OH FOR A YULE-PROOF CHRISTMAS…

From culinary cock-ups to awkward guests, Liz Cowley shares her humorous take on festive entertaining ILLUSTRATIONS Nila Aye

WHAT THE HELL TO COOK?

Now, how about a main of fish and that great sauce I did with lime? Oh, blast, I’m sure that was the dish I gave to John and Sue last time. A boeuf en croûte? I do that well, it’s always something of a treat. Oh, damn and blast and bloody hell, Suzanne and Philip don’t eat meat. Paella? That might fit the bill – I got quite good at that in Spain. No, hang on, prawns make Anna ill. I can’t make that mistake again. I know, I’ll do a salmon trout. Oh, no! Diana always moans unless the backbone’s taken out and all those fiddly little bones. Or why not take the whole lot out? No, that idea is truly daft. The meal will have to be my shout, and that won’t help my overdraft. Oh, damn and hell, two days to go, and still I’m stuck for what to do. There must be something. Ah, I know, I’ll ring and say I’ve just caught flu!

Brussels sprouts

I like my Brussels sprouts quite hard. ‘Like bullets’, says my great mate Trish. I guess we all have different views on how we like to do a dish. I think a lot of vegetables are far, far better underdone. And if you don’t like veg with crunch, don’t dine or lunch here, anyone!

WHO TO SIT WHERE?

Who to put by Marianne? I don’t think she could cope with Jim. He’ll only talk about himself. What madness ever asking him! And who to put by Alexandra? Good listener it will have to be – which counts out Bill and Philip too. And I can’t have her next to me. And Florence can’t sit next to Bob. Her leftist views will drive him spare – a long term Labour activist. It’s just not fair to put him there. Why did we ask these people round? And who to sit next door to whom? They’ll all be here in half an hour, and still I can’t sort out the room. ‘It’s payback time’ I tell myself. They’ve had us round. We owe them one. But working out where they will sit is quite the opposite of fun.

One ingredient to keep out

Stress – that’s best kept off the menu, but sadly it is often there – hosts stressed out and panicking and often tearing out their hair. What the hell, if it’s disastrous? It’s best to make a joke of it. We’re lucky to be asked at all, and none of us will mind a bit. If the soufflé hasn’t risen, and if the beef was overdone, that won’t matter if the chatter turns out to be a lot of fun. Who cares if it isn’t perfect? At least one thing will fetch some praise: the very fact we’ve been asked out – that’s always pleasant nowadays.

DOROTHY AT THE DOOR

‘Dorothy, you look fantastic! Where are you off to? Somewhere smart?’ ‘Well, you asked me round to dinner.’ Gosh, did I? Not the greatest start. And nor, alas, was what came after – the England final on TV. My husband said he had to watch, so I did too, and Dorothy. TV trays don’t go with diamonds, nor dog hairs with a Prada dress. Poor Dorothy, and also me. An evening of sheer hellishness. Eat with her, and in the kitchen? No, terribly embarrassing. Anyway, the fridge was empty, devoid of almost anything. When England won, my husband whooped, but not so me and Dorothy. The dog, alarmed, knocked off her tray, and sadly, somewhat messily. Forgiveness is a marvellous thing, but never came from Dorothy. And now we’ve not seen her in years, perhaps not that surprisingly.

Christmas

I’ve wrapped all the gifts, I’ve put up the tree, I’ve hung up the cards – he’s on the first tee. I’ve made the mince pies, I’ve done the bread sauce – he’s off playing golf, it’s par for the course. I’ve mended the lights, I’ve basted the duck – he’s now in a bunker bemoaning his luck. I’ve worked out the table, we’re having fourteen. I’ve polished the silver – he’s now on the green. I’ve hung up the wreath, it’s on the front door – he’s on the sixteenth, he’ll do it in four. At six, he’ll be back, poor over-tired soul, and I’ll have to listen to hole after hole. I’ll smile when he says, ‘The day was quite fun.’ But not when he asks, ‘And what have you done?’

DINNER WITH THE NEIGHBOURS

We sorted out the whole of Europe, what’s more, in only two hours flat. If only Britain’s politicians could do a little more of that.

Poems taken from Pass the Prosecco, Darling! by Liz Cowley, published by Gibson Square, price £9.99*