okay, I might have arranged this just a little
You know how you’ll go for a month with nothing going on, and then three good bands all play on the same night? It’s the same thing with end-of-the-year parties. We need to spread them out a bit more, people. I’m going to have my holiday party in April.
Saturday night I went to Joe and Andrea’s in Hillsborough. The crowd was roughly divided between librarians and musicians. Half the people I’ve met in the last year are librarians, so it did not surprise me that they were the ones getting jiggy while the rock ‘n’ rollers stood around quietly admiring Joe’s home studio.
My friend Kelly celebrated her birthday last night, and she got a pretty good turnout, considering it was a Monday in the middle of the recovery zone between Christmas and New Year’s. (Photos from Kelly’s birthday and Joe and Andrea’s party are in the holiday gallery.)
We met at the West End Wine Bar in Chapel Hill (voted by CitySearch the best spot in the Triangle to bring a date, and I can’t argue with that). I suppose I’m more used to sitting around a smoky bar drinking draft beer than I am to sitting on a velvet sofa discussing the connection between syrah and shiraz. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I like it, and I love it when the bar snack is a cheese platter rather than a bag of pretzels. (In addition to two blue cheeses and one ass cheese, the platter included a chunk of manchego. As Ryan cut a piece he proclaimed, “Manchego is everywhere these days,” and didn’t miss a beat when it slipped off the knife: “On Dave’s shoe, for instance.”)
And guess who else had her birthday yesterday?
When I bought my house five years ago I was overcome with a wave of domesticity that manifested itself in the purchase of design magazines and painting the rooms a variety of colors with silly names (“Spring Sprout” and “Madder Carmine”), most of which I do not regret. One issue of House & Garden had a recipe for smoked salmon scrambled eggs in popovers, which sounded like just the thing for my housewarming brunch and inspired me to try my hand at the culinary arts. I soon became hooked, realizing that cooking combined two of my greatest passions: magazines and gadgets. (For instance, I own a potato ricer, which I have used exactly once.) Then Mom gave me a copy of The Joy of Cooking for Christmas, which can only be described as Essential. (In the peculiar ways of our family, this book is referred to as “Mrs. Rombauer’s.”) I taught myself to cook by picking a different recipe every day, shopping for it, and cooking it. I’ve tried a lot of different things in the last five years with varying degrees of success and have attained a modest degree of proficiency which at the very least keeps me from being too nervous about cooking for guests (although I do reach a level of tension while I’m preparing a big meal which sometimes means I’m less than hospitable to people who want to hang around in the kitchen and talk to me while I’m cooking. But I’m working on it.)
My mother is an excellent cook, and my interest has given us something enjoyable to share. I often call her to ask cooking questions, usually while I’m wearing hot mitts and worrying that I’ve destroyed something or created something toxic. (At least I’m past the “is this mayonnaise too old to eat” stage.) Our mutual interest is especially fun around the holidays, when we bond furiously in the kitchen.
I pride myself on two things: green beans and mashed potatoes. I’ve perfected my green bean technique after many years of trial and error, along with a ridiculous level of persnicketiness reached after reading too many books about the Culinary Institute of America. I won’t reveal all my tricks, but just to give you an idea, a sinkful of ice water is involved.
As for the mash, I’ve learned the secret: tremendous – nay, deadly – amounts of butter and cream and salt. With this you cannot go wrong. Today, however, it all went pear-shaped. I peeled half a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes and boiled them for twenty minutes. I melted two sticks of butter with some cream and salt and pepper, ready to add to the potatoes. I remember thinking to myself, “I need to add this a little bit at a time.” Any cook will understand my mindset when everything suddenly became ready all at once: the lamb, the green beans and the potatoes. So instead of adding the butter/cream mixture a little bit at a time, I panicked and dumped it all in at once. The result was potato cream butter soup. In an effort to help me salvage this glutinous mess, Mom suggested adding some potato flakes, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. I grabbed the box and dumped about a cup into the bowl. “That’s rice,” Mom calmly explained. No amount of tasting and retasting and self-denial were able to convince us that Dave’s Potato Rice Casserole was a discovery as opposed to a catastrophe. Three pounds of potatoes and half a pound of butter went down the drain, and I started over. Luckily Dad was napping and never knew what transpired.
