As I finally sit down on the sofa with a mug of mulled wine to admire the Christmas tree, I can’t help feeling a tiny bit smug.

The greeting cards are in the mail. The tree is trimmed, and the presents are wrapped and nestled beneath its pine-scented branches. Evergreen wreaths hang at the windows and decorate the front door. A bowl filled with cinnamon sticks and clove-studded oranges sends a welcoming, Christmas-y fragrance into the entrance foyer.

And it’s almost time to take out the roasting pan and pop the turkey in the oven –

“You call that scrawny excuse for a bird a turkey?” my Inner Bitch sneers.  “Puh-leese!  Its barely ten pounds.  You’d better order in some pizzas or Chinese, or you’ll never have enough to feed everybody.”  She perches her hands on her hips. “Did you brine it?”

I blink. “Brine it?  No…”

She snorts. “Everyone knows that turkey tastes better if it’s brined first. Did you inject it with butter and insert fresh sage and rosemary under the skin?”

“Well, no,” I admit, “but I rubbed it with melted butter, and sprinkled it with salt and pepper like I always do.  And I even added some of those Dean & Delucca poultry herbs-”

“Dried herbs?”  She rolled her eyes. “And you call yourself a cook? What else have you got?”

“Roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes-”

“Two words,” she pronounces with a shudder. “Carbs, and lumps. Your mashed potatoes always have too much of both.”

“I’ll ask one of the girls to bring the mashed potatoes,” I say defensively, referring to my daughters-in-law. “They’re both excellent cooks.”

“Lucky for you,” Inner Bitch mutters. She surveys the living room, hands on her hips. “What about the stockings?  You haven’t hung the stockings. By the chimney. With care.”

“I was just about to do that.” I glare at her. “You know, you’re a real bitch!” I add.

She smiles, pleased. “Thank you!”

“Here’s what I have for the stockings. There’s candy – Terry’s chocolate oranges and Ferrero Rocher-”

“I despise hazelnuts!” IB snaps.  “Not crazy about orange and chocolate, either. It’s a bizarre combination, if you ask me.”

“-and Reese’s Cups and Hershey’s Kisses,” I plow on, determined to ignore her, “not to mention some of those little scented candles the girls like so much-”

“Candles?  Good ones, I hope – not those cheap, no-name brands that never smell like anything but burning wax and disappointment-?”

“Yes, good ones,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I’ve made cookies for Christmas Eve. Chocolate chip – with and without nuts – and sugar cookies, and fudge-”

“What about presents?” IB demands.

Ah, I think triumphantly, at last there’s something I’ve done that Ms IB can’t possibly find  fault with.

“See for yourself,” I say smugly, and nod at the piles of gifts gleaming under the tree.  I’ve always prided myself on my ability to wrap presents beautifully.

“What’s your theme?” she asks, her lip curled in distaste as she eyes the colourful jumble of boxes.

“Theme?” I echo.

“You know – a theme!  like ‘Winter Magic,’ all blue and silver!  Or ‘A Scottish Christmas,’ all red and green plaid. Or maybe ‘An Eco-conscious Christmas,’ with lots of plain brown Kraft paper and recycled ribbons-?”

I sigh.  “No theme. Just lots of different colors, and mismatched china on the table, and some of the ornaments the kids made over the years.” I wander over to the tree and gaze fondly at my oldest son’s lopsided cotton-ball snowman, drowning in glitter and missing one eye, made when he was seven. “And I’m using the same plate I always use for the cookies.”

It’s oval, and edged in gold.  Mr Oliver bought me that plate when we were married, and I set it out on our table for the first Christmas party I gave as a brand new bride.

It was a wonderful party, I remember suddenly. And there were no themes, or fancy, store-window ready trees or decorations, no place names or catered food; everything was a hodgepodge of hand-me-down ornaments, melamine plates, a fir tree we cut down ourselves, and jugs of inexpensive wine.

But we had the best time. We celebrated our new-found love with our friends, new and old, with plenty of food and cheap wine and laughter. And it was enough.

It was more than enough.

“Well,” my Inner Bitch sniffs as she turns to go, “don’t say I didn’t warn you. With no theme, and a turkey that even Tiny Tim would turn his nose up at, I can’t begin to imagine how your Christmas will turn out.”

I think of our kids, arriving soon, their arms piled with presents and their faces alight with excitement.  I think of the exchange of hugs, the shared laughter and mulled wine, the wild free-for-all as everyone tears into their gifts, and I smile.

Because, in the end, that’s what Christmas is all about, isn’t it?  Family, and friends, and savoring our time together… and making memories to keep and hold, memories to bring out like the treasures they are, treasures like my old plate and the kids’ handmade ornaments.

“I can imagine,” I say firmly as I hustle her out the door. “I can imagine my Christmas perfectly.”