Aaaaaaaaaand it's Winter. 9 degrees today and careers and hobbies seem like a lifetime away in the struggle to not be found in an ice floe in Central Park.
Temping away, catering and then huddling inside a cinema to watch Young Victoria. Life becomes a chapter in a Jane Austen novel midway through January until around March. And I'm not complaining.
It appeals to the maiden aunt in my soul. Which is down there lurking with swashbucklers, archaeologists, medieval royalty, chefs and mystics...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Christmas Eve
Just returned from five days in Woodstock where I was the chef for Christmas Eve dinner.
Sea Scallop Rumaki, Moules Marnieres, Prime Rib, Leg of Lamb marinated with Olive Oil, Dijon mustard, shallots and Rosmary, Goose stuffed with Braised Dates filled with foie gras and port wine reduction, Tarte Tatin, Tarte Fraise and Tangerine Flan.... and every wine under the sun.
Very successful and would do it again in a heartbeat. Great friends, food and drink in an idyllic setting. Certainly beat last Chrissy when I was by myself on my couch with a busted dvd of Sex & the City/The Movie. I was determined NOT to have to go through that again, thus--Gooseapalooza '09.
Next day was lamb stew and lamb sandwiches with Bearnaise sauce which does NOT keep well.
Have realized that my new favourite colour is egg yolk and sugar whipped into gold ribbons. :)
The hostess gave me her Breadmaker and three All-Clad pans which I hope to be buried with!
Five days of this was enough, because I swear... gout is imminent! I don't understand how the gourmets do it. Living like Louis XIV would kill me after a month. Anne Rice said, "The days of Wine and Roses are fabulous... but they're BRIEF!".
Got home last night and baked a loaf of bread. Didn't rise all the way, so will get to the bottom of that--and watched Sam Raimi's Drag Me to Hell, which was just the most awful movie. You'd like to think that if you're gonna commit to a character that there might be SOME chance of redemption for him/her... Feh.
Anyway... tonight, it's supposed to drop into the single digits and we're gonna freeze our tuchii off.
Happy New Year everybody...
OH--if anyone knows anything about the complimentary technique classes at Williams/Sonoma, please fill me in. I want to go, but not if it's just a chance for them to hawk merchandise for an hour.
Sea Scallop Rumaki, Moules Marnieres, Prime Rib, Leg of Lamb marinated with Olive Oil, Dijon mustard, shallots and Rosmary, Goose stuffed with Braised Dates filled with foie gras and port wine reduction, Tarte Tatin, Tarte Fraise and Tangerine Flan.... and every wine under the sun.
Very successful and would do it again in a heartbeat. Great friends, food and drink in an idyllic setting. Certainly beat last Chrissy when I was by myself on my couch with a busted dvd of Sex & the City/The Movie. I was determined NOT to have to go through that again, thus--Gooseapalooza '09.
Next day was lamb stew and lamb sandwiches with Bearnaise sauce which does NOT keep well.
Have realized that my new favourite colour is egg yolk and sugar whipped into gold ribbons. :)
The hostess gave me her Breadmaker and three All-Clad pans which I hope to be buried with!
Five days of this was enough, because I swear... gout is imminent! I don't understand how the gourmets do it. Living like Louis XIV would kill me after a month. Anne Rice said, "The days of Wine and Roses are fabulous... but they're BRIEF!".
Got home last night and baked a loaf of bread. Didn't rise all the way, so will get to the bottom of that--and watched Sam Raimi's Drag Me to Hell, which was just the most awful movie. You'd like to think that if you're gonna commit to a character that there might be SOME chance of redemption for him/her... Feh.
Anyway... tonight, it's supposed to drop into the single digits and we're gonna freeze our tuchii off.
Happy New Year everybody...
OH--if anyone knows anything about the complimentary technique classes at Williams/Sonoma, please fill me in. I want to go, but not if it's just a chance for them to hawk merchandise for an hour.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Went to meet an old friend last evening, her daughter (also an old friend!) and HER daughters who were taking David Howard's evening class at Steps on Broadway and 75th. I hadn't set foot in the studio in almost fifteen years, and it was nice to see that not very much has changed.
Scholarship kids still running the register (I used to do this), same antique wood furniture everywhere and the same social life going on outside the studios on the floor. The dancers look younger than ever and I stared into the same mirrors I stared in long ago.... Only a VERY different face looked back at me. Time... she's a bitch of a mistress...
David is a legend in the dance world and the dancers and artists he has created populate every major company in the world. Was lovely to see this icon and my old friend relive memories. He is rather physically feeble now, but his voice is still powerful and he demonstrates with his hands. He lost his studio in NYC as the rent skyrocketed to an unbelievable rate--as so many rents have done, and now teaches at Steps.
Getting to the studio was chaotic as some idiot on the subway slammed a box into my back and we got into a screaming match. The whole time I am cursing this cretin out, I am thinking, "Jesus man, lighten up, it's Christmas!", but yet my mouth kept going and god knows there was an audience. I was so embarassed I got out of the subway at 66th street and walked the rest of the way. Ho, ho, NO. Light a candle for my short, temper someone won't you please?!?!?
Heading up to Woodstock tomorrow to begin this cookfest.
Merry Hols, everyone.
Scholarship kids still running the register (I used to do this), same antique wood furniture everywhere and the same social life going on outside the studios on the floor. The dancers look younger than ever and I stared into the same mirrors I stared in long ago.... Only a VERY different face looked back at me. Time... she's a bitch of a mistress...
David is a legend in the dance world and the dancers and artists he has created populate every major company in the world. Was lovely to see this icon and my old friend relive memories. He is rather physically feeble now, but his voice is still powerful and he demonstrates with his hands. He lost his studio in NYC as the rent skyrocketed to an unbelievable rate--as so many rents have done, and now teaches at Steps.
Getting to the studio was chaotic as some idiot on the subway slammed a box into my back and we got into a screaming match. The whole time I am cursing this cretin out, I am thinking, "Jesus man, lighten up, it's Christmas!", but yet my mouth kept going and god knows there was an audience. I was so embarassed I got out of the subway at 66th street and walked the rest of the way. Ho, ho, NO. Light a candle for my short, temper someone won't you please?!?!?
Heading up to Woodstock tomorrow to begin this cookfest.
Merry Hols, everyone.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Winter Solstice
December 21.
The Winter Solstice.
CLEARLY the first day of Winter as the snow from the Northeastern Blizzard has backed up and it takes double the time to walk anywhere. Still sort of white.
It's insanely cold and time for the I Don't Care coat. The Ugly Betty coat. AKA the vomit-taupe, Michelin Man coat I bought at Daffy's for 7 bucks when I first arrived to counteract the elements in the bleak Midwinter. The coat I wore when I was meeting my roommate at The Color Purple on Broadway and while standing on 52nd St, he could see my approach from 47th Street. And had to check or buy another seat for.
The I DON'T GIVE A DAMN HOW I LOOK IT'S FREEZING SO GET OFF MY DRESS coat.
Sitting at my temp desk laden with Mucinex, Airborne, Advil and enough coffee to jump start Lazarus.
No auditions this week that I can go to due to this gig and the resounding cold that is pummeling my pulmonaries... and a HUGE case of the Mean Reds. Getting ready to abscond Upstate and start the process of Christmas Eve Dinner.
Definitely need to get out of the city for a bit, even if the entire time will be spent in front of a stove. Worse places to be!
The Winter Solstice.
CLEARLY the first day of Winter as the snow from the Northeastern Blizzard has backed up and it takes double the time to walk anywhere. Still sort of white.
It's insanely cold and time for the I Don't Care coat. The Ugly Betty coat. AKA the vomit-taupe, Michelin Man coat I bought at Daffy's for 7 bucks when I first arrived to counteract the elements in the bleak Midwinter. The coat I wore when I was meeting my roommate at The Color Purple on Broadway and while standing on 52nd St, he could see my approach from 47th Street. And had to check or buy another seat for.
The I DON'T GIVE A DAMN HOW I LOOK IT'S FREEZING SO GET OFF MY DRESS coat.
Sitting at my temp desk laden with Mucinex, Airborne, Advil and enough coffee to jump start Lazarus.
No auditions this week that I can go to due to this gig and the resounding cold that is pummeling my pulmonaries... and a HUGE case of the Mean Reds. Getting ready to abscond Upstate and start the process of Christmas Eve Dinner.
Definitely need to get out of the city for a bit, even if the entire time will be spent in front of a stove. Worse places to be!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Snow-dendum
Clearly I blogged too soon. The storm raged on for about 14 hours. a good foot of snow on the ground and traffic lunacy for all to see.
A bus went diagonally down Lefferts in front of the Kew Gardens Cinema as I was coming out of Me and Orson Wells. Cute movie. Zac Efron is ... well, he's just pretty as hell. You can't mince words there. And it was a good film about being an actor. How you must do it because there is nothing else you CAN or WANT to do. It's in your soul. You're a "God-created" actor.
And you take the good with the bad.
Would love to see a bit more good, but that's why we struggle. And hope.
As I am still besieged by weather, it's time to make those Bananna muffins and rehearse the Goose. I only get one shot at that.
A bus went diagonally down Lefferts in front of the Kew Gardens Cinema as I was coming out of Me and Orson Wells. Cute movie. Zac Efron is ... well, he's just pretty as hell. You can't mince words there. And it was a good film about being an actor. How you must do it because there is nothing else you CAN or WANT to do. It's in your soul. You're a "God-created" actor.
And you take the good with the bad.
Would love to see a bit more good, but that's why we struggle. And hope.
As I am still besieged by weather, it's time to make those Bananna muffins and rehearse the Goose. I only get one shot at that.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Snow?
Well... the BIGGIE was a smallie. So much for THE STORM OF 2010~!
I went to Tradefair to buy the goose and you would have thought the war had ended with the cashier lines to Long Island and the extremely freaked out, non English-speaking cashiers.
65 bucks later, goose in hand, we drove back through the snow to the house, made the Rosemary Bread (where DID Tim learn to knead dough????? Is this some Midwestern rite of passages we in the Northeast don't know about???), mulled the wine, popped on the fake fireplace and are waiting for ...THE BLIZZARD. If Winter's on the wing, then it's a pigeon, not a condor, that's carrying it.
I went to Tradefair to buy the goose and you would have thought the war had ended with the cashier lines to Long Island and the extremely freaked out, non English-speaking cashiers.
65 bucks later, goose in hand, we drove back through the snow to the house, made the Rosemary Bread (where DID Tim learn to knead dough????? Is this some Midwestern rite of passages we in the Northeast don't know about???), mulled the wine, popped on the fake fireplace and are waiting for ...THE BLIZZARD. If Winter's on the wing, then it's a pigeon, not a condor, that's carrying it.
Snow Day
Snowstorm moving up and over from the South and the Midwest.
This means, while the expected 12 inches accumulates, I will be baking bread.
Trying to, at any rate as yesterday's aborted attempt forced me out into the cold for two bottles of Malbec and an evening in front of Four Weddings and a Funeral because the "knead" attachment on the five dollar Sears Food Processor from 1983 (5 dollars at a yard sale) liiiiiies....
It was not bread, so much as Yeast Soup.
So, not to be thwarted, here we go again.
My housemate lectured that bread making is a process of love... the kneading and all. That might explain why I am not so into it. Perhaps my intimacy issues extend to carbohydrates as well.
Paging Dr. Freud to the kitchen... STAT!
Made Bananna muffins yesterday that were damned good. Added ground cloves, allspice and dusted the tops with brown sugar (oh--substituted two thirds of the called for sugar in the recipe with brown sugar as well). Damned good!
Trying to buy the goose today. May have to head out to Long Island with an axe if this doesn't work.
This means, while the expected 12 inches accumulates, I will be baking bread.
Trying to, at any rate as yesterday's aborted attempt forced me out into the cold for two bottles of Malbec and an evening in front of Four Weddings and a Funeral because the "knead" attachment on the five dollar Sears Food Processor from 1983 (5 dollars at a yard sale) liiiiiies....
It was not bread, so much as Yeast Soup.
So, not to be thwarted, here we go again.
My housemate lectured that bread making is a process of love... the kneading and all. That might explain why I am not so into it. Perhaps my intimacy issues extend to carbohydrates as well.
Paging Dr. Freud to the kitchen... STAT!
Made Bananna muffins yesterday that were damned good. Added ground cloves, allspice and dusted the tops with brown sugar (oh--substituted two thirds of the called for sugar in the recipe with brown sugar as well). Damned good!
