I’m past the age when New Year’s is supposed to matter. And even when it did matter, it rarely lived up to my expectations. Eventually, I started to focus more the new beginning rather than the party. I love beginnings, so it’s been a fully positive development.
But this New Year’s I may have discovered the recipe for New Year’s success: a couple dozen committed people, some new, some the best of friends, far away from everything else.
They brought their gifts of food and drinks and their favorite records. We walked down the unpaved, single lane road to find the horse shoe crab marker, leading through a marshy path to a sandy beach. I tried my best to disguise the waddle that came with my ninth month of pregnancy, while my best friend carried Alamae on her back. The damp skies made the marsh grasses glow. We had to pull Sena from the muck, but there was hardly a complaint among them.
We came back to feast for hours on a perfectly roasted chicken, beautiful hand pies, smoky pork loins, loaded baked potatoes and fiery Thai soup. My friend Jean thought to bring 24 glass champagne flutes, and so when we counted down the final seconds of a tough year, there was a strange touch of elegance.
For the first time in ages I don’t have a resolution. except maybe to try my best to recreate the magic of that party next year.