In the Headlights

Ratatouille!

Ratatouille used to mean a French peasant dish made with various vegetables.  When I was growing up, Mom would make it by grilling eggplant, green peppers, onions, and slicing tomatoes, then layering the whole thing with ham and Swiss cheese, herbs, salt and pepper, then baking it.  Served with a crispy baguette and butter, it was a delightful Summer dish.  Now it refers

Now, no one has to remember the dish, though it adds a layer to the title of this movie (and is featured at the end of the movie), which centers on a beguiling little rat named Remy with a distinct culinary gift. The Pixar animation is truly wonderful, not only of the characters, but of the beauty of Paris and the French countryside.  Disney and Pixar collaborated on this film.  Animators spent time in culinary schools, to understand the workings of the kitchen, and they went to Paris to appreciate the beauty and spirit of that city.

Remy comes to Paris from the countryside and goes to visit the restaurant of his culinary god, Gusteau,  only to find that the reknown chef has died.  Not to worry, though, Remy gets to commune with his spirit.

When Alfredo Linguini, the janitor spills the soup special, he attempts to cover it up by throwing ingredients into the pot.  Remy can't stand by and watch, and fixes the soup.  Linguini discovers Remy, and they form a partnership.  Remy hides under Linguini's toque and pulls on his hair to direct his movements. It's adorable.

The plot is complicated by sous-chef Skinner's desire to profit from Gusteau's name, the hitherto unknown fact that Gusteau had an heir, a romance between Linguini and chef Colette, and malevolent critic named Anton Ego. Not to mention the ethnic tension between humans and rats, and the rat genocide taking place all the while.  A restaurant is not a safe place for a young rat, as is amply demonstrated every time Remy's cute little nose shows itself.

Definitely a charming, fun movie. Pixar does it again!

Quest

It's not exactly the Holy Grail.

But it's starting to feel like it.

My favorite jeans have worn through in the seat.  No option for going commando. Not at my age.  Everyone can see what color underwear I choose to wear.  I thought I might have to throw them out, then thought:  "I'll cover it with an iron-on patch."

That was the beginning of the quest.

"I'll just stop at Target and pick up a few things"  I thought.  No such luck.  They have a lot of stuff there, but no patches.  At first the young woman thought I was talking about some kind of computer fix.  Then, "try JoAnn Fabrics," they said.  That's fine, but the nearest JoAnn's is halfway across town, and I am not that motivated.  Today I was driving past K-Mart.  Surely they'll have iron-on patches in that huge store.  Nope.

Finally, I went to Publix to pick up some onions to make onion soup for New Year's Day, a family tradition.  I looked in their notions area, and they had some patches.  I bought them.  They are about 2'X4".  Too small to cover the defect.  I'll have to cover it with a couple of different colored patches.

I asked my Mom and my friend Sandy if they had any, and the question was followed by a quizical silence, indicating that they hadn't thought about these things for years.  Maybe decades.  Neither had any.

So what do people use now?  I know torn is in for jeans, but the tear isn't always where you want it to be.  Do these jeans just go to the dump?  Do you use iron on patches?  Does anyone under 30 know what the hell they are?

[Image from Embroidery Library]

The Professor and the Madman

A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary by Simon Winchester is the most recent book I finished.  In fact, I finished it in bed this morning, drinking coffee.  Bliss. 

I enjoy reading Victoriana, and this true story of Victorian genius and insanity, murder and madness is a joy to read.

I'd give a ***spoiler warning*** now, except you'll know what I am about to say before you've finished the first two pages.

Broadly, it is the story of the conception through completion of the Oxford English Dictionary, and of some of the people who made it happen.  It is the story of Dr. James Murray, a visionary whose life was dedicated to editing the dictionary.  More than that, it is the story of Dr. William Chester Minor.

Dr. Minor was trained at Yale, became a fine physician, and joined the Union army during the Civil War.  By the time the war ended, he was behaving in a very strange manner.  After a brief stay in a mental hospital, he went on tour in Europe, landing in London.  The Army had retired him with a pension.  While there, his monomania manifested itself very publicly when his demons drove him to shoot and kill a complete stranger.

He subsequently was tried and found to be mad.  He was incarcerated at Broadmoor (formerly Bedlam) for almost four decades.  While there, his money and status as a physician bought him favors like a two-room suite, and writing and painting materials.

During his time at Broadmoor, he learned about the O.E.D. and started corresponding with James Murray, and became one of the most prolific researchers and contributors to what was to become the largest publication ever.  He compiled a large library and spent his days researching words and quotes for the dictionary, and his nights piling furniture against his doors to keep demons out of his room, and , in his version of reality, being violated in an unspeakable manner by young girls.