All things considered, it could have been much worse. Like, say, for instance, my first Christmas dinner when my family each consumed roughly a half-ounce of melted plastic. But let’s not dwell on that. We all survived.
photo lovingly yoinked from and © 2001 Red Snapper Photography
I spent the Christmas of 1984 and 1986 with my parents in Bainbridge, North Yorkshire at the Rose & Crown, a 500-year old hotel with lots of history, lots of drafts, and nary a plumb line in the place (and it totally wigs me out that I can link to it). It was a beautiful way to spend Christmas. The hotel sat on the common in Bainbridge, and was also the village pub. The locals were very friendly and eager to buy a drink (contrary to the stereotype of Yorkshiremen – and possibly because my presence in the bar as a hotel guest allowed the staff to ignore licensing hours and stay open as late as they liked). The hotel was very cold, but I think I prefer that to today’s not-very-Christmasy 64 degrees. Cold, after all, is the reason for fireplaces and whisky and big wooly sweaters, all of which help me get into the spirit of Christmas.
The Rose & Crown was full of people from the UK and US, and we gathered by the fireplace in the residents’ lounge at night. I came in on Christmas Eve to find that all the chairs were taken. One Englishman in his 70s saw me and leapt to his feet, and insisted I take his chair. (Keep in mind that I was 20.) I politely refused. He continued to insist. “I’m perfectly happy to sit on the floor,” he intoned in the slow, deliberate drone of the office bore. “I often sit on the floor at home. You can ask my wife.” He pressed it to the point where the only polite thing for me was to accept his offer. You can imagine the looks I got from other guests who came into the lounge afterward and saw me sitting cozily in an armchair while an arthritic senior citizen sat on the floor at my feet.
We ate (and drank) incredibly well while we were there. I especially remember a rack of local lamb encrusted with rosemary, which I will attempt to recreate for Christmas dinner 2003, but I don’t expect it to match up. Breakfast was a wonder as well: local eggs and local sausages and local toast with local homemade orange marmalade. One morning a large glob of marmalade fell off my toast and landed on my eggs and sausage. And it was good. I put another spoonful of marmalade on my sausage, and it was good, too. Then I realized that, no matter how good it is, you can’t just go around putting marmalade on everything. I became a man that day.
Bainbridge is in Wensleydale, home of the eponymous local cheese (which gets a prominent mention in the Python cheese shop sketch) and not far from the home of James Herriot, who kept office hours for fans of his books as well as for sick animals. We were on our way to see him (which required us to traverse the Buttertubs Pass) when a tractor blocking our lane caused us to suddenly and inadvertently make the acquaintance of John Allen of Hawes, and later an old couple who let us sit in their parlor while we awaited the police and tow truck. (Out of the blue the man announced, “We’ve been on the QE 2.”) We were driven back to the Rose & Crown by Constable Jefferson, who maintained a steady 90 mph in his miniscule Ford panda car, much to the dismay of all of us who had recently been in a road accident. When we returned to the pub, my mother thought rightly that a brandy would be in order, to warm her up and calm her nerves (and her nose, which we didn’t know at the time was broken). The bartender supplied her with a Courvoisier VS, which to this day she considers the finest brandy to be had.
One night the hotel staff took me on a pub crawl of Wensleydale. When we returned, the hotel was locked for the night. One of the cooks climbed in through the kitchen window and opened the back door. He then asked, “Did you see me go through that window? I was as graceful as a Thompson’s gazelle.” Not just a gazelle: a Thompson’s gazelle.
On Christmas Day we ate our roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and popped our Christmas crackers and put on the silly hats, then watched the Queen’s address and went for a walk. As we stepped out of the hotel onto the village green and saw the inhabitants of Bainbridge stepping out of their front doors, we imagined our Christmas was more or less the same as 80 percent of the population of Great Britain. And it was pretty darn good.
Happy Christmas, everyone.
Gotta keep the crowd happy. Gotta get ‘em up on their feet. I am a professional entertainer. I am a professional entertainer. I am a professional entertainer. And all this equipment ain’t gonna pay for itself.
What the hell is wrong with these people? I have never seen a crowd that didn’t react to “Who Let the Dogs Out.” Is it time for “Born in the USA” yet? Too soon. Gotta save that one.
