There’s a creepy problem with mince pies. It goes deeper than hot cross buns

Opinion

November 3, 2026 — 7:00pm

It’s spring – a wondrous time for allergic rhinitis and for complaining about Christmas mince pies already being in the supermarket. The Mince Pie Creep, as I have come to think of it, might be less notorious than the Hot Cross Bun Creep (no longer even ubiquitous with Easter, now a completely non-denominational carbohydrate), but I feel deeper unease about its presence.

I no longer believe the Christmas mince pie is an innocent little pastry designed to bring cheer – that it holds enough sugar to induce a diabetic-grade thirst is another matter. Rather, it is what animal behaviourists call a sign stimulus: a specific environmental cue that triggers instinctive behaviour.

For monarch butterflies, shorter days and colder temperatures are a sign stimulus to swivel their antennae compasses and head to the butterfly equivalent of Copacabana. The red belly of the male three-spined stickleback fish is a sign stimulus to other male sticklebacks to launch a vicious attack. And the Christmas mince pie signals to Homo sapiens with a shopping centre or the internet within reach to launch themselves into a mindless consumer frenzy.

It’s possible the early spring Christmas mince pie harbours something like the alien spore pods in The Body Snatchers, which released tiny mind-controlling pathogens. I cannot otherwise explain why, in the face of every shred of evidence that we are burning down this planet, come October – the very same time the pies now appear – the average human brain starts accommodating two separate realities to justify frittering away money on more crap that has racked up a zillion carbon emissions and will end up in landfill.

We know that the Arctic is melting, bushfires are raging and average temperatures are climbing. That significant weather events are making us uninsurable, that disasters such as the Nepal flood are happening more often and that microplastics are clogging every waterway from our oceans to our tear ducts. Some us even feel terror in the dark of night thinking of the future for their children and their children’s children, as well as guilt for the knowledge that they will not be ones to suffer the worst – in fact that will be those in countries with less infrastructure, less money.

But, understandably, we prefer to stay in our own little house of fun, where we can find joy in having five strands of single-use candy cane fairy lights twinkling around our necks and line our pockets with multiple Festive Pokémon figurines and dance with our limited-edition Christmas tunes robotic vacuum. In our house of fun, we can justify our purchases with thoughts such as, “Well, how could I possibly make a difference to this catastrophe” and “Well, it’s all so terrifying and sad I might as well enjoy my few hundred latex-filled giant-eyed squishy toys.”

Psychoanalyst Adam Phillips says that modern life now demands we be happy. “It’s as though we’re phobic of frustration, so the moment there is a feeling of frustration it’s got to be filled with something,” he has said. Ours is a world in which we escape the terror generated by the consequences of capitalism and consumerism by purchasing more from Temu.

The problem is, we need to feel pain, frustration, sadness, fear to take action. No civil rights activist ever emerged from a life of pina coladas on the riviera.

As Phillips writes: “It may be that when catastrophic change is inflicted upon us … we may become more able and willing to … create the kind of change we would like, the kind of change that we realise we need in order to get the lives we want.”

Lord knows I am prone to the occasional impulse purchase of a dancing voice-activated cactus or tuba for a good dopamine hit. But as the festive season approaches this year, I want to do better.

I’m going to buy from businesses that are using renewable energy, actively reducing their waste, and going for sustainable materials. I’m also going to try to give things that are good for the planet: things that grow, like plants and seedlings, and mushrooms and my washing pile. I’m going to give with actions, like cooking meals for friends who are stretched for time or money. I’m going to try to find gifts that offer low-emission experiences or op shop finds.

I might even make my own mince pies.

Nicola Redhouse is a Melbourne writer and author of Unlike the Heart: A Memoir of Brain and Mind.

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