Auld acquaintance not forgot

My typical new year's eves are predictably lame-o affairs involving spiked punch, people I don't know, truly pathetic attempts at small talk, and no midnight kisses, not even from my husband. One year, as I recall, I think I went to bed before the TV fireworks were even over. But I have actual plans this year, sort of, involving friends and glorious hot pot. Whether or not I'm awake to receive my new year kiss remains to be seen.

But a while back I was in Switzerland for New Year's, hanging out with a bunch of drunk Germans and eating the Swiss version of hot pot: stinky cheese fondue. I'd invited myself along my aunts' ski trip to Montreux even though I hate skiing and I hate being cold and I really hate whatever kind of cheese they use for fondue. God, that stuff reeks. I hung out in town and took picture after picture of Lake Geneva while everyone else was up in the mountains. It was the week after Christmas and I must say that Switzerland is as beautiful as Vermont during that time of year- all that snow. (Excuse me while I break out my blue and white napkins and create an impromptu snowscape with parsley trees.) I usually managed to steer clear of the Fervent, Hard Core, and One-Track-Minded Skiiers, a mix of Germans and Americans dressed in flourescent waterproof parkas, but my presence was required for the ski trip's planned New Year's Event: a huge dinner in some kind of traditional Swiss restaurant where there were animals on the walls and waitresses drinking right along with the patrons. It was dark and loud and I was very suspicious of the German who ended up sitting across from me. His name was probably Kurt or something like that, but I'd have to go back to my journal to find out his real name, so for now I'll call him Gunther because he totally looked like Gunther. A decidedly less fruity Gunther with a hollow leg because- God bless Gunther- after downing all of his fondue (meat and cheese) and a bottle and a half of wine, he noticed that the picky American girl across from him was gingerly dipping her bread chunks just barely into her cheese fondue and perhaps she was in need of a Fondue Hero. All hail the Man who Inhales Cheese! Gunther made sure my wine glass was always full and that no snooty Swiss person would look sideways at my dwindling basket of bread but full pot of cheese. Gunther even pulled off the layer of burned cheese at the bottom of the pot, though I'm not sure if this was because he was still hungry, trashed, or just very polite.

When the food was gone, the singing began. I didn't know the language, but it's easy to fake it when everyone else is on their eighteenth bottle of wine. We stumbled, and I do mean stumbled, back to our hotel and there might have been fireworks, but it was cold and snowy and there were stairs involved and did I mention we were drunk? Oh, the wine, so much better than the cheese.

Cheese is not a hot pot ingredient, but paper thin slices of beef and pork, chunks of tofu, bok choy, noodles and vegetables are, preferably dipped into a bowl of sesame seed oil, garlic, sesame paste, and two other kinds of sauces- one that's brown and one made out of The Mysterious Green Vegetable (tm Blondie). YUM. My in-laws are delivering all the goodies tomorrow morning (because Phillip and I, what do we know about hot pot?!) and my mouth is watering already.

See you on the other side of 2004.