Trying to buy the goose today. May have to head out to Long Island with an axe if this doesn't work.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Ho, Ho, Honk
Cooking a holiday dinner for anyone is sobering but agreeing to do so for a houseful of artists and foodies is just downright self-martyring.
Driving to Woodstock with a car full of baking accoutrements and a brine-ing, 12 pound goose is... well... Everest with bucket seats and a moonroof.
When I was a vegetarian, the most exciting part of the day was buying the tofu. Yes. THE MOST EXCITING. Since de-culting myself from the clutches of colitis, I have enjoyed myself far more. Yet the stress of making sure that others do the same seems never ending.
That being typed, part of the fun is the planning. Having a Virgo Ascendant ensures a hell of a lot of THAT. Having an Aquarian Sun ensures that I'll definitely be planning many things, but without warning I could take a left turn from crudite into the MidEast crisis.
If you're going to attempt something a bit off the beaten track, plan well in advance. The Grocery list has gone to the lovely and patient hostess upstate and another containing the same ingredients separated into which part of the store to find them was also attached. She has her work cut out for her.
Yesterday--here in Queens, I struck out to find the more obscure poultry. It's a little disheartening when you go to the butcher and ask how many days in advance one needs to order a goose to be met with a butcher that barely understands English. We move from disheartening to disbelief when said butcher mumbles the reply, "Goose? What is that.. . MEAT???"
When butcher number 3 offers the same in-credulousness, the thought of chucking the whole plan and ordering a pizza flares momentarily before lowering one's gaze, muttering, "Never mind", and heading out to regroup... and light up.
I'm beginnning to wonder if Dean & Deluca's exorbitance is due to translation fees rather than quality cuts.
Still--Goose stuffed with dates injected with garlic foie gras is something worth fighting for.
Driving to Woodstock with a car full of baking accoutrements and a brine-ing, 12 pound goose is... well... Everest with bucket seats and a moonroof.
When I was a vegetarian, the most exciting part of the day was buying the tofu. Yes. THE MOST EXCITING. Since de-culting myself from the clutches of colitis, I have enjoyed myself far more. Yet the stress of making sure that others do the same seems never ending.
That being typed, part of the fun is the planning. Having a Virgo Ascendant ensures a hell of a lot of THAT. Having an Aquarian Sun ensures that I'll definitely be planning many things, but without warning I could take a left turn from crudite into the MidEast crisis.
If you're going to attempt something a bit off the beaten track, plan well in advance. The Grocery list has gone to the lovely and patient hostess upstate and another containing the same ingredients separated into which part of the store to find them was also attached. She has her work cut out for her.
Yesterday--here in Queens, I struck out to find the more obscure poultry. It's a little disheartening when you go to the butcher and ask how many days in advance one needs to order a goose to be met with a butcher that barely understands English. We move from disheartening to disbelief when said butcher mumbles the reply, "Goose? What is that.. . MEAT???"
When butcher number 3 offers the same in-credulousness, the thought of chucking the whole plan and ordering a pizza flares momentarily before lowering one's gaze, muttering, "Never mind", and heading out to regroup... and light up.
I'm beginnning to wonder if Dean & Deluca's exorbitance is due to translation fees rather than quality cuts.
Still--Goose stuffed with dates injected with garlic foie gras is something worth fighting for.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
It has been raining for well over 14 hours.
Nothing to do but stay inside and be a domestic god.
Made Latkes in honour of Hannukah and brought some to my neighbor next door. Then crawled down to her basement to make sure her pilot light was on. I shudder to think what would have been expected of me had it not been.... "Uh... call the pilot light people??"
She shares the basement with a Chinese take away so the place looks like a hoarders' paradise.
Planned and stressed over Christmas Dinner and prepared for auditions that are looming in the coming week.
Getting up at five o'clock in the morning to warble and then capping the day off by catering a party I wasn't invited to is really not something that puts me in the holiday spirit, but then again neither is abject insolvency, so we do what we can.
Nothing to do but stay inside and be a domestic god.
Made Latkes in honour of Hannukah and brought some to my neighbor next door. Then crawled down to her basement to make sure her pilot light was on. I shudder to think what would have been expected of me had it not been.... "Uh... call the pilot light people??"
She shares the basement with a Chinese take away so the place looks like a hoarders' paradise.
Planned and stressed over Christmas Dinner and prepared for auditions that are looming in the coming week.
Getting up at five o'clock in the morning to warble and then capping the day off by catering a party I wasn't invited to is really not something that puts me in the holiday spirit, but then again neither is abject insolvency, so we do what we can.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Dinner, Mulching and all Things Domestique.
Well, it's cold. It went from a lovely Autumn day to, "Welcome to Neptune, your table is ready."
My bag was blown off my shoulder last night and went cartwheeling down 6th Avenue, through Herald Square and right in front of Macy's with me scrambling after it like a mad charwoman--giving the security cam quite a free show. Who needs the winos when you have an entertaining lunatic chasing his catering bag...
The temperature has dropped into the 20's with wind chill that only a Tlingit could love.
Christmas Eve dinner being planned. Marinated leg of lamb in Mustard, Olive Oil, Rosemary and shallots, Prime Rib, Goose stuffed with dates injected with foie gras, many vegetables, many starches, Tarte Fraise, Tangerine Flan, Tarte Tatin and SEVERAL cocktails.
We are upping sticks and heading to Woodstock to commune for five days of relaxation. Well... cooking IS how I relax...
Even though there is 8 inches of snow on the ground, I will be able to see how much the wisteria and Japanese Maple that I put in two years ago is doing.
If anyone has any tips on Wisteria, I'm all ears. This crap is growing at the same speed government workers move... And if the Japanese beetles come back next year, I'm becoming a cyber-gardener.
Happy Hannukah this evening!
My bag was blown off my shoulder last night and went cartwheeling down 6th Avenue, through Herald Square and right in front of Macy's with me scrambling after it like a mad charwoman--giving the security cam quite a free show. Who needs the winos when you have an entertaining lunatic chasing his catering bag...
The temperature has dropped into the 20's with wind chill that only a Tlingit could love.
Christmas Eve dinner being planned. Marinated leg of lamb in Mustard, Olive Oil, Rosemary and shallots, Prime Rib, Goose stuffed with dates injected with foie gras, many vegetables, many starches, Tarte Fraise, Tangerine Flan, Tarte Tatin and SEVERAL cocktails.
We are upping sticks and heading to Woodstock to commune for five days of relaxation. Well... cooking IS how I relax...
Even though there is 8 inches of snow on the ground, I will be able to see how much the wisteria and Japanese Maple that I put in two years ago is doing.
If anyone has any tips on Wisteria, I'm all ears. This crap is growing at the same speed government workers move... And if the Japanese beetles come back next year, I'm becoming a cyber-gardener.
Happy Hannukah this evening!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Twitching and Flinching and Stress, Oy VEY!
This is one of those weeks when I work three jobs and have auditions with monologues that I don't yet know.
I will probably answer the fork at my catering gig and ask the CEO here if he would care for more wine with his ... meeting.
If I don't break into a list of specials at the Noises Off EPA, it will be a surprise.
Full on anxiety attack in the night last evening. Oh, can't think WHY... a nice sixty hour work week, with the cancellation of health insurance pending on 12/7 and enough debt to make Nicaragua wince.
Funny... life upon the wicked stage ain't nothin' like a girl supposes, but I am so busy trying to live in this town and pay the bills on time, that the wicked stage only exists at the Gershwin and I am no where near it.
So... In the mean while... I'll cook something. Like one of these overpaid bankers over an open flame...
CHECK!
I will probably answer the fork at my catering gig and ask the CEO here if he would care for more wine with his ... meeting.
If I don't break into a list of specials at the Noises Off EPA, it will be a surprise.
Full on anxiety attack in the night last evening. Oh, can't think WHY... a nice sixty hour work week, with the cancellation of health insurance pending on 12/7 and enough debt to make Nicaragua wince.
Funny... life upon the wicked stage ain't nothin' like a girl supposes, but I am so busy trying to live in this town and pay the bills on time, that the wicked stage only exists at the Gershwin and I am no where near it.
So... In the mean while... I'll cook something. Like one of these overpaid bankers over an open flame...
CHECK!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Oak Rooms, Diamonds, White House Gate Crashers and One Man Shows
Worked as a security guard at a friend's jewelry store on the Upper East Side yesterday.
Basically it was just great to sit around for five hours or so and hang out with my dry-witted friend.
God forbid I had to restrain a diamond thief. "Stop!!! Else I smack you with this orchid!!!"
Had the pleasure of seeing my dear friend--and sometimes acting-partner, Gary Littman, go through The Santaland Diaries which he will be performing in Boston later this month. New Rep Theatre, 12/16 - 1/3.
David Sedaris is the author and it is the autobiographic experience of his time working as a corporate elf at Macy's when he first came to New York. From his book of essays, Holidays on Ice (if you get this, also read, Dinah, The Christmas Whore. Brilliant.) Gary will be hysterical, so if anyone is in Boston around this time, go see him. I'd watch him read the phone book.
Tickets are 30 bucks.
http://www.newrep.org/santaland.php
Had drinks at The Oak Room at The Plaza this week. I have not been back since it's renovation and while it was great to see that The Oak Room was left untouched, it was a little unsettling to see that two Martinis, two vodka sodas and a cheese plate came to around $115.00.
All this for a view of the park and the bar stool that Samantha Jones sat on during an episode of Sex & the City.
The Plaza was recently bought and converted into part hotel, part condominiums. It's buyer has left MOST of the original decor in place, but the scary pink chandeliers in The Mezzanine Bar had me thinking that I was looking for a happy hour in a Nice bordello. Who okay'ed THAT little expenditure at one of New York's Grand Dame sites, I'd like to know. More importantly why? Poor Eloise!
Oh yeah, one last thing. The Gate Crashers at The White House...
Prosecuting two people with extremely bad manners is enticing, but misses the mark.
It DID detract from The President's first State Dinner, but what it also did--and in a way that I prefer, is to expose a MAJOR hole in White House Security.
Yes, what they did was rude (at least they dressed for it), but imagine if this hole was exposed in a much more dangerous way? At worst, someone is embarassed and a job or six is lost. Could have been soooo much more ... memorable. Thank God it was not.
Basically it was just great to sit around for five hours or so and hang out with my dry-witted friend.
God forbid I had to restrain a diamond thief. "Stop!!! Else I smack you with this orchid!!!"
Had the pleasure of seeing my dear friend--and sometimes acting-partner, Gary Littman, go through The Santaland Diaries which he will be performing in Boston later this month. New Rep Theatre, 12/16 - 1/3.
David Sedaris is the author and it is the autobiographic experience of his time working as a corporate elf at Macy's when he first came to New York. From his book of essays, Holidays on Ice (if you get this, also read, Dinah, The Christmas Whore. Brilliant.) Gary will be hysterical, so if anyone is in Boston around this time, go see him. I'd watch him read the phone book.
Tickets are 30 bucks.
http://www.newrep.org/santaland.php
Had drinks at The Oak Room at The Plaza this week. I have not been back since it's renovation and while it was great to see that The Oak Room was left untouched, it was a little unsettling to see that two Martinis, two vodka sodas and a cheese plate came to around $115.00.
All this for a view of the park and the bar stool that Samantha Jones sat on during an episode of Sex & the City.
The Plaza was recently bought and converted into part hotel, part condominiums. It's buyer has left MOST of the original decor in place, but the scary pink chandeliers in The Mezzanine Bar had me thinking that I was looking for a happy hour in a Nice bordello. Who okay'ed THAT little expenditure at one of New York's Grand Dame sites, I'd like to know. More importantly why? Poor Eloise!
Oh yeah, one last thing. The Gate Crashers at The White House...
Prosecuting two people with extremely bad manners is enticing, but misses the mark.
It DID detract from The President's first State Dinner, but what it also did--and in a way that I prefer, is to expose a MAJOR hole in White House Security.
Yes, what they did was rude (at least they dressed for it), but imagine if this hole was exposed in a much more dangerous way? At worst, someone is embarassed and a job or six is lost. Could have been soooo much more ... memorable. Thank God it was not.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Someone's in the Kitchen WIth Juuuuuuuliaaaa...
Cheers to Chef JC.
Whipped up a Supreme a la Voillailes avec Champignons, Creme-- et sauce Port.
