The only thing wrong with it is that her family aren't ready to kill her.
My mum behaves like this at Christmas. It's just a bloody roast. The easiest thing in the world. But the smell of burning martyr ruins it for everyone.
Her crimes are:wasting hours in the run up in a series of hot shops dithering over the perfect cards, making a big fuss over getting pickles that she imagines people will eat when they politely lied about liking them in 1985, making a big fuss over the precise quantities of food - and leg or breast, carving everything then shoving the plates back in the oven so everything is dry and the plates are red hot, sulking when people don't want to eat as soon as they've arrived or want to chat or watch the telly or are a bit hungover from the night before, imagining my family of habitual latecomers will arrive on time and timing everything for that imaginary time and then seething, loading the table with jars of pickles, three types of potato, extra pork, bacon, sausages and crackers so there's no room, individually serving vegetables instead of putting them on the table (no room because of the pickles) for everyone to help themselves, expecting help dishing up then instantly refusing it and literally shoving us out of the way, refusing to sit down with anyone because she's busy being the hostess and the sulking over perceived slights - she doesn't like people putting salt and pepper on her food because it should be perfect and disapproves of anything other than tea, therefore you bring your own wine and glasses and get frowned on like an alcoholic. Dishing up mince pies and pudding and cream the instant people have finished eating their lunch.
She's lovely all year round but turns into a monster every Christmas. Just over a month to go...