Auld Lang's Hot

Hostess-with-the-mostest Terri Psiakis learns that all is not lost when New Year's Eve plans go into meltdown.

I love a good party as much as the next borderline alcoholic. It's amazing how many cocktails you can put away while defending yourself against the disapproving stares of others with the phrase "Hey – it's a party!"

My love of parties was what prompted the Bloke and I to invite friends over on New Year's Eve. Although I didn't say it was a party. I promoted it as "a small gathering" because if you talk something up as being a party everyone’s hopes are immediately raised. They expect an actual party. And if they turn up and find that the hostess is the only person getting into the cocktails, it's not a party. It's a binge with witnesses.

My small New Year's Eve gathering involved a fair amount of planning. I planned a menu that included starters, the main meals, salads and dessert. I planned not to laugh every time I used the phrase 'finger food' but that plan fell through fairly early. I also planned a designated dining area out the back, which in turn included the planning of decorations and a backyard blitz to ensure the garden was looking great. And of course, I planned a signature cocktail for the evening. One that I knew I would really like. Everything, it seemed, was well-planned.

Except the 40-plus degree heat.

Some people think Melbourne is always cold. It's not. Occasionally we experience the sort of heat waves that would melt most of Victoria Beckham. By 3pm on New Year's Eve my entire back garden had completely wilted and water restrictions prevented us from doing anything about it. The Bloke informed me that the total fire ban in force would prohibit me from lighting the candles I'd used to decorate the yard. Then a guest rang to ask if I could change the dress code to "bra and undies" because that was the only thing she didn't feel faint in.

In the kitchen, the heat messed with the short crust pastry I'd hoped to use for the starters. I sadly announced to the Bloke that there'd be no finger food. Neither of us laughed. It was too hot. So hot that I couldn't actually be bothered using the oven, which also meant the end for the huge celebration cake I'd planned for dessert. Although I could probably have baked it in the designated dining area under the back pergola, because that's how hot it was. Although the Bloke saw it somewhat differently, stating that it was, in fact, "hot as balls."

All my plans were falling apart, which meant one thing: I was really going to hit the cocktails. I was just setting up the blender when the Bloke asked the question: "What would Donna Hay do?"

Donna Hay, author of cookbooks I love so much that I refer to them as food porn. Donna Hay, queen of all things simple but lovely. Yes, what would Donna Hay do? Take all her guests out for the night, probably. She's a very wealthy woman. She'd probably pay off their mortgages. The Bloke persisted: "Yeah, but if she was you, what would she do?"

We did a load of washing and used the rinse water to revive the garden. We swapped the candles around the yard for the fairy lights from the Christmas tree. We used crackers instead of short crust pastry for the starters which brought the finger food – and the inappropriate laughter – back from the dead. We thanked god we’d planned lots of salads. Dessert became fresh fruit and ice cream and the dining table and chairs were moved out from under the pergola and into the back yard so the whole thing took place under the stars.

Sure, one guest arrived suffering heatstroke, another guest came down with it during the evening and everyone was too hot and bothered to even think about partying until after midnight but at least I wasn't the only one getting stuck into the icy mint cocktails.

- Terri Psiakis