Damn, my hair is looking good. I am so glad I didn’t listen to that dude at Supercuts. This never goes out of style. And I’ll bet nobody ever tells Tom Selleck that his mustache is “too ‘70s.” Up yours, Tammy. I was tired of her anyway. Let her keep the damn truck, see if I care. Once the karaoke takes off, I’m gonna quit my job at Radio Shack and buy me a PT Cruiser, put some flames on the side. It’ll be a business expense, too.
What do these two clowns think they’re doing? “Our Lips Are Sealed” ain’t no damn Devo song. I hate it when people don’t respect the karaoke. I don’t want to get all “Karate Kid” here, but if you don’t respect the karaoke, the karaoke will not respect you.
Oh, yeah. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” all right. I’ll bet you girls like to have some fun, don’t you? Oh, yeah. I don’t see no wedding rings, neither. Oh, yeah. These two will be perfect for singing backup for me on “Summer Lovin’.” Dang, I wish I had a video camera. That short one’s kinda heavy, but she sure can move.
Okay, here we go, people. Let a master show you how it’s done.
Look at ‘em. They can’t take their eyes off me. I know I shouldn’t do this, because lots of times guys don’t want to get up and sing after I’ve sung. Sometimes, after I do a Bob Seger number, people just stand there and stare. Sometimes it even kills the party. I’m a tough act to follow, I guess. But hell, I’m a professional entertainer.
Man, I hope there’s some meatballs left.
I don’t think I need to say anything clever here to establish that lots of little things tick me off, do I? Good. Here’s one that really frosts my oatmeal, or whatever. People don’t pay attention. Several months ago, after my car had been hit-and-ran from, I was spending a lot of time on the phone with various insurance company functionaries, and I was forced to learn a new style of communication: make some premonitory noise to let them know you’re about to impart information, then impart the information, then repeat it. For instance, I called my agent’s office once and said to the person who answered the phone, “Hi, I have my car insurance with you guys and I’m in the middle of a claim. The adjuster asked me to fax her some documents and I don’t have a fax machine at home. She suggested I come to your office to do that and I wanted to know if now would be a good time.” From the response I got, you would have thought I had asked her to please make me a weasel sandwich with fries and deliver it to the White House.
I’m thinking about this now because I awoke this morning to a strange chemical smell in my house. I came downstairs to find my kitchen sink emitting a cloud of steam. I stood there thinking “Huh” and “Whuh?” and “Damn” for a while, then I remembered that there was utility work going on in my neighborhood. I went outside and sure enough, a crew from the Orange Water and Sewer Authority were crouched in my parking lot, ministering to what was clearly an Acme Strange-Smelling Steam Generator. Still, I figured I’d make sure. As I crossed the parking lot toward the Head Walkie-Talkie In Charge, I was expecting this to be a fairly simple conversation. Surely by this point HWTIC had figured out why an unshaven homeowner in slippers was walking purposefully toward him. He awaited me with what I fancied to be a look of understanding, and I was confident that we would soon have one of those “Ha ha, yes indeed, nothing to worry about” exchanges – one that might even end in a hearty holiday sentiment. I’m quite certain my matey face was already affixed when I said, “Are you guys doing anything that might cause funny-smelling steam to come out of my sink?” His response?
“What?”
What, what? What do you mean, what? You’re pumping steam into the ground that’s coming out in people’s houses, and you weren’t anticipating that question? What the hell did you think I was going to ask? “Those sure are some spiffy hard hats. Where did you get them? I think my mom would like one for Christmas.”
I repeated the question verbatim, and the second time it sunk in. Yes, he responded, we’re checking the sewer lines for leaks. Run your faucet and it will keep the steam down. Okay, fine, and thank you, and we’ll leave aside for the time being any question of why you didn’t see fit to warn people that you were about to do something that could easily be misinterpreted as, oh, I don’t know, deadly.
On pondering the lack of attention phenomenon, it occurs to me that the first thing you say is not important. It’s just a throat-clearing, an “ahem,” a way to attract attention. Maybe we could have some fun with it.
“Excuse me, would any of you like a back rub?”
“What?”
“Are you making steam come out of my sink?”
“I’m afraid. Will you hold me?”
“What?”
“I’d like to deposit this check.”
