A Gatsby New Year

New Year’s Eve has always been quite an extravagant affair in the Gatsby family. Every single year, without fail, my Aunt Ruth prepares a lavish New Year’s feast and decorates her large home with such gusto that one sometimes feels as though they have entered a shop selling nothing but decorations. I have always looked forward to Aunt Ruth’s parties – catching up on the family gossip, getting lost in the neverending corridors, admiring her outrageously luxurious bathrooms. But what I look forward to the most every year is the feast. Aunt Ruth’s New Year’s Eve parties aren’t Aunt Ruth’s New Year’s Eve parties without the feast. 

The table would be draped in a red-and-white checked cloth, tall candles flickering above it, with little sprigs of mistletoe here and there. A deep dish of baked potatoes, an assortment of cheeses and meats, a whole roast chicken resting on mashed potatoes and gravy, and maple carrots and peas. Salads with little cherry tomatoes, a bowl of grilled vegetables, a large warm loaf of freshly baked bread, and, right in the middle of it all, a big fat roasted pig, with a poached apple stuffed in its mouth. 

So you can imagine my disappointment when Aunt Ruth called to say that she was down with the flu.

I was sitting in my library-cum-cupboard, flipping through a book but not actually reading the words, as I was too busy daydreaming about roast chicken, when I heard the telephone ringing from the other room. I knew almost immediately that it was Aunt Ruth calling, for the phone somehow always rings more aggressively when she’s on the other end. 

Sure enough, as soon as I picked up the phone I was met with the sound of Aunt Ruth’s scratchy voice – perhaps scratchier than usual.

“Frederick,” she said, “I’m sick.”

“Of what?”

“The flu.”

“You’ve got the flu?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” snapped Aunt Ruth meanly, “so I’m afraid there’ll be no New Year feast unless you’d like everyone at the party to catch the flu too.”

“NO NEW YEAR FEAST?” I yelled at a volume that wasn’t quite acceptable to use over the phone. “But there’s no New Year’s Eve without the feast!”

“Well, why don’t you make then, huh boy? Your aunt is lying in bed with a fever, and all you can think about is food?” said Aunt Ruth rather waspishly.

“Fevers happen all the time, Aunt Ruth!” I argued, “but the New Year’s Eve feast only happens once a year!”

“Selfish, ungrateful boy,” muttered my aunt under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “make yourself then, why don’t you? It’ll be a disaster either way.”

And with that, she hung up the phone. Honestly, I only put up with her so that she invites me to the party each year, so why should I be bothered if she has a slight sniffle? The next year would be terrible if we didn’t end this one with roast pork. 

As most you should probably know, a Gatsby never gives up, no matter what. And as a Gatsby myself, I shan’t either. I, Frederick Arthur Gatsby, shall be preparing this year’s New Year’s Eve feast.

 _

I suppose I forgot to mention earlier that I cannot cook to save my life. I usually resort to either basic ham and cheese sandwiches, or luncheons at restaurants I cannot afford to eat at. But I had to try, or countless lives could be ruined. Besides, how difficult can it really be, anyway?

The answer is very, very, very difficult, Extremely difficult. It was a struggle simply to boil the chicken before roasting it, so I decided to give Aunt Ruth a call.

“You aren’t supposed to boil the chicken before roasting it,” she said flatly, and promptly hung up.

Well, I thought to myself, I can’t do this by myself. There’s only one person left to call.

“I suppose you think I’ve forgotten what you did to me last month?” said William ‘Bill’ Ainsworth, “You robbed me of the money I needed to pursue a career in accounting.”

“I robbed you of nothing, I earned that money myself,” I said, quite proudly. You see, about a month or so ago, Bill asked me for help with… Oh never mind, that’s a whole other story.

“Why should I help you if you didn’t help me,” Bill demanded, his chin sticking up defiantly, but his trembling voice betraying his confidence.

“Because,” I said, walking towards him and taking hold of his broad shoulders, “if you don’t help me, there is to be no New Year’s Eve Feast.”

Bill’s eyes widened, and he let out an audible gasp.

“No – no New Year’s Feast?” he questioned anxiously.

“None,” I said.

He shook his head in disbelief. “All right,” he said, “all right then I’ll help you!”

I smiled victoriously.

“We’d better get to work then, eh?”

 _

It quickly became evident that Bill was no more of a culinary connoisseur than I was. But at least he knew how to shell peas, which was more than I could do.

“All right,” said Bill seriously, “the next step is to put the chicken in the oven.”

I lifted the tray that the headless raw chicken was perched on, and slid it gently into the oven. Everything was going rather splendidly, to my surprise.

I had used my aesthetic skills to arrange cheeses and meats beautifully on a platter, along with some grapes and olives.

