Twelfth Night

Ever since I was small Twelfth Night was a time of regret and sadness. It was the day we took down all the decorations and cards and Christmas was packed away in brown boxes and stored for another year. In a single day all the brightness and sparkle vanished into the gloom of a murky Nothern winter day - all that remained were the echoes of gladness. Yet in some countries such as Spain and parts of Southern France, Christmas doesn't really start until Twelfth Night with the arrival of the three kings and torchlit processions and special Galettes des Rois dressed with golden crowns and hiding secret 'king-makers' within their frangipane sweetness. One year in January I climbed to the summit of the Montagne Ste Victoire in Provence and found there a miniscule porcelain figure in national dress - santon. I put it in my pocket and took it with me. When I showed it to a French friend she told me I had found a 'king maker' from a Galette des Rois. However, I was a king without a crown.... but if I had my choice I would choose the neat little crown which you can see on the left of the picture above. How about you?