’d announce - 'I’m saving those for later,' and wink, as I giggled.
And so to our first edition of The Christmas Menu. These cookies were born from a sense of preservation. A quiet decision to not let go. There’s something grounding in the act of baking. If you feel tightly wound, especially during this season, unravel in the kitchen. Cooking will put you back together, piece by piece. In every slow stir of the spoon there is solace. With every pinch of spice, memories are evoked. During the quiet act of cooking, the rhythm of the kitchen becomes an unspoken language, almost like prayer.
These cookie recipes aren’t easy or simple, but neither are they difficult. They take time, and that’s exactly the point. Not only do they make lovely gifts, but the confections fill your house with wonderful aromas that, despite the weight of your circumstances, gently remind you that the magic hasn’t disappeared. It’s still here, quietly waiting for us to carry it forward.
For my inaugural cookie box, I’ve chosen five standout recipes, each with the potential to be modified. These aren’t just cookies, they’re the foundation for experimentation and the creation of something new - a celebration of sweetness that veers from the classic to the unexpected.
First, there are the Meringue Coffee and Chocolate Kisses: a layered affair of buttery dark chocolate shortbread sablé, a rich coffee and chocolate fudge, and a spiced mini meringue perched on top. Next, come the Cranberry Whip Tea Cakes—a refined take on the classic Tunnock’s tea cake (a childhood favorite). Picture cranberry shortbread as the base, layered with a tangy-sweet cranberry filling, crowned with a delicate cranberry marshmallow, all enrobed in a glossy coat of dark chocolate. They may be a touch fiddly to assemble, but the result is worth the toil.
For balance, the Matcha and White Chocolate Cookie Sandwiches (below) step in. Crisp, shortbread layered with a cushion of cranberry compote and matcha white chocolate ganache - unusual and delightful. And then, another childhood favorite: Calissons - heart shaped. Hailing from Provence, Calissons are a centuries-old confection made from a smooth paste of citrus candied fruit and ground almonds, traditionally topped with a thin layer of royal icing. Rarely seen nowadays in shops and often pricey, they are said to have originated in Aix-en-Provence during the 15th century as a wedding delicacy. My version isn’t strictly traditional, but it’s absolutely delicious—and best of all, no baking is required.
Finally, the Spiced White Chocolate Salami. Another no-bake creation, this moreish delight is packed with glacé fruits kissed with warm spices. A sliceable confection reminiscent of Christmas cake, this offering is sweet, fragrant, and perfectly festive.
Each recipe is designed to stand alone but can also be adapted thus offering endless creative possibilities for your cookie box.
Hybrid recipes - a chance to get creative
With recipes like these, brimming with multiple elements, there’s plenty of scope to create cookies featuring different combinations without having to master new recipes. Here are a few ideas:
The extra hybrid recipe options
Meringue Coconut Kisses
Meringue Pistachio Kisses
Meringue Pistachio and Coffee Chocolate Kisses
Citrus Marzipan Cookies
Cranberry Sablés
Chocolate Sablés
Meringue Kisses of all sorts
Once baked, dip some of the meringues in chocolate, then sprinkle them with toppings such as shredded coconut or chopped pistachios. For a twist, use any leftover chocolate coffee fudge (from the Meringue Chocolate and Coffee Kisses) to sandwich together two meringues.
Extra Shortbread Sablés
Bake a double batch, or set aside half the dough from any of the shortbread recipes. The dough freezes wonderfully for months or can be kept in the fridge, unbaked, for a few days. Once baked, dip the shortbread in white or dark chocolate to add a little variety to your cookie box.
Calissons
Here’s a tip: if you have leftover marzipan dough or decide to double the recipe, roll the extra dough into a log, refrigerate for an hour and slice it into rounds. Bake at 160°C fan for 7–8 minutes, and you’ll have sweet, fragrant marzipan cookies. They’re really delightful, eaten warm, straight from the oven, or perfectly chewy, cooled.
All the recipes in one downloadable pdf - hurrah!
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