‘It is like trying to untangle a seething mass of worms with your bare hands and you’re looking at the worms through a kaleidoscope.’
I have developed a completely irrational, paranoid fear that during my preparations for Christmas Dinner something will go horribly wrong. Fears include, but are not limited to,
· The desserts will not set
· The chicken will not be cooked properly and I will give everyone festive food poisoning
· My inner gay man will take over and I will impetuously colour everything with red or green food colouring, then instantly regret it
· I will be stuffing the chicken at the last minute and the stuffing will not go in the chicken/come right out the neck of the chicken/fall on the floor
· I will get my hand stuck in the chicken
· Everything will be HORRIBLE and everyone will have a BAD TIME!
I realise that none of these things are very likely to happen, especially the last one – my friends are a resilient lot and in the relatively unlikely event that everything is over- or under-cooked to the point of inedibility, they’ll just laugh at me, get pissed and order pizza, which is why I like them.
My hand might get stuck in the chicken, though – this is yet one more reason to not start drinking during Christmas Day, no matter what my deputy chef may suggest. I do not want my guests to arrive to find me and Ashton (aforesaid deputy chef and your co-host for the evening) blind drunk in the kitchen attempting to make frozen chicken hand puppets do the can-can, while all around us things bubble frantically, boil over and caramelise on the stove. That would be a little embarrassing.
I am also putting off the vomitous horror that is (relatively) last-minute Christmas shopping. Why do I have so damn many family members? I am beginning to understand why people go on killing sprees more often during the holiday season than at any other time of year – to cut down on the number of cards and presents required, that’s why. I think this year I might just smile in a Buddha-like manner and say in “Your present is my presence.”
Do you know what song I do not like? Oh Girl by Cut off Your Hands. It is a booty call txt set to music. The tune’s very catchy, but unfortunately I can’t enjoy it due to the hideously tawdry lyrics. Example:
“Oh girl/Can you come over to my house?/Oh we can do things that we’ve never done/We can just talk it can be such fun…” Gosh, Cut off Your Hands, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that I’d probably have about as many dollars as you’ve sold records. Like, FIVE.