Frozen Chopped Onions: A little Christmas self-respect

I loathe writing about Christmas in November.

There. I’ve said it.

In fact, I would argue that all references to, thoughts about and decisions concerning Christmas should be politely postponed until around 15 December. There is absolutely no need to be thinking about wrapping paper, festive menus, table decorations or whether Auntie Joan will be offended if you don’t buy her the usual scented candle when we’re barely into November.

And yet, here we are.

Because Christmas has a rather impressive ability to arrive long before the actual day. It arrives in the shops, in our inboxes, on social media, in the school newsletter and in the increasingly lengthy list of things that apparently need to be organised, purchased, remembered, prepared and delivered.

For many women, particularly mums, the external pressure is enormous.

There are expectations about making Christmas magical. Creating memories. Keeping traditions alive. Making sure everyone has what they need, likes what they’ve been given, eats what they’ve been served and has a lovely time.

And who, exactly, is making sure that Mum has a lovely time?

It’s worth remembering that Christmas sits within a much older midwinter story. Long before the commercial festivities we recognise today, people marked the turning of the year through Yule and other midwinter traditions. There was fire, light, warmth and gathering together during the darkest part of the year. A time to pause, to find comfort and to recognise the gradual return of the light.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve managed to turn that into a logistical exercise involving seventeen varieties of cheese.

Perhaps we could reclaim a little of the original spirit.

Not by doing more, but by allowing ourselves to be a little different.

Enter the frozen chopped onion.

Many years ago, at a networking breakfast, a woman was talking about the pressure she felt around Christmas. A man suggested that she should buy frozen chopped onions.

It was a wonderfully simple suggestion.

I’ve taken it a little further.

I use onions all the time. I particularly dislike preparing them. The tears, the smell that seems to linger on your fingers for hours, and the unmistakable onion aroma that takes up residence in the kitchen.

So I buy them frozen and chopped.

And every time I reach into the freezer, I feel a small sense of satisfaction. I’ve made a decision that makes my life easier. I’ve spent a little money on something that gives me back time, avoids something I dislike and makes absolutely no difference to the quality of the meal.

Except that it makes a difference to me.

For me, frozen chopped onions have become a small act of self-respect. A recognition that I don’t have to make life unnecessarily difficult to prove that I’m doing a good job.

And I wonder what might happen if we applied a little more of that thinking to Christmas.

Three ways to reclaim a little Christmas

I know. Three suggestions about doing Christmas differently can sound horribly patronising. Particularly when you’re already juggling work, children, family expectations, finances and approximately 400 things that nobody else seems to notice need doing.

I’m not going to suggest a bubble bath, a mindfulness app or that you should get up half an hour earlier to practise gratitude. Frankly, that sounds like another three jobs.

Instead, here are three small invitations to do things a little differently.

1. Buy the frozen chopped onions.

Or the ready-made pastry. The pre-prepared vegetables. The shop-bought pudding. The crackers that don’t need making from scratch.

I’m serious.

There is no special award for having peeled, chopped, prepared and cooked everything yourself. Convenience isn’t a character flaw. Spending a little money to make your life easier can be a perfectly sensible use of your resources.

And if you don’t have the money to spend on convenience, look for the things you can stop doing altogether.

The point isn’t the onions. It’s recognising that your time and energy have value too.

2. Light a fire.

Not a metaphorical one. An actual fire.

If you have a garden, light a little fire in a firepit. If you don’t, a candle will do. Wrap up warm, take a blanket outside, toast some marshmallows and spend a little time watching the flames.

No agenda. No productivity. No need to make it a family activity unless you want to.

Yule was a midwinter celebration, rooted in the turning of the year, the darkness and the return of the light. Fire and warmth offered comfort during the longest nights. There is something rather lovely about reclaiming a little of that simplicity.

You don’t need to organise an event, create an Instagram-worthy setting or produce a memorable experience. You can simply stand outside, eat a slightly burnt marshmallow and enjoy the moment.

And if the weather is truly dreadful, light the candle indoors. Nobody is keeping score.

3. Find a queen in the night sky.

One evening, wrap up warm, step outside and look north. See if you can find Cassiopeia. She’s one of the easiest constellations to recognise, with five bright stars forming a distinctive W (or M, depending on how you look at her).

In Greek mythology, Cassiopeia was a queen. Her story isn’t exactly an advertisement for female empowerment, but I rather like the idea of reclaiming her place in the night sky.

Take a few minutes to find her. Look at the stars. Notice how enormous the sky is and how very small our everyday concerns might look from that perspective.

You could even make it a little family adventure, finding the W together. Or keep it entirely to yourself.

There’s something rather grounding about looking up at the night sky in the middle of winter. Our ancestors did it long before Christmas became a commercial marathon. Perhaps we could borrow a little of their sense of wonder.

No equipment, no app, no special knowledge required. Just you, the night sky and a queen who has been up there for thousands of years.

A small act of rebellion

I think there’s something rather important about those frozen chopped onions.

They represent a decision to stop making things harder than they need to be. To recognise that your time, energy and comfort have value. To spend a little money, change a habit or abandon an expectation because you matter too.

It’s not about being selfish. It’s not about abandoning family traditions or refusing to do things for people you love.

It’s about noticing when the effort of making everything wonderful for everyone else is leaving very little of you available to enjoy it.

Christmas doesn’t need another exhausted woman quietly holding everything together.

Perhaps this year, alongside the presents, the food and the festive preparations, you could make one small investment in yourself.

Buy the onions.

And if anyone asks why, you can tell them it’s a very important act of personal development.

I won’t be mentioning Christmas again until 15 December.