Earlier this year I chatted to two of the most delightful food bloggers here in the UK. Giving the theme a distinctly UK twist was Jenni of Pertelote while Jeanne of Cooksister brought a South African viewpoint. The theme, Spirit of Summer, seems so unfamiliar now that my portion of the Thames is shrouded with thick fog and the trees are bedecked with twinkly Christmas lights.

Time waits for no man. We move unstoppably into winter where different memories and feelings emerge. I have interviewed three more unique bloggers for their unique take on a Spirit of Christmas. Firstly we have Sam of Becks and Posh; an English woman living in San Francisco -

Sam, you are a long way from home, what reminds you of Christmas?

After pondering on what the Spirit of Christmas means to me for several days, my memory was eventually jogged by nothing more complex than a smell. Arriving at my office on Monday morning to find they had decorated the lobby with a tree and other decorations, I was immediately struck by the strong smell of fresh pine needles. Suddenly it felt like Christmas was just around the corner.

Christmas in my homeland, England, always felt more real to me than it does here in my adopted City of San Francisco. Maybe it's the chill temperature and the outside chance it might snow. Maybe it's the fact that British Children leave a cheeky glass of sherry and a mince pie for Father Christmas instead of the far less intoxicating milk and cookie that the American kids believe Santa prefers. I am surprised the youngsters here aren't complaining more often that they get the wrong presents. Surely the old boy in the red and white bobble hat must be drunk to the point of comatose by the time he crosses the Atlantic?

Is Christmas the same in America?

Since moving to the US, despite trying hard to forge my own traditions, Christmas has never felt quite right for me. Although a part of me longs to be in the bosom of my family for this grand, once a year feast, most of the things [crackers excepted] that are typically found at a British yuletide lunch have always failed to impress me. I don't care much for turkey, I detest Brussels sprouts and as a kid I found every manner of vegetable abhorrent, except for the delicious roast potatoes which, along with the bread sauce and the gravy, would have been the only things on my plate had my mother allowed.

What about the dessert - the steamed pudding?

I didn't fare any better when it came to dessert. My lifetime aversion to raisins, sultanas and currants meant mince pies were out and the pudding, burning with blue flames after being doused in brandy, was nothing more than an interesting spectacle. Hic, hic. There go the Brits, adding alcohol into the mix again. But talking of spirits, all is never lost on that count if your mother made it up to you with a good old sherry trifle. Maybe that's what I need to make for myself this year, to bring back a little bit of seasonal essence to my Bah Humbug heart.

The picture is of Sam taken at Christmas 1968. (She hasn't changed at all!)