“The voices have started again, and they’re very angry.”
“What?”
“Roll of stamps, please.”
the Strutt Memorial on the Market Place, Belper
The holiday season is truly upon us, and the residents of Belper are getting ready to enjoy a traditional Derbyshire Christmas. Let’s check in and see What’s On in Belper.
On December 12th, the Concert for Yuletide drew a festive crowd to St. Peter’s Church to hear the Dalsemen Male Voice Choir, the Belper Town Wind Band, Belper Musical Theater and the Belper Pottery School Choir.
On December 14th, many Belper residents enjoyed the Santa’s Grotto and Christmas Festival, held in the offices of the Belper Town Council. On hand were Mayor Jim Anderson and Councillor Deborah Blount.
It was a busy week for all of Belper. The Belper Model Railway Group met on December 17th at Belper School in Science Room S5, and on the 18th the Belper and District Organ Club held a social evening at St. John’s Chapel in The Butts. Admission was £1.
And for those who still hadn’t ticked off every item on Santa’s list, high street merchants stayed open until 8:00 p.m. for last minute shopping (Dec. 18 only). Shoppers came from as far away as Heanor and Coxbench to take advantage of the extended hours.
Finally, the festive mood in the Belper air was lessened only slightly by disappointing news from the world of sport. Belper Town FC played Gresley Rovers, but only managed a nil-nil draw. Poor officiating was widely blamed.
Anyone looking for extra holiday money, please check Belper Today, which has an extensive listing of want ads, including this one.
And in case you weren’t aware, the Belper Town Council site, in addition to extensive listings of upcoming events (updates will resume January 9) also has a fine page of pictures of Belper, including this one of the lovely and historic St. Peter’s Church.
Check back in the future for further updates on What’s On in Belper, as well as some interesting facts about Belper history and modern life in Belper.
Happy Holidays!
Phil Marsupialtuxedo has a blog now, which is nice, since he had started to blogjack other people’s via their comments, and something was going to have to be done about it. In a previous entry he mentioned he would be writing his one-year reminiscences of the big ice storm that shut down the Triangle, most of North Carolina, and probably some places I don’t care about. My first thought was, “Oh, great. Why would I want to read about that? I lived through it and it was a total pain in the neck.” But he did a pretty good job. His picturesque description of chopping ice with a Chinese cleaver to melt in a Japanese tub has actually made me nostalgic for the week I spent without power in a 40-degree house.
Maybe I focus too much on the negative here at Fistful of Plooble. Maybe I would be happier, and help make the world a better place, if I too could see the beauty to be found all around us, even in moments of adversity. With that in mind, here are my memories of the ice storm.
The soft grey light filtered in through the blinds as I awoke on Day Seven to find my house still enveloped in the tranquility of powerlessness. Clouds of steam swirled about my head as I yawned and stretched, recoiling as my hand touched the metal bedstead, lest it stick there. Hastings roused himself slowly, squinted his eyes, then dug his claws into my chest in terror when he realized I intended to get out of bed. Stuffing him back under the covers, I stood up, wearing everything I owned, and waddled into the bathroom, passing the shower, unused for a week. I drew a deep breath and filled my lungs with crisp, bracing air mixed with the warm, heady aroma of sweatpant and ass. How peaceful, I thought. How calm it is to be released from the tyranny of power, the yoke of electricity, and return to a more honest, natural state of … itching… constantly… all over. Later, opening a can of mackerel for breakfast and settling down to read a book by goddamn candlelight, I smiled at the simplicity…
Oh, never mind.
maybe I should have worn the plain blouse
I was feeling normal enough today to go out for more unguents and elixirs of the cough-suppression variety, although I’m sure I looked pretty rough, judging by the number of people who let me have an aisle to myself in Harris Teeter. However it didn’t deter one older woman who practically stood in my shoes while I was comparing generic and branded Dayquil. I think that’s so rude, but one little shove and I’m the one everybody gets mad at.
For anyone in my condition, I have discovered the ultimate sinus clearer. We already know the psychosomatic as well as scientific benefits of chicken soup, but try adding a teaspoon of Texas Pete and a tablespoon of Inglehoffer’s Extra Hot Horseradish. It brought up stuff that had been there since the Carter administration. In fact, I just found a mood ring in my tissue.
