Michael Kelly's cooking Christmas dinner for his in-laws for the first time. What can go wrong?
One of my favourite films, I blush to admit, is National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. If you haven't seen it, the plot centres around the attempt of Chevy Chase's character, Clark Griswold, to create the perfect family Christmas. It's essentially a disaster movie in the mould of Meet the Parents: Griswold's predicament worsens as his horrid extended family arrives for the holidays. It's silly but immense fun, and its central appeal is Griswold's unshakeable desire to re-create the Christmases of his youth.
The line that best sums up his frustrations comes as he tries to get his enormous Christmas tree, which he pulled out of the ground himself, down from the roof of his car. His neighbour shouts: "Hey, Griswold, where are you going to put a tree that size?" To which our hero replies: "Why don't you bend over, and I'll show you?"
As the film unfolds a drunken uncle manages to burn down the Christmas tree, the turkey explodes, a cat gets electrocuted and a Swat team breaks in through the window. When his wife, Ellen, reminds him that it could be worse, Griswold shouts back: "How could it get any worse? We are at the threshold of hell!" His final words in the film are the most memorable of all. As Griswold surveys the wreckage of Christmas around him, he looks at the camera and says quietly: "I did it."
I watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacationagain last night, in a slightly different context from normal: this year Mrs Kelly and I will be cooking our first Christmas dinner in our house. We usually head for my eldest sister's place or the in-laws'. That's always fun, of course, but it's nothing like doing the whole thing in your own home.
I can empathise with Griswold's attempts to make things perfect for his arriving guests (while, obviously, hoping the similarities will end there). The pursuit of festive-entertainment perfection makes people do stupid things; I, for example, find myself writing lists of things to do that don't need to be done at all - or certainly have no connection to Christmas.
All those niggling DIY jobs that have been hanging over my head for ages are suddenly, inexplicably, a priority. There's the piece of skirting board in the kitchen, for instance, that I have needed to replace since the dog chewed it off (number four on the list). I have also convinced myself that we need to redecorate upstairs, despite the fact that our guests will be going home on Christmas night and probably won't even go upstairs.
Last month even bigger home improvement projects were being mentioned in hushed tones. We have been talking about fitting under-floor heating and new tiles in the kitchen. Should we, we wondered, try to get them done for Christmas? This has become our mantra. If we go on like this, we will be done before Christmas. Done in a big way.
Over the past few months I have been scouting Keighery's auction rooms, in Waterford, for items to complete our Christmas preparations. We decided some time ago that we didn't have enough decent dinnerware to handle such an auspicious occasion as Christmas, so we were delighted when our bid for a 64-piece Mason's dinner set was successful. It will go unused for the other 364 days of the year, but never mind. I'm sure it will be fabulous on the day.
A mahogany hallstand was acquired so people can hang up their coats when they arrive - and perhaps check their hair in the mirror before proceeding to the livingroom. And that's just the successful bids. I won't tell you about the unsuccessful bids.
As for the meal, preparations are coming along nicely. Mrs Kelly harangued her mother into keeping turkeys a few months back, and they're fattening up nicely. I promised the mother-in-law I would help with the killin', guttin' and pluckin', but as the day draws nearer I wonder whether I have the stomach for the massacre. Then again, organic turkeys cost about €70 this year, so I'm sure I will find the resolve somewhere.
The Christmas pud was made a few weeks back; my other pride and joy is the home-made sloe gin that we bottled in September. Is it a good idea to serve a depressant with unknown potency as the aperitif? Will we all be sobbing uncontrollably by the time dinner starts? Or will we have passed out on the table?
We realise now that Christmas involves graciously accommodating the various tastes and traditions that occur when people from different families converge. That's why you end up with seven vegetables on the table, not to mention the starters. Mrs Kelly's family, for example, always have soup as a starter, which no one in my family really likes. When I told her that, she glared at me and said we were having soup and that was that. There are lovely soup bowls in the new dinner set, she said, and we will be using them.
I've had a notion in my head for some time that I want to have gravadlax as our starter; I found a recipe that involves submerging a salmon in a bucket of dill for a few days. The bucket aspect appeals to me, for some reason.
My brother-in-law always has baked mushrooms as one of the vegetables with dinner, which I consider odd. But we will, of course, provide them. Our family always cooks cocktail sausages with the turkey. There's nowt as strange as folk.
As long as the turkey doesn't explode we should be fine. Late on Christmas evening, I hope to look into the camera and say, like Clark Griswold: "I did it."