to say nothing of the dog

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Flaming Souffle

On Saturday, the world witnessed the birth of a new and inventive foodstuff. It arose like the phoenix, in flames. Or maybe a better analogy is the Fire of London.

Katie and Adam and I decided to have a dinner party amongst ourselves. It was my birthday last week, and I had properly celebrated my 25th anniversary by staying up until 4 a.m., surrounded by celebrities. In other words, I was an extra. It was cold last Tuesday, around 3 in the morning, pretending to have a good time with people so wet behind the ears, their hair dripped. But it was also REALLY COOL. I got to ride in the car with publicity phobic celebrities! Woo!

I'm hopeless, I think. It also meant that I didn't get to go out to eat for my birthday. Hence...

Featured in our menu was portobella-blue brie-white wine pasta, and for the side, artichoke with lemon-butter sauce. Katie was in charge of dessert theme. First, she went to Chinatown for mangoes and sweet sticky rice. The rice ended up being sticky (though not sweet), but with mystery filling embedded in the center.


We inspected my cupboards and fridge and cookbooks and decided that a hot fruit souffle would encompass both the grapefruit and the mangoes.

And you know what goes great with tropical fruit? RUM!

And do you know what rum is? FLAMMABLE!

We also found out that Adam's feelings get hurt when his fiancee and one of her best friends snigger for hours about the hilarious combination of mango-grapefruit-rum flambe and artichoke water.

The evening ended in ice cream and gratitude for lives being saved from a flame worse than death.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

That Acting Week

So, I went home to Ohio for Adam's break from school. We got some stuff done, we signed a contract for the reception site for our wedding next year, and we picked out a place to actually get married.

Looks like I've got a wedding coming up. Wow. I even have a dress. It's really pretty.

I've been reading Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. Very interesting book. I haven't finished it, because, well, I threw up on it on Friday night.

If you saw the movie, it distantly relates to the source material, but only in a second cousin kind of way. One of the essays accompanying the book makes a point of discussing the home theatricals, and suggests that Mary and Henry Crawford (the most sympathetic anti-protagonists I've ever read--Henry trifles with the affections of all of the Mansfield women, proposes to the protagonist, Fanny Price, and ultimately commits adultery with her cousin, Mrs. Maria Rushworth--but you still like him) are most alive while acting, while playing a part--that their acting in the play is an encapsulation of their lives. The essay's author further states that these characters are the first example of modern psychology in literature. The author is pointing out the multiplicity of personality facets that modern/post-modern individuals use to cope with everyday life. He made some smackdown comments on actors and acting in the process. Now, that is one of the easiest ways to piss me off.

Gah. It's the same old assumption that if you're an actor, you're a vagabond and a prostitute, trying to ape your betters by putting on paste jewelry. When are people gonna learn that in order to act well, you have to have empathy, reality, specificity, and imagination?

Pffft. I'm getting off my soapbox, now.