Okay... that's Breast of Chicken cooked in butter at 400 degrees for about twelve minutes in a covered casserole dish with an inexplicable piece of buttered wax paper on top of the chicken.
then a boiled and reduced mixture of heavy cream, butter, Port wine, mushroom, lemons, white pepper, sea salt and shallots later, we have heart attack on a plate. No. Wait. We have a lunch with a salad (tossed with JC's vinaigrette) that is sublime enough to make you weep and forget how much money you owe to whom and that in reality, you work for Visa.
I have also bought some active, dry yeast. Bread making is next on the agenda.
I did it once before for Rosh Hashannah... Butter, honey, apples in a Challah ring.
Okay, well.... Tim did most of the work. Kneading is donkey labour and I wasn't ready for it... So he pounded the holy hell out of the thing and we sat and watched it rise before diving into it like Survivor Cast B.
God, I love food.
Whipped up a Supreme a la Voillailes avec Champignons, Creme-- et sauce Port.
Okay... that's Breast of Chicken cooked in butter at 400 degrees for about twelve minutes in a covered casserole dish with an inexplicable piece of buttered wax paper on top of the chicken.
then a boiled and reduced mixture of heavy cream, butter, Port wine, mushroom, lemons, white pepper, sea salt and shallots later, we have heart attack on a plate. No. Wait. We have a lunch with a salad (tossed with JC's vinaigrette) that is sublime enough to make you weep and forget how much money you owe to whom and that in reality, you work for Visa.
I have also bought some active, dry yeast. Bread making is next on the agenda.
I did it once before for Rosh Hashannah... Butter, honey, apples in a Challah ring.
Okay, well.... Tim did most of the work. Kneading is donkey labour and I wasn't ready for it... So he pounded the holy hell out of the thing and we sat and watched it rise before diving into it like Survivor Cast B.
God, I love food.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Another Opening, Another Show.
Had the best time attending the opening night of Ragtime on Broadway and the final Broadway opening night party at Tavern on the Green (so I was told).
My friend is an investor in the show so we hit The Neil Simon a little before six and made our way to the Mezzanine. The show was amazing and ten years later, relevant in a whole new way.
Nancy Pelosi slipped out the stage door and into an armoured car. Waved at me. Amazing how I get star struck by journalists and heads of state, but couldn't care less about actors. Meeting Jack Nicholson would be fun and the man probably has amazing weed, but meeting Christiane Amanpour would render me useless. Oh yes. I have experience in this. I did a show once in Florida and the Green Room was star studded. I walked right up to Bill Cosby and said, "Dr. Cosby. My name is Preston and we have a mutual friend"... Blah, blah, blah. twenty minutes later and I'm still chatting with him. I turn around and Ted Koppel tells me that he liked the show. My jaw dropped and I turned into a fat, twelve year old girl... complete with braids, head gear and a hot pink unicorn sweatshirt. I don't think I managed a complete sentence.
I digress...
We cabbed it to Tavern on the Green and while my friend stalked Richard Kind I went looking for an old friend I toured with in The Mystery of Edwin Drood about a thousand years ago.
Found myself in the main room with Rosie Perez, Mario Cantone, Susan Anton. It was like the after party at The People's Second Choice Awards...
The show is wonderful and it was a lovely night, but I don't have the wherewithal or liver to continue being that much of a socialite.
My friend is an investor in the show so we hit The Neil Simon a little before six and made our way to the Mezzanine. The show was amazing and ten years later, relevant in a whole new way.
Nancy Pelosi slipped out the stage door and into an armoured car. Waved at me. Amazing how I get star struck by journalists and heads of state, but couldn't care less about actors. Meeting Jack Nicholson would be fun and the man probably has amazing weed, but meeting Christiane Amanpour would render me useless. Oh yes. I have experience in this. I did a show once in Florida and the Green Room was star studded. I walked right up to Bill Cosby and said, "Dr. Cosby. My name is Preston and we have a mutual friend"... Blah, blah, blah. twenty minutes later and I'm still chatting with him. I turn around and Ted Koppel tells me that he liked the show. My jaw dropped and I turned into a fat, twelve year old girl... complete with braids, head gear and a hot pink unicorn sweatshirt. I don't think I managed a complete sentence.
I digress...
We cabbed it to Tavern on the Green and while my friend stalked Richard Kind I went looking for an old friend I toured with in The Mystery of Edwin Drood about a thousand years ago.
Found myself in the main room with Rosie Perez, Mario Cantone, Susan Anton. It was like the after party at The People's Second Choice Awards...
The show is wonderful and it was a lovely night, but I don't have the wherewithal or liver to continue being that much of a socialite.
Silent Night, Sane Night
I had a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's house last night.
This immediately followed an argument... if you can call it that... with a family member.
A senseless disagreement that--like most arguments in my family, stem from a misunderstanding that ferments and bastes itself into a full blown donnybrook.
I have not been back to Florida for quite a while. My mother isn't getting any younger and I would love to see her again. Also there are a few others of my brood that I dearly love and would like to spend some one on one time with. But as I sat next to the host and raised my glass to "Framily" (Friends=Family--her word, not mine and I really wish I could take credit for it!!!), I realized that I was indeed home. Home being where I have chosen to live and in the company of those I choose to have in my life and am lucky enough to have them feel similarly.
There are deal breakers in every relationship. I think simply because of shared DNA, we forgive or look the other way when someone is really behaving like a complete moron. Terrible arguments over bottled, aged resentments and blow ups over misunderstandings have happened a few times in my family and the end result is sad as it culminates in the eventual absence of that person--due to their choice not mine, but once the storm clears and the detritus is removed... I realize that life gets a lot calmer. Do I miss them? Of course I do. I was a child around them and a large part of who I am is BECAUSE of them. But a larger part of who I am is not. And sadly I prefer my life to make sense, silly me, so I must wish them well and allow them to go their own way. Without me.
Vaya con Dios...
Having surrounded myself with drama queens for most of my life (I am in the Theatah, dahlings) seems to reflect my cowardice in dealing with that behavior from certain members of my own family.
No longer. You can love from a distance and it does not mean you really have to like all that much. It's just exhausting and you run out of cheeks to turn.
I suppose it sounds hateful to a degree, but in reality it is the absence of hate that allows me to no longer contact them. I don't want to fight, yell, misunderstand or sonorously disagree any longer and I wish you well. But kindly go away.
When you wake up and your thoughts are well wishes for your friends and "Framily" rather than terror of being misconstrued again, then chances are that you are keeping company with some rather stellar folk rather than just treading water in a genealogical mine field.
Home for holidays. Yes. I am.
This immediately followed an argument... if you can call it that... with a family member.
A senseless disagreement that--like most arguments in my family, stem from a misunderstanding that ferments and bastes itself into a full blown donnybrook.
I have not been back to Florida for quite a while. My mother isn't getting any younger and I would love to see her again. Also there are a few others of my brood that I dearly love and would like to spend some one on one time with. But as I sat next to the host and raised my glass to "Framily" (Friends=Family--her word, not mine and I really wish I could take credit for it!!!), I realized that I was indeed home. Home being where I have chosen to live and in the company of those I choose to have in my life and am lucky enough to have them feel similarly.
There are deal breakers in every relationship. I think simply because of shared DNA, we forgive or look the other way when someone is really behaving like a complete moron. Terrible arguments over bottled, aged resentments and blow ups over misunderstandings have happened a few times in my family and the end result is sad as it culminates in the eventual absence of that person--due to their choice not mine, but once the storm clears and the detritus is removed... I realize that life gets a lot calmer. Do I miss them? Of course I do. I was a child around them and a large part of who I am is BECAUSE of them. But a larger part of who I am is not. And sadly I prefer my life to make sense, silly me, so I must wish them well and allow them to go their own way. Without me.
Vaya con Dios...
Having surrounded myself with drama queens for most of my life (I am in the Theatah, dahlings) seems to reflect my cowardice in dealing with that behavior from certain members of my own family.
No longer. You can love from a distance and it does not mean you really have to like all that much. It's just exhausting and you run out of cheeks to turn.
I suppose it sounds hateful to a degree, but in reality it is the absence of hate that allows me to no longer contact them. I don't want to fight, yell, misunderstand or sonorously disagree any longer and I wish you well. But kindly go away.
When you wake up and your thoughts are well wishes for your friends and "Framily" rather than terror of being misconstrued again, then chances are that you are keeping company with some rather stellar folk rather than just treading water in a genealogical mine field.
Home for holidays. Yes. I am.
Stand Up, Speak Up, Wake Up.
I have been thinking about Jorge Steven Mercado's murder for a few days. To call it senseless, evil, ignorant, a waste and unsettling is redundant, but it's the language that surrounds the story that I want to examine.
I have been watching and reading the news, and all the articles say that "Jorge Steven Mercado was murdered because he was gay". See, I have to disagree. Jorge Steven Mercado was NOT murdered because he was gay, he was murdered because some ignorant, bigoted slab of protoplasm had a problem with the fact that he was gay.
And in this lies a big problem. To say that someone was murdered BECAUSE they were gay implies some form of complicity on behalf of the dead that simply didn't exist. He was gay. Full stop. The end. It is not a murderable offense. It is not even an offense.
It is this slippery semantic slope that leaves me uneasy.
"The country isn't ready for Marriage Equality". "The armed forces are not ready to end DADT". "The school systems are not ready for integration." Whoops... that's an old one, but it's the same tired old warhorse of an argument that no long holds water.
If someone or some group is not ready to welcome sweeping equality, then that is their problem and their issue that perhaps they should spend time working on. Why is it still up to the person who wants to serve in the military--who wants to marry the love of their life... etc... to pay the bill?
In this era--fresh though it is, of post Matthew Shepard Act, why is it that the the people bending over backwards are the ones that are discriminated against?
It's high time that the people dragging their feet over this issue, desist with their pose of moderation and either come out swinging or just shut the hell up. I aver, once again, that it is not up to the majority to decide the rights of the minority and that being so, just get out of the way of the inevitable. Eventually, we get it right. Generally, the country makes an international fool out of itself (the entire presidency of George Bush, for example) but after the posturing and braying, somehow we eventually--and usually quietly, get it right.
Saying that someone was murdered because they were gay seems to somehow let some of the pressure off of the murderer. "Oh, well, he had a reason". Clearly he did have a reason, but the reason was not the fault of Jorge Steven Mercado. The reason was that someone's personal evil won the battle for their soul. And directly under the sadness of Jorge Steven Mercado's murder is the sadness of that lurking evil in his murderer not being called out earlier, dealt with and/or exposed.
I used to keep very quiet about a lot of things. I always will because constantly braying is obnoxious and I think that there is still a place for dignity in the world, but when silence leads to wholesale discounting of the rights of individuals and those rights being run into the ground, I don't think that the reason for silence any longer is diginity. It is cowardice.
I have been guilty of it, but knowing how and more importantly WHEN to stand up for myself is a nice legacy left by this young man whom I have never met. So... thanks to Jorge Steven Mercado. I never knew you, but I will think of you the next time I weigh whether to be silent or to come out swinging myself.
I have been watching and reading the news, and all the articles say that "Jorge Steven Mercado was murdered because he was gay". See, I have to disagree. Jorge Steven Mercado was NOT murdered because he was gay, he was murdered because some ignorant, bigoted slab of protoplasm had a problem with the fact that he was gay.
And in this lies a big problem. To say that someone was murdered BECAUSE they were gay implies some form of complicity on behalf of the dead that simply didn't exist. He was gay. Full stop. The end. It is not a murderable offense. It is not even an offense.
It is this slippery semantic slope that leaves me uneasy.
"The country isn't ready for Marriage Equality". "The armed forces are not ready to end DADT". "The school systems are not ready for integration." Whoops... that's an old one, but it's the same tired old warhorse of an argument that no long holds water.
If someone or some group is not ready to welcome sweeping equality, then that is their problem and their issue that perhaps they should spend time working on. Why is it still up to the person who wants to serve in the military--who wants to marry the love of their life... etc... to pay the bill?
In this era--fresh though it is, of post Matthew Shepard Act, why is it that the the people bending over backwards are the ones that are discriminated against?
It's high time that the people dragging their feet over this issue, desist with their pose of moderation and either come out swinging or just shut the hell up. I aver, once again, that it is not up to the majority to decide the rights of the minority and that being so, just get out of the way of the inevitable. Eventually, we get it right. Generally, the country makes an international fool out of itself (the entire presidency of George Bush, for example) but after the posturing and braying, somehow we eventually--and usually quietly, get it right.