Quite the Victorian schizophrenic.  His preoccupation with sexuality led to further shocking complications in his fractured life, but one thing was clear and true.  His intellect and interst in the dictionary is what makes W.C. Morris a tragic character, and The Professor and the Madman a compelling read.

[Image of Dr. Minor from Vauxhallsociety.org]

Cheesy Sculpture

 

Interesting sculpture carved from a wheel of parmigiano Reggiano, in the lobby of the hotel we stayed in in New York.  I doubt they'll ever grate that puppy to put on top of my pasta...

The Perfect Gin?

At Kathie's house, one bridge Saturday last year, there was a small, dark bottle sitting on the counter.  At bridge, I usually stick to wine, because I know I'll be driving later, and switch to club soda after a couple of glasses.  But this night, I looked closer at the bottle.  Hmmm.  A gin I'd never heard of.  Well, I had to take a little taste.

  It was like flowers exploding in my mouth.  In a good way, I mean.  Or maybe juniper berries exploding.  Anyway, it was a very dry gin, but extremely flavorful. 

I enjoy the occasional martini, something I learned at my parents' knees.  Gordon's is the gin of choice at their house, and a good one it is.  but Hendrick's has a whole symphony of flavors I never noticed in other gins. "Made with a free and imaginative spirit, Hendrick's Gin is instilled with coriander, juniper and citrus peel--and infused with rose petal and a curious yet marvelous hint of cucumber."  Yeah, that's what I was thinking...

It's made in Ayrshire, Scotland.

From the little flyer attached to the neck of the bottle:

"Loved by a tiny handful of people all over the world.  Hendrick's:  It is not for everyone."

It was selected "most flavorful" by the Wall Street Journal, August 2003.

Preferred by 1 out of 1000 gin drinkers...Join the tiny yet oddly growing handful of individuals all over the world and visit:  Hendricksgin.com.  (It's a cute website.)

Yum.

[Image from Weinquelle]

But Will He Love Me Like Calvin Loved Alice

That's the question one woman asks herself when she looks at her fiance.  It's a pretty high bar.

I just finished About Alice by Calvin Trillin.  It's a short book. You can read it in an evening or two.  A tribute.  And a memorial.

It's loving, never maudlin. 

Alice was the voice of reason in an otherwise rather madcap household, which prompted one person to write to Trillin that she sounded "like a dietitian in sensible shoes."  In truth, she was as far from that as possible.  Intelligent, no, extremely intelligent, with the courage of her convictions, a sharp sense of humor, great physical beauty and a loving soul.  She was the perfect compliment to Trillin.  He says they were likened to Burns and Allen, except he was Gracie and she was George.

A lifelong non-smoker, she contracted lung cancer in the 1970's when she was in her 30's.  In the early 1990's, she had a recurrence, then in the early 2000's, her heart began to fail her, the effects of the radiation treatments on the muscle taking their toll.  They made the open heart surgery extremely difficult, and her recovery included a long readmission to the hospital.  She was discharged the day of their second daughter's wedding and was able to attend that, a goal she had set for herself. 

Unforunately, the damage to her heart wasn't reversible, and she died waiting for a heart transplant.

She died on 9/11.

Trillin walks a fine line with this book about a woman he clearly adored, and who, maybe with a bit of a wry grin, adored him.  It is warm, sweet and frank, but you never want to cry, for him or her.  Instead, it celebrates their life together and with their daughters (and now he spends his time with their grandchildren, one of whom, when she looks at him, looks just like Alice).

She was too young.  But they had what they had, and that, clearly, was exceptional.

Will he love you like Calvin loved Alice?  Probably not.  It's a high bar.

[image from SearchIndia.com]

Merry Christmas

     

The first three I took at Rockefeller Center.  The last three are windows at Sak's Fifth Avenue.  These were action scenes, with everything moving, and people were five and six deep at thewindows.

Merry Christmas, my friends. 

"Spelling" gets a "B"

A couple of nights ago, some friends and I went to see "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee", which has won a Tony Award.  It got glowing reviews.

So it was with high expectations (the same kinds the kids in the bee had) for an entertaining evening.  We found it (consensus of four cynical women) that it rated a B-. 

Catchy tunes, and a lot of charm.  The bee involves six nerdy kids singing, dancing and spelling, as well as several local celebrities (none of whom I had ever heard of), showing off their spelling prowess.  The locals get eliminated pretty quickly, but getting impossible-to-spell words.  One guy actually spelled his correctly, bringing down the house, but was eliminated on the next one.

The cast includes the adults:  Former spelling champ/realtor Rona Lisa Peretti and Vice Principal Panch, semi adult Mitch Mahoney, the comfort counselor,  who is doing it for community service.  Cold comfort and a cold juice box for those eliminated.

