“I tossed your turkey out,” Jacqueline said with a sly wink. “No sense in letting it just sit in the oven and fill the place with smoke, is there?”
A deceptive calm settles over the impeccably finished flat of Emily and Simon, the air just tinged with the scents of orange peel, ginger and cinnamon. Emily, hostess extraordinaire, is finally nearing the end of her three-day festive cookathon.
On sparkling new glass platters bought just for the occasion rest canapés topped with goat’s cheese and fig chutney, miniature tartlets filled with wild mushroom pâté and delicate Parma ham rolls wrapped around slices of pear.
In the fridge waits a leg of lamb marinated in honey and rosemary, ready for its moment. The oven sits steady at 195°C, where a turkey slow-cooks to lush succulence following a recipe from Emilys favourite celebrity chefs blog.
Emily surveys her domain, wiping her hands with carefully contained pride.
The dining table is dressed in a crisp white cloth; crystal glasses gleam under the lights; a centrepiece of pine sprigs, clementines and fir cones completes the vision of her ideal New Years celebration.
Hows it all going? Simon hugs her from behind, pressing a kiss to her hair. Smells like a top London restaurant in here. Mumll be gobsmacked when she arrives.
I do hope she likes it, Emily says, a flutter of nerves in her voice. Remember last time she called my butternut squash soup baby food?
Dont let it bother you, Simon waves it off. Thats just the way she is. Means well, always wants to look after everyone.
At 10:30pm, with Emily changed into her new silk jumpsuit, the doorbell ringslong and insistent, and is quickly followed by a shout:
Simon! Emily! Open up, my arms are dropping off here!
Simon opens the door. In pile his parents, Jacqueline and Richard, sending the hallway rug skidding into the wall.
They are kitted out like a rescue mission. Richard juggles two enormous saucepans, their lids rattling, while Jacqueline, cheeks red from the cold and excitement, lugs a massive coolbag and shopping bag bursting with a jar of mayonnaise and a bunch of spring onions.
Evening, darlings! Richard decided to come along too, Jacqueline booms, making straight for the kitchen. Dont just stand theregive your father a hand! We knew youd be fainting in here on nibbles and cheese. You need a proper feast on New Years Eve!
Emily freezes in the living room doorway, stunned.
Jacqueline, weve prepared everything already. The table is all set
Oh, youve done the nibbly bits, love, Jacqueline concedes, already conquering the kitchen, but a proper New Years needs proper foodespecially if you want a bit of vodka later. Richard, pop those pans on the hob to warm up.
Simon shoots Emily a look of helpless apology: Just bear with themthey mean well.
Mum, Emilys got a turkey in the oven, he tries, though not loudly.
Turkey? Jacqueline scoffs. Who wants dry old bird? Ive made a proper salad, my signature potato one, with nice British sausagejust like Gran used to. Theres beetroot salad, rollmops, and homemade Cornish pasties, Simonyour absolute favourite!
The sharp tang of fried onions and burnt butter swiftly floods the space as she cracks open the pans.
Emily gasps; her previously pristine ceramic hob is now splattered in grease. Without a second thought, Jacqueline switches off the oven with the turkey still inside.
No point torturing it. It must be done by now. Hand us the big frying panIve got pasties that need crisping, theyve gone cold on the drive over.
Jacqueline, please, let me Emily tries to reclaim her kitchen.
Sit, love, have a rest, says Jacqueline crisply, waving a slotted spoon with authority. Youve done enough already with all this posh stuff. Ill sort it. Simon, chop the onion for the rollmopsbig pieces so you can taste them!
Half in a daze, Emily retreats to the lounge, where Richard is already settled in an armchair, the telly on.
Jacquelines got the right idea, he nods, eyes fixed to the screen. Its not a proper do unless youre stuffed, is it? You make gorgeous bits, Emily, no denying it, but you cant live on them, can you?
Chaos erupts in the kitchen. Every surface quickly succumbs to oil splashes, crumbs and onion skins.
Simon, dicing onions and sniffing with watery eyes, attempts an encouraging smile at his wife.
Emily watches in silent horror as her elegant crockery is pushed behind cupboard doors, replaced by battered, enamelled mixing bowls with daisy patternsfor the salads, dont want to spoil your lovely plates, dear.
The mayhem peaks around 11:40pm. Jacqueline, frying pasties on full blast, sends smoke billowing through the flat.
The smoke alarm shrieks. In the scramble to silence it, Simon knocks a shelf and several pristine canapés crash to the floor.
At that precise moment, Emily peeks into the oven. Acrid black smoke pours out: her turkey, forgotten after being switched off and then reheated by her mother-in-law, has turned into a charred ruin.
Oh, crikey! Jacqueline exclaims, flapping a towel at the alarm. Never mind, the pasties are piping hot. No one wouldve eaten the turkey anyway. Come on, Emilyeverythings ready, love!
The New Years table is a surreal sight. Amid the white tablecloth and sparkling glass, two massive enamel bowls take centre stage.
One holds potato salad, tinged yellow and swimming in mayonnaise, topped with oversized rings of onion.
The other is loaded with beetroot and herring rollmops oozing magenta juice. Next is a steaming pile of overly crispy Cornish pasties, with onion-heavy rollmops on a plate beside. The aroma is overwhelming: mayonnaise, fried onions, pickled fish.
Well, my dears, Happy New Year! Jacqueline toasts when midnight strikes, glass raised high. Heres to tradition and a good hearty table! In the coming year, lets forget all this foreign nonsense and stick to whats proper British fare! Simon, pour your dad another one, lovehes already finished his.
Emily sits as though frozen, the crystal glass in her hand shed imagined raising amid warmth and beauty.
Emily, come on, Simon nudges her elbow. Have a drink. Mums gone to so much effortit all tastes fantastic.
She sips automatically. The Prosecco shed chosen so carefully tastes bitter.
Yes, she says quietly. Very filling.
There, you see? Richard declares, mouth full of pasty and rollmop. All your sesame crab thingslovely but gone in a flash. Takes days to make them, and two minutes to eat. Jacquelines got it right; lasts for ages! Well have it again tomorrow!
Emily watches as Jacqueline proudy piles Simons plate high with salad and stifles a grimace.
Her own New Year has been thoroughly, if lovingly, smothered under a layer of mayonnaise and onions. Simon, full and happy, wraps an arm round her shoulders.
That was a good night, wasnt it? Mums in her elementnot sure well need to eat for a week.
Emily nods mutely, hearing Jacqueline grumble in the background about “modern plates being so slippery, nearly sent the whole lot flying”.
Till four in the morning, Jacqueline shuttles from kitchen to lounge, clearing plates and doling out second helpings.
I binned your turkey she confides, winking. No sense in letting it just lie forgotten and go to waste, right?
Emily, still in shock from her New Years Evecompletely overtaken by her in-lawsnods faintly.
Youre very quiet tonight. Youve not come down with something, have you? Jacqueline asks.
No, alls fine, Emily forces a strained smile. You did everything just right.
At these words Jacqueline beams and finally takes her seat, satisfied.
Emily looks at her and decides, quietly but with a new resolve, never again to celebrate New Year with the in-laws, no matter how much it might upset them.
She tells Simon her decision only the next morning. He thinks about protesting at first, but one look at Emilys glum face, and he decides to let it lie.