Saying that someone was murdered because they were gay seems to somehow let some of the pressure off of the murderer. "Oh, well, he had a reason". Clearly he did have a reason, but the reason was not the fault of Jorge Steven Mercado. The reason was that someone's personal evil won the battle for their soul. And directly under the sadness of Jorge Steven Mercado's murder is the sadness of that lurking evil in his murderer not being called out earlier, dealt with and/or exposed.
I used to keep very quiet about a lot of things. I always will because constantly braying is obnoxious and I think that there is still a place for dignity in the world, but when silence leads to wholesale discounting of the rights of individuals and those rights being run into the ground, I don't think that the reason for silence any longer is diginity. It is cowardice.
I have been guilty of it, but knowing how and more importantly WHEN to stand up for myself is a nice legacy left by this young man whom I have never met. So... thanks to Jorge Steven Mercado. I never knew you, but I will think of you the next time I weigh whether to be silent or to come out swinging myself.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Arts Activism Dinner
Worked an event this week for Arts Activism. Basically using the inspiration and power of the performing arts to effect positive changes in the world. Big words, but essentially, singin' purty and inspiring good thoughts. I loved it. Jane Fonda spoke (tiny little woman, but gigantic brain), Renee Fleming sat next to Martha Stewart. Dame Martha smiled at me and I nearly fell over backwards. Felt like a Domestic Benediction.
The organization is superb and it's deeply inspiring to see what inherent power lies in music to be harnessed for changes in everyone's life.
As Arts programs in schools diminish--using financial bind as an excuse while sports programs mysteriously flourish, I can't help but wonder what happens to all that creative energy that will not be channeled. If you are not an athlete, then do you matter any longer? And if your energy is more artistic than athletic, are you left to fend for yourself or join the smokers behind the bleachers and hope for the best... (Sorry, was just reliving a memory). Science proves that energy doesn't dissipate. So if creation isn't tended, does it then become destruction? From Kwan Yin to Kali in a few short semesters.
(Once again... a memory).
To see this program light up the lives of students in inner cities is humbling and a gigantic relief. I hope to see it move out of the metropoli and take effect in areas where budding artists are ignored... sometimes scoffed at and not encouraged.
Cheers to these people!
The organization is superb and it's deeply inspiring to see what inherent power lies in music to be harnessed for changes in everyone's life.
As Arts programs in schools diminish--using financial bind as an excuse while sports programs mysteriously flourish, I can't help but wonder what happens to all that creative energy that will not be channeled. If you are not an athlete, then do you matter any longer? And if your energy is more artistic than athletic, are you left to fend for yourself or join the smokers behind the bleachers and hope for the best... (Sorry, was just reliving a memory). Science proves that energy doesn't dissipate. So if creation isn't tended, does it then become destruction? From Kwan Yin to Kali in a few short semesters.
(Once again... a memory).
To see this program light up the lives of students in inner cities is humbling and a gigantic relief. I hope to see it move out of the metropoli and take effect in areas where budding artists are ignored... sometimes scoffed at and not encouraged.
Cheers to these people!
Friday, November 20, 2009
And Now, a Monologue from ZZZZzzzzzzzzz...
Worked a gala at one of NYC's museums. Noticed Bono sitting next to Christy Turlington.
Had Cindy Adams at my table and the woman was a blast.
Then went to an audition for a showcase this morning. It was a British play. I tried to go through the sides last night and for some reason, couldn't muster more than a Jersey Shore accent, I was so exhausted.
Strangely, this morning, some rogue spirit of the BBC possessed my soul and I had one of those soul validating auditions. Albeit, one in which I was so hallucinogenically tired, I'm surprised I didn't burst into "I Enjoy Being a Girl".
Off to re-une with college friends and then another catering gig tomorrow at yet another museum.
(How many of the damn things are in this town?!?!?)
I wonder if Marlo Thomas had this much contingent exahuastion in That Girl.
My show being, That Middle Aged Realist.
We should KILL in Sweeps...
Had Cindy Adams at my table and the woman was a blast.
Then went to an audition for a showcase this morning. It was a British play. I tried to go through the sides last night and for some reason, couldn't muster more than a Jersey Shore accent, I was so exhausted.
Strangely, this morning, some rogue spirit of the BBC possessed my soul and I had one of those soul validating auditions. Albeit, one in which I was so hallucinogenically tired, I'm surprised I didn't burst into "I Enjoy Being a Girl".
Off to re-une with college friends and then another catering gig tomorrow at yet another museum.
(How many of the damn things are in this town?!?!?)
I wonder if Marlo Thomas had this much contingent exahuastion in That Girl.
My show being, That Middle Aged Realist.
We should KILL in Sweeps...
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Coffee, Tea or a Steaming Cup of Shut the Hell Up?
One of the necessities of life in Manhattan when you are an actor is the necessity of the Survival Job. I have four, but never mind.
An example is the rather nicely paying job of Cater Waiter. Many of the companies name themselves something semi-theatrical such as "Supporting Cast", "Great Performances", etc. in order to attract said theatre types to their ranks. Usually because our schedules allow us to work at night during the lean season of auditions, and also just because actors tend to be really good bullshit artists.
"Why I'll be right back with your regular coffee."
"Yes of course, I will put down this insanely hot plate of beef that I had to dance a ballet in order to perfectly situate the folded napkin around without sticking my thumb in the sauce to get you that Vodka Gimlet that you simply must have at this precise moment with 175 other waiters on my heels with the same plates in their hands". (I have always thought that the statue on the front of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was really a cater waiter instead of a birdbath).
There is something about these venues (in this case one of the armories of NYC built in 1865--truly the creepiest building in the world) that seem to bring out the self-entitled in many. Open bar + charity + tequila shots = VERY IRRITATED STAFF. Do I make myself clear?
Now, moneyed, Phlanthropic types... repeat after me:
1) I will sit down when dinner is being served and will not stand in the aisle.
2) I will NOT sneer at the waiter and sonorously demand a vegetarian meal at the precise moment that three hundred fifty other plates are coming out of the far away kitchen.
I will simply ask the waiter for said option with the addition of what seems to be the most archaic and underused word in the English language; "Please..."
3) I will NOT expect regular coffee. Here's a little secret. No matter how many times you ask for it, it will always... ALWAYS be decaffeinated. Why? Some folks have reactions to caffeine. Dramatic ones... and while we DO try to accommodate one and all, in this particular case we do not have time to run back to Argentina and grab another pot. If we say we will, trust me... WE WON'T. Drink the decaf, or decline, sweep up the scattered shards of your evening and move on.
The above being said, enjoy your evening.
No of COURSE we don't expect tips... (see? ACTING!!!!!)
An example is the rather nicely paying job of Cater Waiter. Many of the companies name themselves something semi-theatrical such as "Supporting Cast", "Great Performances", etc. in order to attract said theatre types to their ranks. Usually because our schedules allow us to work at night during the lean season of auditions, and also just because actors tend to be really good bullshit artists.
"Why I'll be right back with your regular coffee."
"Yes of course, I will put down this insanely hot plate of beef that I had to dance a ballet in order to perfectly situate the folded napkin around without sticking my thumb in the sauce to get you that Vodka Gimlet that you simply must have at this precise moment with 175 other waiters on my heels with the same plates in their hands". (I have always thought that the statue on the front of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was really a cater waiter instead of a birdbath).
There is something about these venues (in this case one of the armories of NYC built in 1865--truly the creepiest building in the world) that seem to bring out the self-entitled in many. Open bar + charity + tequila shots = VERY IRRITATED STAFF. Do I make myself clear?
Now, moneyed, Phlanthropic types... repeat after me:
1) I will sit down when dinner is being served and will not stand in the aisle.
2) I will NOT sneer at the waiter and sonorously demand a vegetarian meal at the precise moment that three hundred fifty other plates are coming out of the far away kitchen.
I will simply ask the waiter for said option with the addition of what seems to be the most archaic and underused word in the English language; "Please..."
3) I will NOT expect regular coffee. Here's a little secret. No matter how many times you ask for it, it will always... ALWAYS be decaffeinated. Why? Some folks have reactions to caffeine. Dramatic ones... and while we DO try to accommodate one and all, in this particular case we do not have time to run back to Argentina and grab another pot. If we say we will, trust me... WE WON'T. Drink the decaf, or decline, sweep up the scattered shards of your evening and move on.
The above being said, enjoy your evening.
No of COURSE we don't expect tips... (see? ACTING!!!!!)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Stereotype Lounge, 6, 7,8
A day of auditions began at 6:30 this AM in which I trudged down to Equity to stand in line for a chance to warble at an EPA (Equity Principal Audition (in other words, if you're wanting a big part,)), where you sit until 9 am when the monitors start to sign people up for a three minute slot in which you can do anything at all. The line snaked through the entire building and ended in a large studio. A large, resonant studio that quickly began to fill to capacity.
Lucky me, I was sandwiched between two theatah types that are the reason the Apple gods created iPods.
One; the scarf-wearing, tea-drinking HUMMER who feels the need to warm up in front of all the other jaded hopefuls and two; the loud-talking, regional theatre socialite who--in the guise of a salutation, always steers the banter back to him/her (in this case him)-self with a few quick, unsuspected fishtails that generally involve the verbal opening gambit, "How ARE yooooooou?!?!?!? OOOooooohMyGoshIHaven'tSeenYouInSoLOOOOOOOOOOONG!!!! (insert chirpy jumps and hand clapping or (if you're across the room) the toddler wave) OhMyGOOOOD, you look GREAAAAAT! OhMyGod!!!! Your BUTT is sooooooo CUUUUUUTE in those JEANS!!!!! So--Are you working??? Well, IIIIII'm doing a showcase that's me I perfect Casting for a film, me. I just think that I am SO right for the me I perfect aaaaand you KNOW... me perfect high b flat me, that I just perfect soooo me me me me"... ad nauseum.
All this delight in a room in which Helen Keller can hear you change your mind.
I just sat there feeling forty. Forty... FOUR OH... Okay... Four THREE in this case... but I rounded down.
Forty. It's the new black.
Or as my friend calls it, "the age when you don't have to do what you don't want to do and you don't have to offer an explanation".
I'll drink to that.
At any rate, the line began it's slow, inexorable wind through the Family Reunion of everyone you have ever loved/hated/screwed/been screwed over by/dodged/adored/despised/obsessed over/stalked/been stalked by and are now fatter/thinner/older than (okaaaaaaaaay, The Equity Lounge) herded and shushed by a nice, but slightly stressed-out monitor, to the table where I was told at long last that... all the times were taken and there were only alternate positions left. Lovely...
Couldn't do that, because I had a commercial (I, me) audition across town. Thankfully, that seemed to go extremely well... But it's mornings such as these that make me consistently reassure myself that I should not chuck it all and move to Saugerties to grow vegetables and become a hippie.
... Again.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking that life. I love it up there, but it still feels as if there are a few things left to do. Here.
Like buy really powerful earphones...
Lucky me, I was sandwiched between two theatah types that are the reason the Apple gods created iPods.
One; the scarf-wearing, tea-drinking HUMMER who feels the need to warm up in front of all the other jaded hopefuls and two; the loud-talking, regional theatre socialite who--in the guise of a salutation, always steers the banter back to him/her (in this case him)-self with a few quick, unsuspected fishtails that generally involve the verbal opening gambit, "How ARE yooooooou?!?!?!? OOOooooohMyGoshIHaven'tSeenYouInSoLOOOOOOOOOOONG!!!! (insert chirpy jumps and hand clapping or (if you're across the room) the toddler wave) OhMyGOOOOD, you look GREAAAAAT! OhMyGod!!!! Your BUTT is sooooooo CUUUUUUTE in those JEANS!!!!! So--Are you working??? Well, IIIIII'm doing a showcase that's me I perfect Casting for a film, me. I just think that I am SO right for the me I perfect aaaaand you KNOW... me perfect high b flat me, that I just perfect soooo me me me me"... ad nauseum.
All this delight in a room in which Helen Keller can hear you change your mind.
I just sat there feeling forty. Forty... FOUR OH... Okay... Four THREE in this case... but I rounded down.
Forty. It's the new black.
Or as my friend calls it, "the age when you don't have to do what you don't want to do and you don't have to offer an explanation".
I'll drink to that.