“Nice work, old bean!” said Bill approvingly.

“Thanks, old chap. The mashed potatoes will be ready in a bit too.”

“I say, we seem to be doing rather well!” said Bill, puffing out his chest with pride.

I agreed with him before saying, “Let’s get on with the salad and the vegetables, shall we?”

“We shall,” said Bill.

We worked on grilling the broccoli and onions while the chicken roasted in one oven, and the bread baked in the other.

“The bread should be done by now, don’t you think?” I asked Bill as I wiped my hands on a towel.

“I’ll go check,” said Bill, putting on a pair of oven mitts that were at least three sizes too large.

“Oh,” said Bill, “oh dear.”

I hung the towel back on the rack and walked over to see what Bill was ‘oh’ing about.

“Oh,” I said, “oh dear.”

The bread was utterly deformed. It didn’t look like a respectable loaf of bread at all – it looks rather as though a six-year-old child had decided that it would be a good idea to take a perfectly good loaf of bread and play with it as if it were clay.

“Well,” said Bill ruefully, “hopefully it tastes good, even if it looks like a catastrophe.”

“It doesn’t do to dwell on the past,” I said wisely, “let’s take a look at the chicken.”

The chicken hadn’t cooked at all. It was as raw as the day it hatched out of an egg, and that was probably because we had forgotten to turn on the oven.

“Disaster upon disaster!” cried Bill, looking as if he would burst into tears any second.

“It’s all right, don’t fret. We don’t have time to roast the chicken now, but we can boil it.”

“But it won’t look half as good!” wailed Bill.

“That doesn’t matter, it’s the taste that matters! We’ll boil the chicken, and salt it nicely. Add a bit of pepper too. I’m sure it’ll taste just as great as Aunt Ruth’s!”

“Aunt Ruth’s chicken,” said Bill rather crossly, “is roasted.”

“And ours is boiled! Come on Bill, we must get a move on.” I turned around to walk towards the counter.

“FRED!” screamed Bill suddenly, “the potatoes that were boiling for the mash! They must be done by now.”

Oh, dear. They must be overdone by now. And we were right, for as Bill spoke those words, the potatoes exploded all over the counter – and us.

“Great,” said Bill, “we’re no closer to finishing dinner and on top of that we’re covered in potatoes.”

But that wasn’t the worst of it. In all this commotion, we had completely forgotten about the vegetables that were still on the grill. I ran towards the grilling vegetables, and sure enough, they were burnt. To the crisp.

“Oh Fred!” said Bill, “We can’t possibly serve all this! And we haven’t even started on the pig!”

“Forget the pig,” I said, “and you’re right, we can’t serve this to all the guests.”

“Then what will we do, Freddie, what will we do? We promised your Aunt Ruth!” cried Bill, wringing his hands anxiously.

I thought. I thought long and hard, ignoring the impatient look on Bill’s face.

“I’ve got an idea. Bill, the counter was clean before we started cooking, right?”

“Of course! You know I’m a stickler for cleanliness.”

I knew no such thing, but I decided to believe him this time. 

“Well then,” I said, handing Bill a spatula, “start scraping the potatoes off the counter.”

_

An hour or so later, Bill and I were ready with the New Year’s feast. Well, we could hardly call it feast, so let me make an amendment to my earlier statement. An hour or so later, Bill and I were ready with our New Year’s meal.

We had used the bread to line the insides of a large pie tin, and stuffed all our disastrous dishes into it to make a chicken-broccoli-carrot-cheese–potato-lettuce-tomato pie.

“Light the candles, Bill, while I go get ready for dinner,” I said, before waltzing up the stairs to put on the electric blue corduroy suit with a white scarf that I had kept ready for the night.

“Are you – are you going to wear that for dinner?” asked Bill somewhat nervously, “In front of your entire family?”

“Why, do you think I’m going to upstage you?” I chuckled. Poor Bill. Didn’t have the best fashion sense, poor lad.

He blinked furiously, and shook his head.

“Let’s call all the guests in to eat,” he said, changing the subject.

_

“This is absolutely atrocious,” said Aunt Ruth after one forkful of the pie.

Bill looked dejectedly at his plate, tears brimming in his eyes. He had always been a sensitive chap, old Bill. I, on the other hand, knew my worth. That old crone Aunt Ruth was only jealous of my culinary success, considering that hers didn’t even compare.

“Oh, Auntie,” I said humorously, “don’t be upset! I’m sure you’ll do better next year! Right, folks?” I turned to the rest of the guests, who were determinedly avoiding each other’s gazes.

Well, who cares about them? I bet they can’t look as great in an electric blue corduroy suit as I can.