Give us gold, frankincense and myrrh these days and we'd probably eat them. Somewhere along the line, Christmas became the year's fattest festival. It lost its already tenuous association with the sacred and became a wham-bam, all-u-can-eat, deep-fill stufferama. Across the nation, this orgy of feasting will begin in approximately 15 days. Even now, fridges are groaning with food, gasping for air. Mothers are wrist-deep in flour, peering into the yawning chasm of the deep-freeze, wondering if they'll have enough sausage meat.

There are particular foods that emerge only at this time of year. They arrive, like Santa's reindeer or the star of Bethlehem, to herald the season of goodwill. You know the line-up: yule log, brandy butter, cranberry sauce, those weird Eat Me dates - the ones that come in coffin-shaped boxes, accompanied by a wicked little plastic pitchfork. Things with peel in them. Things with alcohol in them. Things with alcohol and peel in them. It's all as much a part of Christmas as the archangel Gabriel himself.

But now, Christmas food isn't just clogging up the kitchen - it's right there under the tree. The edible gift market is colossal and growing fast. It's all Rococo chocolate nougat, Perigordian truffles and fresh goose foie gras, wrapped in festive paper and left, sweating, against the sitting-room radiator. The whole event has become a gastro-snob's harvest festival, even though the very last thing Christmas needs is an extra helping of food.

I blame olive oil. Once upon a time, in the darling days of bath salts, an oil and vinegar presentation box was considered quite an offbeat gift. I remember being mildly chuffed a few years back with a bottle of Italian olive oil, complete with dancing pink peppercorns and a fat chilli lurking in the bottom.

Then, one year (1994 or thereabouts) everyone gave it to everyone else. It was the soap-on-a-rope of its day. Chided, we went through a phase of giving each other useless old utensils (pasta machines, one-cup espresso makers, waffle irons, post-ironic fondue sets, raclette heaters, jelly-bean dispensers - all entirely lacking in purpose, value or humour. 'Look!' I remember saying to my sister, showing her where to put her home-made pasta dough, 'It goes in there! And it comes out as pappardelle!').

This year, edible gifts have evolved yet again. A humble hamper, even from Harrods, won't cut the mustard. What you want is a Millionaire's Hamper from Cornucopia, containing half a kilo of Prunier caviar, an entire Pata Negra ham on the bone and a whole side of wild salmon (it costs £1,000 and is delivered to the door by Securicor). More thrifty readers could aim for a tub of Calissons Almond Petits Fours, a tube of Fauchon chocolate mushrooms or a tin of Pruneaux D'Agen (French food in fiddly wrappings is all very now - and you can mail-order all of these marvellous tit-bits from Cucina Direct). Maybe, if your luck holds, you'll be on the receiving end of a celebratory nut platter, a rope of sun-dried chilli peppers, an Italian risotto set, or a trio of speciality cheeses complete with presentation pine cheese larder!

At the risk of sounding like the Grinch, I remember Christmas when it didn't come ready packaged and neatly housed in a presentation gift set. It was all about your Dad twizzling fairy light bulbs for hours on end, and your grandparents asleep with their mouths agape in front of the telly. Or the Christmas card from the Smith-Faggots of Godalming with its round-robin letter reporting that Mary was getting over her shingles, Emily was back-packing in Cambodia and Derek had sadly passed away after his long fight against scrofula. You never knew who the Smith-Faggots were, although your mother always insisted you did.

There was always an over-abundance of food - but somehow we managed to put away the lot by teatime on the 27th. Well, almost. Who doesn't have half a pound of cold Brussels sprouts left over after Christmas lunch? And who doesn't cover them with clingfilm, with the idea of turning them into something delicious tomorrow? This year, though, alongside all the usual leftovers needing attention and appetites on Boxing Day, we'll have the added burden of our mountainous piles of crumby edible gifts. Ho hum. Or, ho humbug, as the appropriate saying goes.

cornucopia.co.uk, 08450 633 699, cucinadirect.co.uk, 0870 420 4300.