Food: Let me propose a roast

Whatever your festive feast, it should be oven cooked and generously presented. Photograph by Jason Lowe

I get very wobbly around this time. The tension, anxiety and pressure increase as the final days of the year inexorably ebb away.

This is the time when one and all behave as if possessed for about 30 days, at least. But, finally, the best day of all arrives (and not simply because a group of us always try to have a long lunch at The Walnut Tree in Abergaveny on that occasion, but it helps): New Year's Day. It simply means that it is all over once more, and it is January again.

I suppose it won't be that simple next year. Where will one go? Will the working world simply close down? Just how much celebration will be seen as enough? Wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone chose to stay in and watch a video. Something with Margaret Rutherford in it, perhaps, or Terry-Thomas.

But that morning. My word! That very special Christmas morning. When I was about five, it began at about 5am, with the first handling of a crunchy stocking. From the (inevitable but deeply comforting) bulbous tangerine upwards, this distended tube of long-discarded single sock held such treasures that the very thought of the contents was almost too much to bear. Once finally extracted on to the fluffy folds of a rumpled winceyette sheet, the varied items never failed to give me endless hours of pleasure, so thoughtfully had they been selected. At least until Old Mother Riley, that is: essential viewing of a late 1950s Christmas morning television. Hilarious. This was also about the time that the turkey went into the Aga.

Then there was compulsory church. And the inevitable bits afterwards: "Oh, hello Auntie Jean, Uncle Peter and Auntie Beryl, Mrs Birtwhistle ... Happy Christmas!" Swiftly followed by "What did you get, Robert? I've got a supersonic grabber-dumper-shooter." Sometimes, though, I got handkerchiefs, which was dull. Curiously, nobody thinks to give me handkerchiefs now. I like a nice hanky - with hand-rolled edges, naturally. And from Charvet, preferably.

The special feeling of a childhood Christmas morning remains stamped in my memory. However the day worked out, one thing was certain: it always smelt marvellously good.

In our house, the onion in the bread sauce was so clove-encrusted it resembled a First World War mine. So it was usually the perfume from these diminutive twigs that hovered about the landing. "Keep that door shut", mother was moved to shriek from the top of the stairs as Dad mulched the wet bread into the aromatic milk, having fetched out the deflated onion and lobbed it in the bin, steaming as it sagged, exhausted, among the sprout peelings. We also favoured some apple sauce, too, with our turkey. I haven't a clue as to where this peculiar tradition originated; it was just always there on the table, cranberry sauce as well. Oh yes, we had it all.

Christmas was also the only day in the year that Dad made proper braised celery. Cooked celery is not necessarily one of the most popular vegetables, particularly with small children. The strings tend to wrap themselves around infant teeth in seconds and the flavour itself is complex and challenging to the untrained (unsullied?) palate. But I loved it, and very much looked forward to those sloppy, grey stalks (I think some sliced, dark-gilled mushrooms were included in the braise, too, to give extra flavour). Parsnips, carbonised perhaps a little too well, together with the roasties and - with their all-too-familiar gassy odour - a pot of simmering Brussels sprouts completed the array of festive vegetables.

There were two lots of turkey stuffing: sausage meat beneath the neck flap, and some sage and onion in the carcass cavity. I have never been fussy about stuffings, but will always eat them if they are put on my plate - but then I always eat everything that is put before me, as I know I won't get any pudding otherwise. The turkey was just fine but, even as a nipper, I would always ask for the brown meat. I had sussed out early on that the darker stuff from the leg and thigh actually had some flavour, as opposed to pappy, paper-thin slices of pale breast. But however carefully cooked and zealously flavoured the bird, it always, but always, tasted better pantry-hacked-at later in the day by me and my brother - disguised as pee-breaks during Monopoly. We just could not pass the tea-towel-draped bird, sitting on its big oval dish, without a quick jagged slice, a smear of cold bread sauce and a surreptitious drag through the fat- speckled jelly that lurked beneath its semi-demolished undercarriage.

