Points of View

The Life of the Party

        

         The bride of two months loved the snowstorm.  She had arrived to a grey Canadian November. But New Year’s Eve would fulfill her dreams; as she danced to the band in her blue gown, outside the world was turning white, white, and white as the gardenias that she wore on her wrist and in her hair.

         She was stunned by the buffet. Rationing I was still in effect in Britain so the array of roast turkey, whole salmon. Baked ham, served with assorted salads and followed by sherry trifle, was mind-boggling. She also was sampling champagne for the first time so all in all, her delighted giddiness knew no bounds.

         She was impervious to the problems of guests who had left young children in the care of teen-age baby sitters and were dismayed when they stepped out into a blinding blizzard. She staggered through deep snow to get to the narrow single bed where she and her husband spent the night.  Being more than a little tipsy, she fell down a couple of times, giggling madly. Her dress was a sodden mess.

         By morning, the dress has had a good night’s sleep and looked as good as new. She stuck the gardenias back in her hair and on her wrist. A snowy return to the Mess to breakfast on orange juice, scrambled eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. The chef served breakfast. Poor man—he looked weary with those dark shadows under his eyes.  But he winked at her and gave her a broad smile. He made the cake for her wedding eight weeks before. He came out of the kitchen to wish the young couple good luck.

         Somebody put on the record player and everybody danced. They sang — like it was hilarious.  Some kind friends drove the newly -weds home. The coal furnace had gone out. She climbed into bed and piled on every blanket and coat that she could find.  Finally, the furnace got going and soon the house was warm and cozy. What a fun New Year! Simply hilarious.

The Chef’s Burden

         Don’t get me wrong. I love my job for I am le chef extraordinaire from la Belle Provence. So I get the job at Camp Borden. It is Ontario and they like plain fare, no lapin or tortiere. But one goes where the job is.  That New Year’s, I prepare the buffet.

         It is 2 am before the staff wash and dry and put away the dishes. At last, the kitchen is tidy and I hang up my apron and take off my chef’s hat. The storm outside is bad. I call Anne-Marie, my wife:

          “Happy New Year, cherie.  Wild out there. Home as soon as I can.  Embrace les enfants for me.”

         Guests were quartered here and there on the base.  Myself and the staff, we sleep in the Officer’s Mess.  Lotta sofas -we cover ourselves with our coats.  Not good but we manage.

 I was awakened by Flying-Officer Jones. Messing officer; I take my orders from him.

         “Hi, Joe.  Looks like you are still on duty. There are a bunch of bods who need to be fed. Do the best you can, chum.  And by the way, Happy New Year.”

         We drag ourselves back to the kitchen. Soon, we have a crowd of hungry people in the dining hall. It seem a festive occasion.  Lots of laughter.  Maybe for them but not for me. The young bride in her pretty blue gown is laughing a lot. I think that, on her wedding day, she seem shy but bolder now. These people get happy as the day progress—will they never stop eating and drinking?

         It is past six in the evening when I make it home.  Anne-Marie makes special Quebecois dishes—I never cook at home.  I stagger up the driveway, open the door and see my happy family.

         Anne-Marie urges me towards the table.  “Non, non!  I see you tomorrow.”

         As I drift off to sleep, I think: “Mon Dieu, the worse New Year’s of my life.”