LATERS, NEW YORK
JEREMY OLDS
I’m in London now, but right before Christmas last year, my dad visited me in New York and brought with him a tote bag filled with presents. “From Mum,” he said, handing it over. The bag bore a large, ugly silver fern and I instantly dismissed it as a joke.
Rude, yes, but I was in a rut. I’d spent the previous five months studying in New York, and, without the momentum and routine of classes, I’d taken to sleeping late into the day and coasting through the rest. Everyone I lived with had gone for the holiday, leaving me alone, wishing I wasn’t.
Snow had fallen a week earlier, which looked romantic, but was actually unbearable. The city exhaled a cold breath that pushed on your temples, hurt your teeth, and rendered your fingers stiff and immovable. None of my clothes from home were warm enough, so I went to buy thermals. Outside, the chill made New Yorkers more unhinged than usual. People would barge around in a frenzied panic, caught up in the city’s materialistic thrum. Back to bed, I decided.
My professor knew I was alone, and invited me to dinner with her friends. On Christmas Eve, carrying an apple crumble, I caught the subway to a booklined apartment in Chelsea and ate with a room of New York intellectuals, who used the word “manifesto” a lot and discussed what they’d do when their dentists retired. The evening was a welcome reprieve from my isolation, but it felt as absurd as everything else in the city at the time.
On Christmas Day I hosted an enormous vegetarian lunch for some friends at my empty apartment. We were from New Zealand, Australia, Italy; seven castaways bound together, suppressing our feelings of remoteness with cannelloni, eggplant parmigiana, plates of vegetables and, for desert, a glorious pav. Also, lots of wine. At night, we danced around the living room. I remember smashing a glass and doing a terrible job picking up the shards. Some stayed the night; the rest took their leftovers and headed into the bitter New York darkness.
Several days afterwards, I rediscovered the tote bag, and opened the gifts. Pens, shot glasses, a key ring, a wine stopper, all with tacky “I LOVE NZ” branding. I envisioned Mum, 14,000km away, laughing to herself as she wrapped the horrendous plunder. It was the best worst present and, for a while, the dread lifted.
What I’ll be drinking
Who I’ll be with
Missing
What I’ll be eating in London
A nut roast – served separately from the turkey the others will be gobbling. (I’m a vegetarian.)
What I’ll be drinking
A bucket of mulled wine.
Who I’ll be with
The top dogs of London’s Kiwi diaspora.
Missing
The heat that lulls you to sleep at 3pm. My nana.
Loving
Our “No Presents” rule: instead of buying each other gifts, my friends and I will donate money.
Wearing
Paper crown. Wool-knit jersey. Pants with an elastic waistband.
What I’ll be eating in Hawke’s Bay
Lashings of cold ham and chicken with salads, followed by a delicious Kiwi pavlova and detestable ambrosia. It’ll be a scorcher, so plenty of cold anything and everything! My partner’s “family Christmas” means 30-40 people, so I’m expecting a riot.
Every Christmas I’m not with my own family I feel pangs of guilt. I’ll be missing my extended family in Ireland and friends in the UK. But mostly, my mother’s recipe for raspberry and chocolate roulade with brandy cream.
Loving
I think they have a pool in Hawke’s Bay. Winning.
Wearing
In lieu of a tacky jumper, I’ll don a tacky T-shirt.