The kids are a nice assortment, from very young and precocious to high school Eagle Scout Chip Tolentino.  Each kid's history comes out in introductions by Rona Peretti, as well as flashbacks and song and dance numbers.  You have the fat science nerd, the girl whose mother is on an ashram in India, and whose father is MIA, at least as far as the spelling bee is concerned, the supertalented, type A Asian child, the girl with "two fathers", who control her and stress her ("nobody likes a loser"), and the kid who is sure he is not supposed to be in such illustrious company.

As stated, there are asides and opportunities to showcase each kid.  Chip Tolentino is eliminated when he is called on after sitting in happy fantasy in the back row looking at another contestant's sister in the audience.  Marigold is wearing a tight sweater.  When pulled from his reverie to come to the mike, Eagle Scout Chip stalls, not wanting to present himself with a hard-on.  He finally covers himself with his number board and goes to the mike, to get the word "tittup".  He spells it correctly on the second try, but he had already passed the letters he wanted to change, apparently a fatal mistake, and he is eliminated.

He has plenty of stage (and aisle) time singing about his "unfortunate erection".

Each child shows vulnerability in the course of the bee, and some even become friends. 

The music is pretty good, some of the background stuff is entertaining, some a bit bizarre, some of it had us laughing out loud.

It was fine.  Not great, not awful.  Not so good that I anticipate ever seeing it again.  Like I said, the girls gave it a B-.

[Image from Playbill]

Christmas Feast

Resting from a dance lesson the other day, I was speaking with one of the instructors, Monet.  She asked what I was doing for Christmas, and I told her I was spending Christmas Eve at my parents' house, and they were coming to mine for Christmas.  The truth is, I'll probably go to their house for both, and bring gifts and dinner on Christmas day.  My Dad's been in the hospital, and is probably more comfortable at home, now, than climbing in and out of a car.  I'll probably make meat rolls, but that's another story.

Monet,(her real name, by the way), who just entered her twenties, floored me when she said she was having family, about ten people, for dinner, and was making a turducken.  I thought turducken was something you graduated into trying when you tired after years of making turkey.  Sort of a midlife crisis of cooking.  She doesn't have the gravitas for turducken.  She does, though.  I got to know her better in Puerto Rico, and she's got a wicked sense of humor, and enough weight (figuratively only, Monet) to pull off turducken.  She had to find a butcher who'd bone the birds and assemble the chimera for her.

In case you don't know, turducken was popularized in the 1980's, though some versions have existed since the middle ages.  A deboned chicken is stuffed into a deboned duck, which in turn is stuffed into a partially deboned turkey.  Some fill any small existing space with stuffing or sausage.  You know those must weigh a ton!

The result is a dense as hell, large piece of meat.  I asked her how long it needs to bake, and she said "forever".  Even a turkey with a hollow cavity takes forever, Monet.  A turducken must take eons.

Go, Monet.  You rock.

[That's the back of Monet at the Dancesport competition in San Juan, Puerto Rico in November.  She and her amateur partner did great.]

"Boned" and "deboned", in cooking, mean the same thing.

[Image of turducken from Wikipedia]

Tattoo You? Me?

I have blogged before about tattoos, and while I admire many of them, I have not succumbed to the tempation of permanently altering my body.

Yesterday, I was in a restaurant, and waiting in line in the ladies' room.  I had an opportunity to observe the outfit of a young woman waiting in front of me.  She was wearing a knee length black dress, with red and orange flames going up the front.  On her feet, she wore short black lace-up combat boots in leather, with red flames on them as well.  Her left leg, as much as was visible between the knee and the boot, was covered in tattoos. 

Now the kicker.  The overall effect was very attractive.

  So I thought about the tattoo thing.  I have spider veins on my legs.  I've had them injected several times.  Yesterday, I was trying on clothes (Talbot's sale, y'all), and admiring the spiders on my legs under the bright fluorescent lighting in the dressing room. Eep.  Time for more injections.

So last night, I was thinking...Maybe I should have my lower legs tattooed.  I'm pretty serious.  It would kill the spider vein issue for all time.  No one would know they were there. 

I work for a conservative organization, but I can wear a suit with slacks, or slacks and a jacket, so they'd never know.

Would I wear a skirt without hose?  I'm not sure.

I mentioned the idea to my friends who put the kibosh on the idea.  Because of the ballroom dance thing.  You wear skirts and flesh-colored shoes, for Pete's sake, how would tattoed legs go over.   I don't know.  I'm no dance star.  What could they do to me?  Not give me a plaque?  Not let me enter competitions?  I don't think so, my money's as green as the next person's.

I'm a boomer.  It would give me some edge, don'tcha think?

Still thinking about this...

The image is of a whole leg tattoo.  I'd probably just go with the lower leg, and add on as needed.  Maybe start with a temporary tattoo...

[Image from Douglas C. Mack website]