At any rate, the line began it's slow, inexorable wind through the Family Reunion of everyone you have ever loved/hated/screwed/been screwed over by/dodged/adored/despised/obsessed over/stalked/been stalked by and are now fatter/thinner/older than (okaaaaaaaaay, The Equity Lounge) herded and shushed by a nice, but slightly stressed-out monitor, to the table where I was told at long last that... all the times were taken and there were only alternate positions left. Lovely...
Couldn't do that, because I had a commercial (I, me) audition across town. Thankfully, that seemed to go extremely well... But it's mornings such as these that make me consistently reassure myself that I should not chuck it all and move to Saugerties to grow vegetables and become a hippie.
... Again.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking that life. I love it up there, but it still feels as if there are a few things left to do. Here.
Like buy really powerful earphones...
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Addendum and Requiem
Just so as not to seem like an abject snob (I am, I just don't want to SEEM like one),
my "cultural void" and "dumbed down New York" comments from the previous blog are due to the fact that Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs/Broadway Bound revival at The Nederlander closed after only six days.
Shock.
A New York where shows like Rock of Ages stretch on "Now and Forever", but where Neil Simon cannot keep a show open for more than a week confounds me. I have nothing specifically against Rock of Ages, mind you, but the zeitgeist seems to have distilled.
I cannot help but be despondent and nostalgic for Dorothys Parker and Kilgallen, Dick Cavett, Eric Sevaried, The Round Table... hell, even Prohibition had some things to write about. I worked an event at a museum recently where the main act was someone I had never heard of, singing (sort of) songs about anger, instant gratification and self-aggrandizement all while in a ball cap that covered her face and painted into a shiny, gold bustier so far up her butt, it looked more like traction than a corset and speakers spitting out distorted sound to a room full of hipster doofuses... that I was cleaning up after.
Okay...
I realize that simply keeping an online blog is a form of self-aggrandizement, and being anyone's Hazel is demanding at best, but I also remembered an event at Lincoln Center where Barbara Cook had to stop singing to tell her audience to stop talking.
I still love New York with my whole heart, but I wonder where we're all going... those of us who still love theatre and the alchemy it completes in the human spirit, when it works. (Thank god for Jude Law's current sold out Hamlet)
Is art imitating life, or is it simply marketing?
my "cultural void" and "dumbed down New York" comments from the previous blog are due to the fact that Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs/Broadway Bound revival at The Nederlander closed after only six days.
Shock.
A New York where shows like Rock of Ages stretch on "Now and Forever", but where Neil Simon cannot keep a show open for more than a week confounds me. I have nothing specifically against Rock of Ages, mind you, but the zeitgeist seems to have distilled.
I cannot help but be despondent and nostalgic for Dorothys Parker and Kilgallen, Dick Cavett, Eric Sevaried, The Round Table... hell, even Prohibition had some things to write about. I worked an event at a museum recently where the main act was someone I had never heard of, singing (sort of) songs about anger, instant gratification and self-aggrandizement all while in a ball cap that covered her face and painted into a shiny, gold bustier so far up her butt, it looked more like traction than a corset and speakers spitting out distorted sound to a room full of hipster doofuses... that I was cleaning up after.
Okay...
I realize that simply keeping an online blog is a form of self-aggrandizement, and being anyone's Hazel is demanding at best, but I also remembered an event at Lincoln Center where Barbara Cook had to stop singing to tell her audience to stop talking.
I still love New York with my whole heart, but I wonder where we're all going... those of us who still love theatre and the alchemy it completes in the human spirit, when it works. (Thank god for Jude Law's current sold out Hamlet)
Is art imitating life, or is it simply marketing?
Logistics, Mayhem, Mussels, Curtain Up, Light the Lights
Took the car last night to retrieve the roommate from his month-long trip to Hawaii and Napa... No, not a bit jealous... anyway, couldn't find the entrance to the Van Wyck Expressway and ended up well past Jamaica and heading out to Long Island... In the dark... In the rain, clutching the steering wheel like a life raft and nose to windscreen with demented stress.
For those who know me, ever since I got back from extended stays in Australia and South Africa, I can't for the life of me seem to remember how to drive in the US. I mean I know how a car operates and all, but it's the left hand drive thing that gets me now. I had my own car in Oz and was distinctly proud of myself for figuring out how to drive on the other side of the car, on the other side of the road in about five to ten minutes without much drama.
This hubris was of course repaid manifold by my current and complete inability to remember how it works on this side of the pond--compounded with a trip to the Poconos last May where, I swear to almighty God, I plowed straight into a very large dead deer in the very-visible center of the highway (current roommate didn't warn me because he thought it would be stressful--the man has a level of calm about some things that approach Zen) and ripped off the rear fender of his car... also in the night... also in the rain... While this led to a conversation party piece that refuses to die, said roommate still had me handle his parking while he was away and also had no problem with me volunteering to come and fetch him from JFK. That's either extreme trust, or a willingness to gamble that might need a support group.
At any rate, got him and his lost luggage home and--as Hawaii-to-East Coast jet lag is the kind that will not die (despite a week in Wine Country), I had made a dinner that I could marinate and prep the hell out of in order to just get it on the table: Moules a la Marinieres, Pear Salad with Julia's phenomenal vinaigrette and a Salmon marinated with soy sauce, fresh squeezed orange juice (still had 'em from last weeks excursion down Juilienne Lane with that Duck), ginger, honey, garlic, tomato, salt, pepper, etc., and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
...and a Flexeril.
Tonight, I put on the Armani tux that has been gathering dust since August and head out to the Broadway Premiere of Ragtime and the subsequent and apparently final opening night party at Tavern on the Green.
Nero fiddles his last here in the Big Apple for that grand old tradition. Glad to have at least made it to two. As Old New York fades into less attractive, dumbed-down New York for the cultural void who think Rodgers and Hart is a department store, I can at least fuel my Kitty Carlisle Hart fantasy of being part of the Old/Aulde version if only for a wee while.
Even though Armani on the F train is more than a little sad.
For those who know me, ever since I got back from extended stays in Australia and South Africa, I can't for the life of me seem to remember how to drive in the US. I mean I know how a car operates and all, but it's the left hand drive thing that gets me now. I had my own car in Oz and was distinctly proud of myself for figuring out how to drive on the other side of the car, on the other side of the road in about five to ten minutes without much drama.
This hubris was of course repaid manifold by my current and complete inability to remember how it works on this side of the pond--compounded with a trip to the Poconos last May where, I swear to almighty God, I plowed straight into a very large dead deer in the very-visible center of the highway (current roommate didn't warn me because he thought it would be stressful--the man has a level of calm about some things that approach Zen) and ripped off the rear fender of his car... also in the night... also in the rain... While this led to a conversation party piece that refuses to die, said roommate still had me handle his parking while he was away and also had no problem with me volunteering to come and fetch him from JFK. That's either extreme trust, or a willingness to gamble that might need a support group.
At any rate, got him and his lost luggage home and--as Hawaii-to-East Coast jet lag is the kind that will not die (despite a week in Wine Country), I had made a dinner that I could marinate and prep the hell out of in order to just get it on the table: Moules a la Marinieres, Pear Salad with Julia's phenomenal vinaigrette and a Salmon marinated with soy sauce, fresh squeezed orange juice (still had 'em from last weeks excursion down Juilienne Lane with that Duck), ginger, honey, garlic, tomato, salt, pepper, etc., and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
...and a Flexeril.
Tonight, I put on the Armani tux that has been gathering dust since August and head out to the Broadway Premiere of Ragtime and the subsequent and apparently final opening night party at Tavern on the Green.
Nero fiddles his last here in the Big Apple for that grand old tradition. Glad to have at least made it to two. As Old New York fades into less attractive, dumbed-down New York for the cultural void who think Rodgers and Hart is a department store, I can at least fuel my Kitty Carlisle Hart fantasy of being part of the Old/Aulde version if only for a wee while.
Even though Armani on the F train is more than a little sad.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Another grey, November day here in Gotham. Every time this weather that I love so much hits, Joni Mitchell's "Urge For Going" plays on endless reel in my brain.
Worked an event last night for The Margaret Meade Film Festival at The Natural History Museum.
Margaret Meade??? Film Festival??? That's like... The Jane Fonda Salute to Okra...
I couldn't help but wonder exactly what films were being shown. I was surprised to see that there is a theatre within the museum that is the size of a small Broadway house. I've been coming to this museum for 26 years and I still find rooms within rooms. Weird. I used to have a recurring dream that I would find some secret corridor in my Grandmother's house and they would lead to rooms that no one ever uses or knows about. Slightly sinister, but that's the nature of the recurring dream.
Love the old museum... even though last night 8 different kinds of cheeses were crushed and mashed into the carpets. Enough to put you off your dairy.
Worked an event last night for The Margaret Meade Film Festival at The Natural History Museum.
Margaret Meade??? Film Festival??? That's like... The Jane Fonda Salute to Okra...
I couldn't help but wonder exactly what films were being shown. I was surprised to see that there is a theatre within the museum that is the size of a small Broadway house. I've been coming to this museum for 26 years and I still find rooms within rooms. Weird. I used to have a recurring dream that I would find some secret corridor in my Grandmother's house and they would lead to rooms that no one ever uses or knows about. Slightly sinister, but that's the nature of the recurring dream.
Love the old museum... even though last night 8 different kinds of cheeses were crushed and mashed into the carpets. Enough to put you off your dairy.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Mean Reds, Flour, Butter, Sugar and a Dash of Salt
Truman Capote's main character in Breakfast at Tiffany's complained of the Mean Reds--which are the exact opposite of the Blues... Leave it to those mean little Southern writers... they sure knew how to turn a phrase.
The dinner is paid for, cooked and put away and with nothing on the horizon but a farewell to friends and the temp, gym, audition, lather, rinse, repeat grind stretching endlessly through the holidays... It's nice to have a kitchen (such as it is) stocked with staples.
I may not be able, at the moment, to do what I came back to this town for, but hell... I can FEED people! Strangely enough, it's food for the soul as well to watch someone put something you've added egg yolks, sugar, butter, semi-sweet chocolate, strawberries and a currant glaze to into their mouths and for a split instant, see something pre-empt the nicety they were going to utter and watch them be transported. It may only be for an instant, but it's gratification of a very deep kind to know that you have not only provided sustenance for someone, but taken them--if only for a nanosecond, somewhere memorable.
God made butter and sugar, combined them... and saw that it was GOOD.
A-MEN!
The dinner is paid for, cooked and put away and with nothing on the horizon but a farewell to friends and the temp, gym, audition, lather, rinse, repeat grind stretching endlessly through the holidays... It's nice to have a kitchen (such as it is) stocked with staples.
I may not be able, at the moment, to do what I came back to this town for, but hell... I can FEED people! Strangely enough, it's food for the soul as well to watch someone put something you've added egg yolks, sugar, butter, semi-sweet chocolate, strawberries and a currant glaze to into their mouths and for a split instant, see something pre-empt the nicety they were going to utter and watch them be transported. It may only be for an instant, but it's gratification of a very deep kind to know that you have not only provided sustenance for someone, but taken them--if only for a nanosecond, somewhere memorable.
God made butter and sugar, combined them... and saw that it was GOOD.
A-MEN!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Dinner is Served
Last night I had the final dinner party before Thanksgiving. God love Mastering the Art of French Cooking because three of the four courses were on the table, even though La Julia suggests only serving one per party. Moules a la Marinieres (Mussels steamed with butter, vermouth and shallots), Caneton a l'Orange (Duck with Orange Sauce) which, may I say, is an involved little bitch to make--served with Petits Pois a la Francaise (Little Peas, French Style) and Tarte Fraise with five artery blocking egg yolks and semi sweet chocolate as the base for the Strawberries.
Great company, lovely wine and I think I sat down for about twenty minutes total. The problem with gourmet food is that without a sous chef, you are rarely present at your own dinner party. Up, down, deal with the overflowing honey in the oven that is smoking the living room up worse than Custer's Last Stand, smile, gracefully move about so as not to cause panic while you put out the fire caused by alcohol burn off and hope to Christ that you are not serving a half cooked duck since you are trying to build a bit of a chef's rep with your nearest and dearest and not a trip down Botulism Lane.
Luckily, things seemed to go smoothly-- if not a trifle slow, down to the last served Espresso...
God love patient friends and two wheels of baked Brie with honey, almonds and apples rather than only one.
On to Thanksiving/Christmas/Hannukah...
Fa la la la laaaaaaaaa la la la oy...