Whatever you decide to roast - and it is important that it is a roast (be it the traditional big bird, a richly crisp goose, a tray of strong game birds or a joint from a well-bred pig) - it is imperative that the assembly be richly flavoured, deeply savoury and generously presented. It is unnecessary to provide first courses for this feast, as this will spoil the appetite for second - and maybe third - helpings; although a plate of smoked salmon may seem appropriate at the time, it is much more enjoyable for breakfast on Boxing Day, folded into a nice fluffy omelette. Assuming, that is, that there are enough eggs left in the country to make one, and that you have bought the correct frying pan.

As I have never, in my life, roasted a turkey, here is a nice recipe for guinea fowl for Christmas. All the usual trimmings will produce the same seasonal scents. "Bruce! Will you please put a lid on those sprouts. I can smell them on the landing."

Roast guinea fowl with prunes and bacon and Armagnac gravy, serves 4

16 thin slices streaky bacon

16 prunes (stoned) soaked in 250ml hot chicken stock for an hour

1 tbsp redcurrant jelly

1 guinea fowl

softened butter

salt and pepper

juice of half a lemon

1 onion, peeled and cut into wedges

2 sprigs of rosemary

1 small glass of white wine

75ml Port

100ml Armagnac

25g butter

Pre-heat the oven to 425F/220C/ gas mark 7. Roll each prune in a slice of bacon, ensuring the join remains underneath. Place on a baking sheet and put on one side. Put the chicken soaking liquor into a small pan with the redcurrant jelly and reduce gently by two-thirds.

Put the guinea fowl into a solid roasting dish (one that will also sit on a naked flame or burner), smear with butter and season. Distribute the onions and rosemary around the bird, pour in the wine and Port and put in the oven. Allow about an hour's cooking time in all, turning the heat down to 350F/180C/gas mark 4 for the final 15 minutes. Also, during this final quarter-hour, put in the prune and bacon rolls to roast.

Now allow the bird to rest and relax, ensuring that the juices settle in the meat before it is cut. This should be for about 7-10 minutes, and the best way is to leave the oven door open for a couple of minutes to cool down, then pop the birds back, in a clean dish, and leave the door ajar. The prune and bacon rolls can be left in here, too.

Now add the Armagnac to the roasting dish, along with the reduced prune/stock liquor, and stir into the messy onion bits. Put over a flame to heat up. Simmer gently for about 20 minutes and tip into a colander suspended over a clean pan. Allow to drip for 10 minutes and discard the solids. Remove any excess fat from the surface of the gravy with several sheets of kitchen paper, then strain through a fine sieve into a small pan. Reduce until syrupy and then whisk in the butter to produce a glossy sauce.

Carve the guinea fowl, place the joints into a heated serving dish, surround with the prune and bacon rolls and spoon over the gravy. Some small onions, gently cooked in with the bird as it roasts, and finished with a splash of vinegar and a little sugar, can be a delicious addition. Here is the recipe for that braised celery:

Braised celery, serves 4

200ml light chicken stock, not too salty

10g dried porcini mushrooms

50g butter

4 celery hearts (the ones in packets from supermarkets are ideal), the outer stalks peeled

1 tbsp white wine vinegar

1 small clove garlic, bruised

50ml Madeira or medium sherry

pinch celery salt

freshly milled white pepper

1 dsp chopped parsley

Pre-heat the oven to 350F/180C/ gas mark 4. Heat the chicken stock, pour it over the dried porcini and leave to soak for 15 minutes. Melt the butter in an oven-proof cast-iron dish. Gently stew the celery in the butter, colouring it lightly, then add the vinegar. Allow to bubble and reduce to almost nothing before adding the stock and swollen porcini. Bring to the boil and slip in the clove of garlic, together with the Madeira and seasoning. Cover with foil (or put on a lid if there is one) and place in the oven for 40 minutes to an hour. Check from time to time that liquid is still there, turning down the temperature and adding a little more stock if it starts to look at all dry; the finished look should be syrupy and sort of beige-coloured. Conversely, if the dish looks a bit wet, reduce swiftly over an open flame. Discard the garlic clove before serving and sprinkle with parsley