You know Christmas has me firmly in its grip when I can't even find time for my walk.
Instead, the morning found me upstairs from Chop Suey Books at the Bizarre Market finishing up one of my least favorite chores, shopping, not long after I finished up breakfast.
Impressive as all the locally hand-crafted items were, I was most awed when I saw two wooden Velveeta boxes in the familiar loaf shape. Imagine, there was a time when that totally unnatural cheese food product was sold in small wooden crates as if it were a legitimate foodstuff.
This is cultural history, kids.
By mid-day, Mac and I were strolling over to Chez Foushee for lunch, savoring every second in the 61-degree air. Like Max's, which we'd passed on the way over, Foushee was mobbed because it's that most wonderful time of year: matinee season.
And, sure, it could be that kind of matinee season, too, but for now, we're talking about the theatrical kind, okay?
Between Virginia Rep, where we were headed, and Richmond Ballet's Nutcracker at CenterStage, the ladies who lunch were out in force, and we proudly joined their ranks by eating salads (mine was roasted Brussels sprouts with candied walnuts, bleu cheese, bacon and pickled red onions, hers a Caesar with fried oysters) followed by a shared chocolate mousse tart with caramel sauce for a classic pre-theater luncheon that probably dates back to the Cole Porter days.
Afterward, we strolled a few blocks east to take in the air before making a U-turn and heading to our destination.
The November Theater was packed and the artistic director mentioned that the show had been added at the last minute, so they hadn't been sure how its timing would work with people's holiday schedules. Judging by the full orchestra and faces peering over the balcony, I'd guess rather well.
The draw may have been the play and its roots as a childhood favorite for some. Mac was one of them and when she'd seen the marquee saying that "A Christmas Story, the Musical" was playing, she'd expressed enthusiasm while I had to admit that I'd never even see the 1983 original movie ("Of course you haven't," Pru would observe later, rolling her eyes).
So we came to our afternoon with Ralphie's family from completely different backgrounds, she looking for a familiar touchstone and me hoping to connect the dots on the few cultural references I knew about, namely the BB gun and the leg lamp.
I'd say we both came away satisfied.
The set resembled a little girl's dollhouse with its cutaway views of rooms and the claustrophobic feel of a small suburban home. In "A Major Award," dancers wore lamp-shade-like dresses (complete with tassels) and formed a kick line that appealed to us both.
Then there were the quaint elements of the yarn. When the story reached the point where it was 12 days until Christmas, Ralphie's family set out to get a tree, a laughable and old-fashioned time frame in 2016.
Just last week, a Christmas tree seller had told Mac that it used to be that peak tree-buying time was around December 10th, but that's been pushed back to Black Friday weekend now and most places are cleaned out of firs long before December 9th.
Call me a dinosaur because when I was a kid, plenty of families didn't even go buy their tree until Christmas Eve, which made sense given that the 12 days of Christmas don't officially begin until Christmas, but in our typical bigger-is-better American way, we've shifted the focus to beforehand for a Christmas that begins with the last bite of turkey and pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving and is history by Boxing Day.
Tragic.
While it wasn't the kind of musical where you leave humming a great song (all were entirely forgettable, in my opinion), there was lots of dazzling dancing thanks to an extensive ensemble doing everything from Moulin Rouge dancing to pioneer square dancing to a chorus of heavenly angels whenever the BB gun was mentioned. Ahhhhhhhhhh.......
The funniest scene to a word nerd, hands down, was when Ralphie imagines his teacher Mrs. Shields coming to his house to inform his parents what a stellar theme paper he's written on "What I Want for Christmas." Actress Susan Sanford's impeccably-delivered speech about the splendor of Ralphie's prose, the beauty of his conjugated verbs, the wonder of his magnificent margins, made me laugh so hard I almost choked.
Less funny was a scene on Christmas Day at Chop Suey Palace Co. (with a sign reading, "Never closed") where the family goes for dinner after the neighbor's dogs eat their turkey and where they're served by a dated caricature of a Chinese man. Awkward, very awkward.
It was particularly interestingly timed because over lunch, Mac had used the idiomatic expression "shanghaied" and it had, for the first time, struck me for the negative connotation that it has. Funny how you can hear something a hundred times before it resonates as the racist remark it really is.