Great company, lovely wine and I think I sat down for about twenty minutes total. The problem with gourmet food is that without a sous chef, you are rarely present at your own dinner party. Up, down, deal with the overflowing honey in the oven that is smoking the living room up worse than Custer's Last Stand, smile, gracefully move about so as not to cause panic while you put out the fire caused by alcohol burn off and hope to Christ that you are not serving a half cooked duck since you are trying to build a bit of a chef's rep with your nearest and dearest and not a trip down Botulism Lane.
Luckily, things seemed to go smoothly-- if not a trifle slow, down to the last served Espresso...
God love patient friends and two wheels of baked Brie with honey, almonds and apples rather than only one.
On to Thanksiving/Christmas/Hannukah...
Fa la la la laaaaaaaaa la la la oy...
Friday, November 6, 2009
The Maine Event... and Other Opinions.
Well... I'm not a political person, but in lieu of the latest electoral events in Maine, California, my native state of Florida (as opposed to state of mind--which is anything BUT Floridian), Arkansas, etc... it's time to drop my two cents into the offering plate. Read on if you like.
What on earth gives voting people the right to think that they can legislate someone's personal relationships second tier by not granting them the same rights as any other couple--and to do it based on something as biologically random as gender. In a world where the discovery of lasting love is becoming more endangered than the Dusky Seaside Sparrow, to narrow-mindedly decree from a self-proscribed perch that YOUR love is superior and somehow more legitimate than another's and to use the law to crowbar your bigotry strikes me as the newest and and by far the lowest level of organized bigotry and stupidity. And certainly fear.
From my point of view to argue that same sex marriage "is one more step on the ladder to child abuse" is inane.
We are talking about consenting grownups here, folks... Not "See Jimmy's baby sitter touch him inappropriately".
And while we're on the subject--if you are going to use the Christian religion that these voters always use to back up their lunacy:
New Testament:
"Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression."--1 Tim. 2:11-14
................................................................................................
I cite these quotes rather than come up with new ones as people who have denied rights to others consistently use both The Bible and the founding fathers as a bully pulpit from which to spew some of the most ignorant, misinformed and fear based rhetoric I have ever heard and have now lost my patience with hearing
For me this DEBATE is over. It is no longer on the table for discussion. It is something to be fought for and won. Not earned. It was earned simply because we exist.
Act Up used some ways to get attention that I didn't agree with, but they also shouted the following, "We're here, we're Queer, get USED to it" and guess what folks... we ain't goin' anywhere... except the front pages as this wages on. When it works, you'll find that America is a very loud nation. Lots of constitutionally protected free speech going on out there.
I don't believe in violence to get the gig. Ghandi, Dr. King, etc... I fervently believe that this was the right idea. Perhaps a bit slower in coming to fruition, but certainly more wholesome and with less residual anger.
My fervent hope is that one day--in the hopefully not too distant future, whom one loves is as much a non-issue to one's fellow man/woman as the weather.
When the time comes that the parades, the PRIDE weeks, etc. become nostalgia rather than controversy--that is when we will yet again have another amazing example of The American Experiment moving along.
Grace and Peace,
Preston
What on earth gives voting people the right to think that they can legislate someone's personal relationships second tier by not granting them the same rights as any other couple--and to do it based on something as biologically random as gender. In a world where the discovery of lasting love is becoming more endangered than the Dusky Seaside Sparrow, to narrow-mindedly decree from a self-proscribed perch that YOUR love is superior and somehow more legitimate than another's and to use the law to crowbar your bigotry strikes me as the newest and and by far the lowest level of organized bigotry and stupidity. And certainly fear.
From my point of view to argue that same sex marriage "is one more step on the ladder to child abuse" is inane.
We are talking about consenting grownups here, folks... Not "See Jimmy's baby sitter touch him inappropriately".
And while we're on the subject--if you are going to use the Christian religion that these voters always use to back up their lunacy:
New Testament:
"Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression."--1 Tim. 2:11-14
| I Corinthians | 11:3-15 | Man is head of woman; only man in God's image |
| 14:34-35 | Women keep in silence, learn only from husbands |
| Ephesians | 5:22-33 | "Wives, submit . . ." |
| Colossians | 3:18 | More "wives submit" |
| I Timothy | 2:9 | Women adorn selves in shamefacedness |
| 2:11-14 | Women learn in silence in all subjection; Eve was sinful, Adam blameless |
Church writer Tertullian said "each of you women is an Eve . . . You are the gate of Hell, you are the temptress of the forbidden tree; you are the first deserter of the divine law."
Martin Luther decreed: "If a woman grows weary and at last dies from childbearing, it matters not. Let her die from bearing, she is there to do it."
And, as I recall, Y'shua ben Joseph (AKA Jesus) had NOTHING to say on same sex realtionships at ALL, but he had PLENTY to say about divorce and god knows THAT is legal and even accepted now.
3 Some Pharisees came to Jesus, F428 testing Him and asking, "Is R690 it lawful for a man to divorce F429 his wife for any reason at all?" 4 And He answered and said, "Have you not read that R691 He who created them from the beginning MADE THEM MALE AND FEMALE, 5 and said, `FOR R692 THIS REASON A MAN SHALL LEAVE HIS FATHER AND MOTHER AND BE JOINED TO HIS WIFE, AND THE R693 TWO SHALL BECOME ONE FLESH'? 6 "So they are no longer two, but one flesh. What therefore God has joined together, let no man separate." 7 They said to Him, "Why R694 then did Moses command to GIVE HER A CERTIFICATE OF DIVORCE AND SEND her AWAY?" 8 He said to them, "Because of your hardness of heart Moses permitted you to divorce F430 your wives; but from the beginning it has not been this way. 9 "And I say to you, whoever R695 divorces F431 his wife, except for immorality, F432 and marries another woman commits F433 adultery." F434
So--there go female Governors (Sorry, Sarah Palin--your chomosomes prohibit you from having dominion over men--WHAT? It's in The BIBLE!!! I'm just sayin'!)
Women fought for and WON their emancipation. Part of the reason for it being so overdue in its arrival were the views of the people who held to the above biblical strictures.
All I'm saying here is that if you are going to use The Christian Bible to prescribe the national laws, I don't really think that cherry picking through your most sacred writings is going to win any points with The Guy you are ultimately trying to impress.
What I see, when I look between the lines, is that to allow same-sex marriage would bring a new definition into the national paradigm and Americans have always had a very difficult time with allowing for difference and tolerance-especially where race and sexuality are concerned (we were initially settled by Puritans--despite their T-type make up)
In a nation later formed by Deists (and yes folks, that's what the founding fathers were), adhering so strongly to CERTAIN aspects of a religion in order to shape that nation's laws goes completely AGAINST what they were trying to accomplish.
While the concept of homosexuality may have been something totally unknown, perverse or foreign (I find that hard to believe considering it's been around as long as Adam & Steve met at that very first Tea Dance) to founders of this country, laws of oppression were NOT. A new nation conceived in liberty--not the archaic laws of The Middle East thousands of years ago, is a nation in which the majority does not get to decide the inalienable rights of the minority.
And speaking of the above; for my FINAL quote of the day -
l, too, will bear in mind this sacred principle, that though the will of the majority is in all cases to prevail, that will to be rightful must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal law must protect, and to violate would be oppression.
Thomas Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, March 4, 1801
Thomas Jefferson - who also wrote HIS translation of The Bible said the above.................................................................................................
I cite these quotes rather than come up with new ones as people who have denied rights to others consistently use both The Bible and the founding fathers as a bully pulpit from which to spew some of the most ignorant, misinformed and fear based rhetoric I have ever heard and have now lost my patience with hearing
For me this DEBATE is over. It is no longer on the table for discussion. It is something to be fought for and won. Not earned. It was earned simply because we exist.
Act Up used some ways to get attention that I didn't agree with, but they also shouted the following, "We're here, we're Queer, get USED to it" and guess what folks... we ain't goin' anywhere... except the front pages as this wages on. When it works, you'll find that America is a very loud nation. Lots of constitutionally protected free speech going on out there.
I don't believe in violence to get the gig. Ghandi, Dr. King, etc... I fervently believe that this was the right idea. Perhaps a bit slower in coming to fruition, but certainly more wholesome and with less residual anger.
My fervent hope is that one day--in the hopefully not too distant future, whom one loves is as much a non-issue to one's fellow man/woman as the weather.
When the time comes that the parades, the PRIDE weeks, etc. become nostalgia rather than controversy--that is when we will yet again have another amazing example of The American Experiment moving along.
Grace and Peace,
Preston
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Prophecy and Petits Fours
Dragged myself to the gym today in the rain and grey cold while my roommate is in Hawaii learning how to paddle-surf in paradise. I appease my jealousy by convincing myself that standing up and rowing on a surfboard looks like a superhero flying in a standing position. This of course came to mind as said roommate has been working out like a fiend and now actually LOOKS like a superhero... And he has blue eyes... and his hair all goes in the right direction. I know, I know... Envy makes you fat. I feel like a chorus boy in Annie Hall, The Musical...
So. It's off to Planet Fitness, so deep in Queens, I think it might actually be near Iceland.
Then to a gig at Carnegie Hall in which--as I am running from my rerouted V Train, I hear a homeless bum in the middle of a babble and in stereo with the loudest fart I have ever heard say, "A sex SCANDAL is when ya ain't gettin' any". A Savant Prophecy from this ersatz Fisher King and then a mad scramble to Carnegie Hall to cater a dinner for some folks who actually have more money than France, yet don't know enough to not leave a disgusting plate with half eaten food on the actual serving buffet. There I am... standing in my lovely blue Nehru jacket trying not to look judgmental as I feel my blood teeth begin to shoot out of my gums.
And then home to the wine and muscle relaxers to plan Thanksgiving dinner which I am fearlessly cooking with a little help from The Wise and Powerful Martha...
Another perilous day in Gotham...
So. It's off to Planet Fitness, so deep in Queens, I think it might actually be near Iceland.
Then to a gig at Carnegie Hall in which--as I am running from my rerouted V Train, I hear a homeless bum in the middle of a babble and in stereo with the loudest fart I have ever heard say, "A sex SCANDAL is when ya ain't gettin' any". A Savant Prophecy from this ersatz Fisher King and then a mad scramble to Carnegie Hall to cater a dinner for some folks who actually have more money than France, yet don't know enough to not leave a disgusting plate with half eaten food on the actual serving buffet. There I am... standing in my lovely blue Nehru jacket trying not to look judgmental as I feel my blood teeth begin to shoot out of my gums.
And then home to the wine and muscle relaxers to plan Thanksgiving dinner which I am fearlessly cooking with a little help from The Wise and Powerful Martha...
Another perilous day in Gotham...
Monday, October 26, 2009
Another Opening, Another Show
Last night, I went to the premiere of the revival of Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs and the subsequent party at Tavern on the Green.
Great play and really well cast. Jessica Hecht as Blanche Morton is heartbreaking and Laurie Metcalf as Kate is brilliant... but then she's always brilliant.
The star of the show's LAST outing was a high school production of The Producers in which he played Max. Off, off, off, off, off, off Broadway as the program states. He as "Eugene" is quite a find.
Openings are a blast. You get to play Spot the Facelift and Who Am I Peeing Next To? (in my case, it was Neil Simon himself during the intermission). Woo. And since when did the lines for the mens' rooms get to be longer than the ladies... What the hell are we DOING in there???
The party at Tavern was great fun. They separated crew and cast in different rooms, which I thought was a bit Jim Crow-ish, but whatever, the food was great and I had a blast at my table. The menu was what you would find in The Jerome Household, so of course I went back for Kugle, chopped liver and meat balls... delicious.
In the 26 years I have lived in NYC off and on, I have never been to Tavern so this was unique. The whole place is kitsched out in the New York of another age and I really hope this stays as it is. Too much here is changing too fast and not really for the better... It's all just one big Upper West Side Pottery Barn past 59th Street. Anyway...
The ceiling in the main room looks like the top of a wedding cake and the gardens with their twinkling Chinese lanterns and Fairy-lit trees jolt you out of your big city complacency and into the second reel of an Audrey Hepburn movie--although the giant King Kong topiary was a little out of place and creepy in an otherwise empty garden.
Joan Rivers showed up and she looks surprisingly good considering that I don't think that any part of her face is real. She's also utterly minute. As is James Lipton--although his face was blotchy red and he sort of seemed like a demonic leprechaun.
Ah well, fun evening thanks to an old college friend and will be doing it all over again at the opening of Ragtime.
