Mulled Wine

There's a smell that belongs to the second half of December, and this is it. Red wine warming on the hob with orange peel, cloves and cinnamon, the kitchen window fogging over, something soft playing in another room. You don't need an occasion. You need the cold outside and a few people you like.

Mulled wine has a reputation it doesn't quite deserve. Too often it's made from whatever red was going cheap, boiled to within an inch of its life, and dosed with so much sugar it tastes of nothing but. That's not this. This is gentler, closer to a spiced warmth than a hot pudding. Use a wine you'd happily drink on its own. Nothing grand, just honest. And keep the heat low, always low. Boiling wine is a small act of vandalism.

The trick, if there is one, is to make a little syrup first. Peel and spice and honey cooked together in a splash of wine until they know each other, then the rest of the bottle added and warmed through. It takes five extra minutes and it's the difference between mulled wine and mulled wine.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago and the note says: "First one of the year. Thursday. Everyone stayed longer than they meant to." That's about right. There are few better feelings than putting a warm glass in someone's hand when they've come in out of the rain.