Mistletoe and Turkish Delight (Spicy Ginger Martini)

1. Ginger v The Grumpy Clause

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GINGER V THE GRUMPY CLAUSE

My loathing for New Year’s Eve is the stuff that legends are made of, but now since moving to Istanbul it’s spread like a fungus to the whole Christmas holiday period. This city just isn’t big on Christmas vibes, but that hasn’t stopped the festivities from creeping in, although they are just slightly off kilter, if you know what I mean. There is a Santa Clause, after all jolly old St. Nick originated from Türkiye, but he doesn’t make an appearance until New Year’s Eve. You also don’t give gifts until New Year’s Eve either.

See?

Slightly off kilter.

To me, New Year's Eve is like a forced party, where everyone pretends to have a blast until they realise that nothing really changes after midnight. You merely turn back into the pumpkin you always were and then it’s the very real struggle of walking home at 3 a.m. holding your high heels like trophies of defeat.

And now, living here in Istanbul with its own quirky take on Christmas in the mix?

Ugh, let me just say that from the moment Christmas Eve hits until the confetti settles on New Year’s Day, I transform into the grumpiest Grinch you’ll ever come across. I’m practically armed with coal, ready to distribute it to all and sundry. But this year, things are looking a bit different, and I’m not quite sure how to handle this change.

You see, against all odds, and against the backdrop of my well-established reputation as the resident holiday hater, my husband Aydin seems to have pulled off a Christmas miracle, and has arranged for my entire family to visit me in Istanbul for the festivities. That’s right, the whole crew, including my long-lost mother whom I haven’t seen or spoken to since the dinosaurs roamed the Earth—or so it feels.

I won’t sugarcoat it—I’m a red, hot mess right now. The idea of the entire Knox family tossed into a room with Aydin’s spirited Turkish family plus my London friends, is like mixing oil and water, and tossing in a stick or two of dynamite for good measure. But in the spirit of embracing this newfound holiday cheer, I’m going to strap in for the ride and hope that I make it out with my sanity intact.

Honestly, I’m still in disbelief that Aydin and my father managed to pull this off. Over 25 years have passed since my mother left, disappearing from our lives without a trace. Not a single phone call or letter. It was as though my sister Sadie and I never existed to her. The pain of her departure and the unanswered questions have haunted me all these years. Now here we are over a quarter of a century later about to sit down to Christmas lunch with my mother, Valentina Knox.

I never even realised that my parents still kept in touch, but clearly they did. My father must have updated her on our lives, sharing our big achievements and milestones. She is no doubt aware that I recently became a parent myself, and this will be Ayda’s first Christmas and New Year’s celebration. So, celebrate we shall, well, as much as a 34-year-old woman with a six-month-old baby can anyway.

Let me tell you, having a baby is no walk in the park. I am beyond exhausted. Aydin is wiped out too. The only one in this household who seems to possess an ounce of energy is Ayda. Seriously, our little bundle of joy is the sweetest baby to ever grace this planet. Everyone says so. She hardly ever cries and spends her days blissfully surrounded by the love of those who cherish her.

Speaking of Ayda, her adorable morning gurgles fill the air as she wakes up. With a gentle touch, I move Aydin’s arm and make my way across the room to Ayda’s travel cot.

Our home is nestled in the charming coastal town of Bodrum, but for now, we’ve gathered with our extended family and friends, at Aydin’s aunt’s pansion in Sultanahmet, Istanbul. It’s a special location for us, as it’s where Aydin and I first fell in love and where we exchanged our vows on our wedding day.

Bending over the cot, I whisper, “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

In response, she babbles back at me, accompanied by a gummy smile—or maybe that’s just gas. Either way I can’t resist kissing her cheek before moving over to the changing table for a quick nappy change.

“Good morning, Green Eyes.” I turn to the sound of my husband’s voice and find him propped up on pillows. The morning sunlight dances upon his short black curls, the hint of grey at the temples only adding to his ridiculous stunning features.

There’s something undeniably magnetic about Aydin. An irresistible allure that stands the test of time. His physical presence, coupled with his sweet-ass personality, creates a potent combination that ignites a fire within my soul, and yes, he still manages to make my heart flutter with the same intensity as when we first met.

“Ayda, say good morning to your Baba.” Ayda happily giggles and squeals in response.

Suddenly, there’s a loud bang as the adjoining room door flies open and hits the wall with a bang.

“ Günaydin , Baba. Günaydin , Ginny,” Aydin’s seven year old daughter, Emine bounds into the room. Emine’s got a fiery spirit and a strong will that sometimes puts even the bravest of us to shame. She’s not afraid to speak her mind and let you know exactly what she wants. And let me tell you, negotiating with a determined 7-year-old can be quite the adventure! She spends most of the year living in Los Angeles with her mother, Simge, but thanks to Aydin’s amazing lawyer we now have shared custody, which means Emine will be staying with us for the next six months.

“Merry Christmas!” Emine declares, throwing herself into her father’s arms. Aydin lets out a playful groan, and with Ayda in my arms, I climb back into bed beside them.

“Merry Christmas, Emmy.”

Truly, I am the luckiest woman alive.