Great play and really well cast. Jessica Hecht as Blanche Morton is heartbreaking and Laurie Metcalf as Kate is brilliant... but then she's always brilliant.
The star of the show's LAST outing was a high school production of The Producers in which he played Max. Off, off, off, off, off, off Broadway as the program states. He as "Eugene" is quite a find.
Openings are a blast. You get to play Spot the Facelift and Who Am I Peeing Next To? (in my case, it was Neil Simon himself during the intermission). Woo. And since when did the lines for the mens' rooms get to be longer than the ladies... What the hell are we DOING in there???
The party at Tavern was great fun. They separated crew and cast in different rooms, which I thought was a bit Jim Crow-ish, but whatever, the food was great and I had a blast at my table. The menu was what you would find in The Jerome Household, so of course I went back for Kugle, chopped liver and meat balls... delicious.
In the 26 years I have lived in NYC off and on, I have never been to Tavern so this was unique. The whole place is kitsched out in the New York of another age and I really hope this stays as it is. Too much here is changing too fast and not really for the better... It's all just one big Upper West Side Pottery Barn past 59th Street. Anyway...
The ceiling in the main room looks like the top of a wedding cake and the gardens with their twinkling Chinese lanterns and Fairy-lit trees jolt you out of your big city complacency and into the second reel of an Audrey Hepburn movie--although the giant King Kong topiary was a little out of place and creepy in an otherwise empty garden.
Joan Rivers showed up and she looks surprisingly good considering that I don't think that any part of her face is real. She's also utterly minute. As is James Lipton--although his face was blotchy red and he sort of seemed like a demonic leprechaun.
Ah well, fun evening thanks to an old college friend and will be doing it all over again at the opening of Ragtime.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Rambling Addendum
I am also cat sitting my roommate's fathers adorable--and I MEAN adorable, purebred Rag-doll cat.
These little balls of sweetness are bred to be affectionate. They are actually creamy pink with brown tipped ears and Ice Blue Eyes. Follows me from room to room and likes belly rubs... I have never in my born days seen a cat that likes THAT. I love cats, but the one thing I really could do without about the species is that you can be petting it and having a lovely time... the little beast is affectionate and responsive... then, in the throes of it's being-petted ecstasy, it does a complete 180 and bites the bejesus out of your hand. I don't get it. It's like courtship, marriage and divorce all in one go round. Not this one though. This is a breed I could live with. It's also the same breed of feline that lives in The Algonquin Lobby. Very Dorothy Parker. Very me.
Speaking of all things New York and classic, I am going to the Broadway premiere of Ragtime and the First Night party at Tavern on the Green with my roommate and dear friend who has invested in the show. Very, very proud of him and thrilled to be a part of it.
Curtain up, light the lights, where's the bar...
These little balls of sweetness are bred to be affectionate. They are actually creamy pink with brown tipped ears and Ice Blue Eyes. Follows me from room to room and likes belly rubs... I have never in my born days seen a cat that likes THAT. I love cats, but the one thing I really could do without about the species is that you can be petting it and having a lovely time... the little beast is affectionate and responsive... then, in the throes of it's being-petted ecstasy, it does a complete 180 and bites the bejesus out of your hand. I don't get it. It's like courtship, marriage and divorce all in one go round. Not this one though. This is a breed I could live with. It's also the same breed of feline that lives in The Algonquin Lobby. Very Dorothy Parker. Very me.
Speaking of all things New York and classic, I am going to the Broadway premiere of Ragtime and the First Night party at Tavern on the Green with my roommate and dear friend who has invested in the show. Very, very proud of him and thrilled to be a part of it.
Curtain up, light the lights, where's the bar...
Atta Girl...
Finally did the last day of temping and all the productive things I WANTED to do today were eclipsed by simply drinking coffee, recovering from my roommate's birthday party and staring out the window like a schlumpf. Meh... what can ya do.
There's always tomorrow.
Have decided to take on the task of cooking Thanksgiving dinner. It's time. I blame Julia and the renaissance surrounding her work in the kitchen. I think it's past due that I attempted such a mammoth task in my small little cubby hole of a Queens kitchen. Bird in oven, stuffing, about six thousand desserts and lots... LOTS of wine... plus a Xanax or two to keep me from jumping in front of traffic when it comes down to timing.
I have a whoooooole lot of unemployment coming to me and I plan on using the time for auditions and the gym. Hell, why not... That IS why we came to Camp New York, isn't it?
Sitting in a desk is enough to make me crazy. I had a great boss, but I have to admit, I don't like getting bollocked out because one of the directors missed a call from the London office because he wasn't at HIS desk. "I'm soooooo sorry, it's possible that I, or the two other assistants I notified, might have been running interference for the OTHER five people we support in tandem with YOU"... but no... you can't say that. You just have to smile demurely (making sure your fangs are covered)... take a deep breath and try to make sure that the rat poison and the coffee sweetener don't look alike... I now understand why secretaries drink at lunch.
At any rate, I'm done and Monday begins the audition cycle and gym. Tuesday, I will be catering at the cramped dining room at Carnegie Hall. Now that there is 40 pounds less of me, it will be a little easier on my body and it's a job I don't have to take home with me. It's just the GETTING home at Sleep Thirty when all the subways are local and the only occupants are more or less indigents.
Dinner guests next week for which I intend on turning it out French style with the flounder, the buerre blanc and something diva like with pears.
In between all of this, I will try to make sure that the paperwork for my health insurance is done properly and LEGALLY so as not to be dropped and hopefully get the rent a LITTLE closer to being paid on time. I may even go on a date. Yes... a date... one of those things where someone who thinks you are attractive actually decides to pay for dinner. The odd thing is, I haven't been on one in so long, I can't really remember the game. Well... back on the horse, so to speak.
It really is time to play the lottery. It is also time to lower the cat down to street level so it can eat that damned cockatoo at the dodgy florist under me. Sounds like a Peacock in a food processor.
Sigh...
There's always tomorrow.
Have decided to take on the task of cooking Thanksgiving dinner. It's time. I blame Julia and the renaissance surrounding her work in the kitchen. I think it's past due that I attempted such a mammoth task in my small little cubby hole of a Queens kitchen. Bird in oven, stuffing, about six thousand desserts and lots... LOTS of wine... plus a Xanax or two to keep me from jumping in front of traffic when it comes down to timing.
I have a whoooooole lot of unemployment coming to me and I plan on using the time for auditions and the gym. Hell, why not... That IS why we came to Camp New York, isn't it?
Sitting in a desk is enough to make me crazy. I had a great boss, but I have to admit, I don't like getting bollocked out because one of the directors missed a call from the London office because he wasn't at HIS desk. "I'm soooooo sorry, it's possible that I, or the two other assistants I notified, might have been running interference for the OTHER five people we support in tandem with YOU"... but no... you can't say that. You just have to smile demurely (making sure your fangs are covered)... take a deep breath and try to make sure that the rat poison and the coffee sweetener don't look alike... I now understand why secretaries drink at lunch.
At any rate, I'm done and Monday begins the audition cycle and gym. Tuesday, I will be catering at the cramped dining room at Carnegie Hall. Now that there is 40 pounds less of me, it will be a little easier on my body and it's a job I don't have to take home with me. It's just the GETTING home at Sleep Thirty when all the subways are local and the only occupants are more or less indigents.
Dinner guests next week for which I intend on turning it out French style with the flounder, the buerre blanc and something diva like with pears.
In between all of this, I will try to make sure that the paperwork for my health insurance is done properly and LEGALLY so as not to be dropped and hopefully get the rent a LITTLE closer to being paid on time. I may even go on a date. Yes... a date... one of those things where someone who thinks you are attractive actually decides to pay for dinner. The odd thing is, I haven't been on one in so long, I can't really remember the game. Well... back on the horse, so to speak.
It really is time to play the lottery. It is also time to lower the cat down to street level so it can eat that damned cockatoo at the dodgy florist under me. Sounds like a Peacock in a food processor.
Sigh...
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Rainy Day's and Sundays Always Get me in the Kitchen
It's been raining for... well .. ever. And it's bone-chilling cold. In the grip of of this Northeast Storm. Apparently Autumn bypassed us and the Indian Summer was the Eskimo version. No matter. I just keep soldiering on.
I seem to just want to stare out the window and put on a Joni Mitchell CD (Urge For Going) comes to mind.
Going to a party at my dear friend's apt. today in Upstate Manhattan (Inwood). A Long Island Railroad, a local subway and a bus transfer. With a barbell's weight of Gazpacho in one hand. In the rain. This is how much I love these people.
Watched Like Water for Chocolate last night and wryly noticed some similarities, but decided to keep it to myself and just keep on cookin' anyhow!
This has been a week of reunions. Really remarkable timing as they all seemed to occur at once, which of course meant yesterday I pretty much had a bathrobe on all day and sat on the couch watching movies and drinking wine. The gym beckoned, but hey--why ruin a good week.
Well, that's why God made Mondays.
I seem to just want to stare out the window and put on a Joni Mitchell CD (Urge For Going) comes to mind.
Going to a party at my dear friend's apt. today in Upstate Manhattan (Inwood). A Long Island Railroad, a local subway and a bus transfer. With a barbell's weight of Gazpacho in one hand. In the rain. This is how much I love these people.
Watched Like Water for Chocolate last night and wryly noticed some similarities, but decided to keep it to myself and just keep on cookin' anyhow!
This has been a week of reunions. Really remarkable timing as they all seemed to occur at once, which of course meant yesterday I pretty much had a bathrobe on all day and sat on the couch watching movies and drinking wine. The gym beckoned, but hey--why ruin a good week.
Well, that's why God made Mondays.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Just a thank you.
Thanks to all who are reading this. Love any comments, commiserations and RECIPES!
Friday, October 16, 2009
Same Auld Lang Syne
New York City is reeling in a Nor'Easter (Makes me feel like a bonafida Yankee when I type that. Love it... Sorry, dead Confederate ancestors). Last evening, another reunion; this time with my old friend from Louisville. We have not seen each other in 23 years since we both plie-d for a living (and barely a living it was... even in 1986/7). Despite her parking her fabulous self at a bar at 5 pm where the drinks were plentiful and free and it being after 8 when I got there--AND several wrong directions in the freezing rain -- I arrived to find her waiting for me ouside the bar.
It's lovely when two people have NOT seen one another in a quarter century or so, have totally different lives and pick up exactly where they left off. That's how you know you KNOW someone. Luckily, she has not mellowed or changed all that much. Still has a mouth on her that can make a child smile and a second later, render a bar sleazeball paralzyed. Fun to watch.
I'm still taking notes.
I learned how to stand my ground verbally from this girl... how not to take crap, how to give it when necessary and basically how to enjoy the hell out of myself with a beer in one hand and a quip in the other (quip... not whip.. that came later. Kidding). Hearts open and forcefields up, so to speak.
Caught up, drank up and time flew by.
Said goodbye in the rain and hung onto each other for dear life. As things were beginning to resemble the end of a Dan Fogelberg song, I left and schlepped home to move my roommate's car (he's in Hawaii for three weeks, poor bastard) and wake up at four am. But all day I have been smiling about seeing her one more time and planning our next bar crawl... because I know that is what it will be.
Miss her already!
Drinks for all my friends...
It's lovely when two people have NOT seen one another in a quarter century or so, have totally different lives and pick up exactly where they left off. That's how you know you KNOW someone. Luckily, she has not mellowed or changed all that much. Still has a mouth on her that can make a child smile and a second later, render a bar sleazeball paralzyed. Fun to watch.
I'm still taking notes.
I learned how to stand my ground verbally from this girl... how not to take crap, how to give it when necessary and basically how to enjoy the hell out of myself with a beer in one hand and a quip in the other (quip... not whip.. that came later. Kidding). Hearts open and forcefields up, so to speak.
Caught up, drank up and time flew by.
Said goodbye in the rain and hung onto each other for dear life. As things were beginning to resemble the end of a Dan Fogelberg song, I left and schlepped home to move my roommate's car (he's in Hawaii for three weeks, poor bastard) and wake up at four am. But all day I have been smiling about seeing her one more time and planning our next bar crawl... because I know that is what it will be.
Miss her already!
Drinks for all my friends...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Barbecue, Tequila and Good Memories
Last night I had dinner with two people I had not seen in over 25 years.
Over barbecue and Diabetes-inducing margaritas we laughed, gasped, told some ancient secrets and reconnected. It was lovely.
