Another year is just about to bite the dust and we are reminded once again that we should have gotten more done. (This might not be case if you are organized and not me.) Before we brave the year ahead, there is the dreaded pressure of creating the greatest night ever, of your life as you know it… on earth. I’m speaking of course about New Years Eve. The pressure to have the most unique and fabulous night makes me fart in anticipation. All that build up can only lead to disappointment (and gas release). In fact, the worst New Years Eve evening I had wasn’t so long ago.
It was a New Years Eve afternoon and I had decided like the good Midwestern housewife I think I am, that I needed to roast a big hunk of meat and share it with some friends. I got my then-boyfriend to help out with this task. So there I was, putting together a big piece of pork to roast, while liberally drinking from a doubly big bottle of cheap wine. Maybe drinking in the middle of the day should have been a clue that things might not work out with this guy, but that’s a different story for a different time. Anyways, I wanted this to be the pork that represented our love. Our love was like a pork roast. Did I mention I got the idea to make a pork roast after seeing Rachael Ray’s “30-Minute Meals” on a plane ride home? Sue me, I’m Midwestern in my heart and Rachael Ray is my long lost sister.
Anyway, after many hours of cooking the stupid thing, it still was not fully cooked and over time our friends had gathered in my living room and sat around waiting with bellies grumbling. Finally, 5 glasses of wine later, and many sweaty trips to the oven door, the pork was done. It was fine. Nothing special, but everyone was so hungry, the pork was like a chunk of, you know, food. It really wasn’t that great.
After our friends were like “Hey thanks for that meat product. It was okay”, I immediately passed out on my bed as a healthy puddle of drool formed on my pillow. Meanwhile all my friends and then-boyfriend socialized and the brought in the New Year. I only woke from my wine dream when I heard my roommate play his electric guitar into the street through our second story window and yell “Happy New Year” to people passing by.
All in all I thought we had a very nice New Years, minus the wine-induced slumber and the pork that would never cook. After giving my then-boyfriend a peck on the cheek, I said “Wasn’t that the best New Years?” to which he replied, “It was okay”. And you know what, he was right. I’ve had better.