Thanks. I’m here all week. Try the soup.
Due in part to the Cream of Drano, I felt pretty good for my phone interview this afternoon, but not so good afterward. Let me just say that I am sick and tired of being asked, “What are you worst at?” Does anyone answer that question honestly, or does everyone just say, “I guess I’m too much of a perfectionist,” or “I’m a workaholic”? I’ve answered that question by saying that I like to brainstorm and do the creative aspects of a project, but I used to bog down in the details and have learned many ways to overcome that. It’s an honest answer that I suspect has cost me two jobs in the last month. Maybe I should just be totally honest.
Q: What attracted you to our company?
A: You’re hiring.
Q: Where do you see yourself in five years?
A: Five years? How the hell should I know? I could be onstage at the Oscars or running through the streets with a rifle trying to find food.
Q: What are you best at?
A: Blogging on company time and creating humorous PowerPoint presentations that lampoon corporate executives.
Q: What are you worst at?
A: Masking my contempt.
I’ve got a fever of 103. Well, I did Sunday night. Twelve hours later my temperature was 96, and I don’t know which is worse. But don’t worry, it’s just bronchitis, and it’ll go away in a few days. How do I know? Because I’ve had it every year for the last ten. And no, I’m not going to the doctor. Why? Because here’s how it goes:
Me: “I have bronchitis. I know there’s nothing you can do to cure it. Give me codeine cough syrup.”
Someone in a White Coat Who Isn’t Really a Doctor But Charges Like She Is: “Well, hang on. What are your symptoms?”
Me: “The symptoms of someone with bronchitis.”
DoctorLite: “Uh huh. And what is your (icky stuff) like?”
Me: “Like the (icky stuff) of someone with bronchitis.”
DoctorLite: “And are you having trouble breathing?”
Me: “Much like someone with bronchitis, I am having trouble breathing.”
DoctorLite: “Sounds like you have bronchitis. That’ll be $94.”
Without it being officially prescribed, I have gotten plenty of rest in the last 24 hours. Watching TV has been hard, because I’m too brain dead for anything intelligent, and laughing hurts too much to watch anything funny. Luckily “Mr. Deeds” was on.
I also learned that all it takes to get a show on cable access TV is a working video camera, and after watching the end of a show about butt implants and the start of a show about Russian mail order brides, I decided the Discovery Health Channel is probably misnamed.
And I’ve learned a new maxim. If it hurts to talk, everyone you know will call you on the phone, and a potential employer will set up a phone interview. If they’re looking for someone with extensive experience in a coughing and wheezing environment, I’m their man.
<a href=”Hastings, however, has never been happier. Hot and sedentary is just the way he likes me.
hot pilgrim’s chick
Friday I had lunch with an old friend and colleague at a restaurant in Lake Boone Shopping Center in Raleigh. Lake Boone is one of those strip malls that isn’t sure if it’s on the way up or on the way down. An argument for the latter would be the presence of the Upscale $1 Store (it’s actual name, right there on the damn sign and everything). I headed in there the moment lunch was over. Since I didn’t have my camera (and since I’m not sure the clerks would have appreciated me flashing and snickering at their merchandise), I had to buy all this crap. At least my Christmas shopping is done.
First, some green tea for Mom, because I know how refreshing she finds it after a long bike ride. Then I thought Dad might like a <a href=”nightlight, but now I’m not so sure. My parents are pretty healthy but they are getting older, so maybe waking up in the middle of the night and seeing a glowing Jesus in the room might not be too comforting after all.
I picked up <a href=”something for Britney Spears (if only it were that easy), and should I find a job in the next few weeks, I have a <a href=”gift for my new boss. (Take a close look at that label. It doesn’t even look like the models were actually wearing the bandanas, and I can’t say that I blame them.)
If only I knew two Rachels who would appreciate <a href=”these, but I’m sure I know several people who could benefit from this Canadian <a href=”dandruff shampoo, complete with disclaimer (“marginally more effective than hot water alone”). I’ll let Rebecky, Myküll and Pinky fight over the <a href=”lunchbox from Mars.
<a href=”This I will certainly have to reserve for a special someone.
Finally, I’ve always wondered where you buy <a href=”these, and now I know. Hmm. Who do I know who would <a href=”wear it?