I couldn't help thinking how different my current life is from its beginning trajectory. I ALSO remembered how much I viscerally hated my High School years. They were vile. And violent. I dropped out halfway through my Sr. year and did not look back... not once--despite the recurring nightmare that I had until the end of my thirties where I was a full grown adult sitting in 5th Period. When I accquired my GED, I fled.
I made the mistake, as so many youngun's do, of throwing out what was then the scalding bathwater with the baby. Youth makes us all do some dramatic things, but some of them I regret. I would have liked to have become closer with some of the people (few, mind you, but they were there) who made those years bearable and who were fun.
The 25th Reunion is around the corner and while I will not be going (70 bucks to go BACK to High School and no open bar??? Clear, please...), I will be visiting friends individually when I go back to see family.
Due to Facebook, I have managed to reconnect with a handful of them and I am profoundly grateful. Last night brought it home. In the diaspora from youth to adulthood we fling so much away from us out of fear that it will pierce us, but later on--after we have FINALLY calmed the hell down, we realize that we want much of it back. Say what you want about "The Modern Era", but it has done that; brought much of it back. Overwhelming gratitude and humility on my part as a result. It's nice to know that fiberoptics may be knocking Wolfe's theory on its ass. It seems that you can go home again.
:)
Over barbecue and Diabetes-inducing margaritas we laughed, gasped, told some ancient secrets and reconnected. It was lovely.
I couldn't help thinking how different my current life is from its beginning trajectory. I ALSO remembered how much I viscerally hated my High School years. They were vile. And violent. I dropped out halfway through my Sr. year and did not look back... not once--despite the recurring nightmare that I had until the end of my thirties where I was a full grown adult sitting in 5th Period. When I accquired my GED, I fled.
I made the mistake, as so many youngun's do, of throwing out what was then the scalding bathwater with the baby. Youth makes us all do some dramatic things, but some of them I regret. I would have liked to have become closer with some of the people (few, mind you, but they were there) who made those years bearable and who were fun.
The 25th Reunion is around the corner and while I will not be going (70 bucks to go BACK to High School and no open bar??? Clear, please...), I will be visiting friends individually when I go back to see family.
Due to Facebook, I have managed to reconnect with a handful of them and I am profoundly grateful. Last night brought it home. In the diaspora from youth to adulthood we fling so much away from us out of fear that it will pierce us, but later on--after we have FINALLY calmed the hell down, we realize that we want much of it back. Say what you want about "The Modern Era", but it has done that; brought much of it back. Overwhelming gratitude and humility on my part as a result. It's nice to know that fiberoptics may be knocking Wolfe's theory on its ass. It seems that you can go home again.
:)
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sigh...
Ah, show business... You get called in for something you know you are perfect for, you kill in the audition, you make the panel laugh, they tweak it, you take it, you do it again and you KNOW you are "in the zone" and then you get the "Thank you...".
Delightful... Charming...
Yes, it's part and parcel of the gig. Yes, it's 97 percent rejection, yes, the union is 97 3/4 % unemployed, but we still do it. "What I Did For Love" may be oversung, but there is such truth in its lyrics as anyone in this life will tell you.. I'm most happy when I am doing a play. That's just the way I am wired.
At any rate, yesterday was one of those marvelous days when things did not go as well as they seemed to. You doubt yourself, you consider giving it up and moving to a farm upstate and then you realize how much you will miss if you DO leave it all behind... So you suck it up, you once again go to the gym at dawn, go to a soul-sucking temp job all day, scan Backstage and bug the crap out of your agent. All over again... in the hope of one of the little Roulette spins coming up on the number you bet it all for.
Delightful... Charming...
Yes, it's part and parcel of the gig. Yes, it's 97 percent rejection, yes, the union is 97 3/4 % unemployed, but we still do it. "What I Did For Love" may be oversung, but there is such truth in its lyrics as anyone in this life will tell you.. I'm most happy when I am doing a play. That's just the way I am wired.
At any rate, yesterday was one of those marvelous days when things did not go as well as they seemed to. You doubt yourself, you consider giving it up and moving to a farm upstate and then you realize how much you will miss if you DO leave it all behind... So you suck it up, you once again go to the gym at dawn, go to a soul-sucking temp job all day, scan Backstage and bug the crap out of your agent. All over again... in the hope of one of the little Roulette spins coming up on the number you bet it all for.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Outer Queens Kitchen Happiness
Had a celebration dinner the other night for some friends... one of which who just got Jersey Boys in Las Vegas... Playing Bob Gaudio. Well done. The guy's ridiculously talented, so I am happy
Moules Mariniere, Grilled Portobello Mushroom/blanched asparagus salad, Grape tomatoes in a red wine reduction with leg of lamb marinated in olive oil, soy sauce, shallots, garlic and crushed rosemary--and because I am not martyred enough, a lemon souflee tart.
... And about seventeen bottles of wine. Thank god for a roommate who indulges me on these cuisine sprees and for friends who love the fruits of my labours... especially when the fruits are whipped into submission and turned into a soufflee!!! ... or however you spell it.
Have been watching The Donald Stratchey Mysteries on dvd and if wasn't auditioning, I swear I'd live in a house upstate... with a giant kitchen.... and hungry neighbors!
Some strange things have been happening to friend's lives lately. A dear old friend lost her husband on their second anniversary to a heart attack, another couple is splitting up... yet, there is something therapeutic and borderline redemptive about feeding people.... In a world where there are no guarantees, it's nice to know that whipped egg yolks and sugar turn into gold ribbons and can produce sighs of contentment (hopefully not indigestion) and eyes that are as beautifully glazed as the desserts!
Bon appetit!
Moules Mariniere, Grilled Portobello Mushroom/blanched asparagus salad, Grape tomatoes in a red wine reduction with leg of lamb marinated in olive oil, soy sauce, shallots, garlic and crushed rosemary--and because I am not martyred enough, a lemon souflee tart.
... And about seventeen bottles of wine. Thank god for a roommate who indulges me on these cuisine sprees and for friends who love the fruits of my labours... especially when the fruits are whipped into submission and turned into a soufflee!!! ... or however you spell it.
Have been watching The Donald Stratchey Mysteries on dvd and if wasn't auditioning, I swear I'd live in a house upstate... with a giant kitchen.... and hungry neighbors!
Some strange things have been happening to friend's lives lately. A dear old friend lost her husband on their second anniversary to a heart attack, another couple is splitting up... yet, there is something therapeutic and borderline redemptive about feeding people.... In a world where there are no guarantees, it's nice to know that whipped egg yolks and sugar turn into gold ribbons and can produce sighs of contentment (hopefully not indigestion) and eyes that are as beautifully glazed as the desserts!
Bon appetit!
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Vegetarian no Mas!
Vegetarianism.... Noble, interesting, advanced, evolved... and I'm sorry, sooooo bloody dull. Maybe it's me. I just can't find (after years of doing it) any excitement in the many different ways to braise, blanche, broil and otherwise bring Tofu/Seitan/Tempeh to some sort of delightful frenzy of taste.
Yes, of course, the cruelty in factory farming is utterly Shoah-like, which is why I don't buy meat that has been dispatched as such--and yes I check--AND yes, I know what I am looking for.
I am sure there is a way to do it right and my hat goes off and heart goes out to successful vegetarians and vegans... Fruitarians just bugger off. I have no time for you... "I only eat the fruit once it's fallen from the tree", they say to you when they sneer away the plated meat during a catered event--peering at your tray-laden hands, as though there was some roadkill remnant in them, through their stringy hair- through their mole-like eyes as they TRY to offer an expression that comes off nothing more than utterly condescending. Of course it's probably not a pleasant face.... surely just colitis making itself seen and not (yet) heard. Yes.... this is something that will make your cater waiter plot your death through his/her servile smile...
Point is, we seem to DEFINE ourselves and our progressing evolution through what we swallow. And here's the bottom line; I'm not swallowing the BS about vegetarianism any longer... "a HOST of flavour, as long as you KNOW what to DOOOO!" Oh just bite me right now. Wait you can't! You're a vegetarian!!!! Mwah ha ha haha... ahem...
Julia Child said it best, "I feel sorry for Vegetarians... they have nothing to look forward to." Hear, hear! I ended my foray up in Saugerties, NY by making Julia's Boeuf Bourguignon. I knew as I began to brown the bacon and it's comforting and layered scent filled the kitchen that I was back.... and I mean back to stay. It was the first meat I tasted in years... Browned bacon... My God... The world was suddenly reeling and I had to grasp the counter top as my eyes rolled back into my head and I murmured something utterly unintelligible, but utterly joyous!
Also-- I don't think it is possible to be a Vegetarian and a Flamenco Dancer. Class tonight was wonderful! I felt better, I was connected to the material and once that guitar started I was tapping into musical subtleties and playing with movement like I hadn't done in years
Because of meat? Possibly... LIKELY. Or maybe I was just in a damned good mood.
Moo.
Me.
Yes, of course, the cruelty in factory farming is utterly Shoah-like, which is why I don't buy meat that has been dispatched as such--and yes I check--AND yes, I know what I am looking for.
I am sure there is a way to do it right and my hat goes off and heart goes out to successful vegetarians and vegans... Fruitarians just bugger off. I have no time for you... "I only eat the fruit once it's fallen from the tree", they say to you when they sneer away the plated meat during a catered event--peering at your tray-laden hands, as though there was some roadkill remnant in them, through their stringy hair- through their mole-like eyes as they TRY to offer an expression that comes off nothing more than utterly condescending. Of course it's probably not a pleasant face.... surely just colitis making itself seen and not (yet) heard. Yes.... this is something that will make your cater waiter plot your death through his/her servile smile...
Point is, we seem to DEFINE ourselves and our progressing evolution through what we swallow. And here's the bottom line; I'm not swallowing the BS about vegetarianism any longer... "a HOST of flavour, as long as you KNOW what to DOOOO!" Oh just bite me right now. Wait you can't! You're a vegetarian!!!! Mwah ha ha haha... ahem...
Julia Child said it best, "I feel sorry for Vegetarians... they have nothing to look forward to." Hear, hear! I ended my foray up in Saugerties, NY by making Julia's Boeuf Bourguignon. I knew as I began to brown the bacon and it's comforting and layered scent filled the kitchen that I was back.... and I mean back to stay. It was the first meat I tasted in years... Browned bacon... My God... The world was suddenly reeling and I had to grasp the counter top as my eyes rolled back into my head and I murmured something utterly unintelligible, but utterly joyous!
Also-- I don't think it is possible to be a Vegetarian and a Flamenco Dancer. Class tonight was wonderful! I felt better, I was connected to the material and once that guitar started I was tapping into musical subtleties and playing with movement like I hadn't done in years
Because of meat? Possibly... LIKELY. Or maybe I was just in a damned good mood.
Moo.
Me.
Flamenco Boots and Spatulas
Cooking, Flamenco, Auditioning and recently re-settled back in NYC with an agent, a re-upped Actors' Equity card, a house in the outer borough of Queens (Kew Gardens) and trying to live--as beautifully put in Under The Tuscan Sun, "spherically".
I have found that one hobby/vocation/obsession/passion is currently not enough. So, cramming too many activities in 24 hours, I have undertaken learning the fabulous and slightly deranged art of Flamenco (performing it as well!) and trying to teach myself to be a bona fida force to be reckoned with in the kitchen--at least to my friends. All this while managing to keep my head above water as a temp worker, caterer, theatrical hopeful (here we go again) and incurable and ridiculous closet romantic. I think it's residue from being brought up as a Southerner and loving it in spite of what the place did to me!
I am a feeder and a caretaker. Always have been, always will be. Those who know me seem to enjoy it and I love what being in front of a stove does for my mood. Something about feeding not only a fever, but all the other ills as well. Western meditation...
More to come.
I have found that one hobby/vocation/obsession/passion is currently not enough. So, cramming too many activities in 24 hours, I have undertaken learning the fabulous and slightly deranged art of Flamenco (performing it as well!) and trying to teach myself to be a bona fida force to be reckoned with in the kitchen--at least to my friends. All this while managing to keep my head above water as a temp worker, caterer, theatrical hopeful (here we go again) and incurable and ridiculous closet romantic. I think it's residue from being brought up as a Southerner and loving it in spite of what the place did to me!
I am a feeder and a caretaker. Always have been, always will be. Those who know me seem to enjoy it and I love what being in front of a stove does for my mood. Something about feeding not only a fever, but all the other ills as well. Western meditation...
More to come.
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