"Christmas Story" concluded with Mac more than satisfied with the musical version, me up to speed on the plot of a classic and that holiday line item off my list. Win/win.
Walking home afterward, we stopped by my neighborhood candy store, Chocolates by Kelly, for some more last-minute shopping and found Kelly and her mate a tad frazzled after the non-stop parade of frenzied customers today.
After tying up our packages, I wished them lots more business right up until the minute they close for the holiday.
"And then we're going to get wasted in a ditch!" she sang out as we headed out the door. More power to you both.
Gathering up an armful of presents, my final stop of the day was Pru's manse on Church Hill for a bit of five-way holiday socializing in the glow of twinkling lights.
Gifts addressed to "K-Bar" and "K-Wow" accompany Beau's fabulous musical gifts (tags identify him as the self-deprecating "Corn Boy" and "V-Corn"), while from the three Church Hill residents I get all manner of grooviness, including a plantable card, a mod little dress, sweater leggings and a sassy lipstick in a color called cherry pie.
"It's such a great color, all you need to do is fall out of bed, put that on and you're set," Pru advises as I go on to unwrap a copy of "Tales of French Love and Passion," a brief collection by Guy de Maupassant on an obvious subject of interest.
When I say something to Beau about being a huge fan of short stories, he looks lost.
"I'm still stuck on the part about you naked with just red lipstick on," he says from his chair in the corner. I blame Pru, but given the conversational odds at tonight's get-together - four women, one man - he could be forgiven for tuning out.
If I don't get a walk tomorrow, I may wind up doing the same. Ralphie may insist that it all comes down to Christmas, but at this late stage, a little cherry pie lipstick never hurts.
Although how it helps could make for some fabulous tales of Christmas love and passion.
Showing posts with label christmas party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label christmas party. Show all posts
Friday, December 23, 2016
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Party Talk
A party is only as good as the conversation I get out of it.
So while I'd been at a party the other night with hundreds of people, I got very little in the way of quality chat.
Not so for the Christmas Eve eve party I got invited to Sunday night.
The guest list was small, only eight people.
But it wasn't a dinner party; it was a bona fide cocktail party.
Like the song says, mix and a-mingle in the jingle bell feet.
Oh, we mixed and mingled all right.
As in lots of libations, lots of heavy hors d'eouvres and interesting discussion at every turn.
My hosts had recently moved into a new house on northside and had had it redecorated from top to bottom.
From the lipstick-red settee to the elephant parade on the bedroom drapes, the place was stunning.
My favorite thing was a striking abstract portrait of my friend hanging in the living room.
When I inquired about its provenance, I learned it was done twenty years ago and the only stipulation he'd given the artist was "no pink."
Of course, there were several large splotches of pink across the fabulously fractured face.
Most interesting to me was that his beloved had had no idea that the portrait was of him (it was that obtuse).
So all of us learned something about the house tonight, including the owner.
Over endless glasses of wine and plates of food, the talk rambled from the halcyon days of life as a 20-something in Washington, D.C. (me and one of the hosts) to protocol when a restaurant keeps you waiting 30 minutes when you have a reservation (two restaurant types).
Two of us discovered that we'd frequented the same clubs at the same time.
Not that we'd known each other then, but it presents some compelling what-ifs.
I was a tad surprised to have to tell a Church Hill resident what the new restaurants in her 'hood were, but obliged.
One guest went on a rant that surprised the rest of us and effectively shut down conversation for a few minutes.
We heard about one couple's plans for a Christmas eve day trip, although they hadn't yet chosen mountains or Williamsburg as a destination.
I can appreciate the idea of a non-traditional holiday celebration, even if it is only the eve of the big day.
In fact, the conversation was so colorful, the laughter so frequent, that by the time I looked up, I realized that five and a half hours had passed since walking in the door.
Now, that's a good cocktail party.
Even if it did come with one wee regret.
I wish I'd had the sense to have my portrait painted twenty years ago. With or without pink.
So while I'd been at a party the other night with hundreds of people, I got very little in the way of quality chat.
Not so for the Christmas Eve eve party I got invited to Sunday night.
The guest list was small, only eight people.
But it wasn't a dinner party; it was a bona fide cocktail party.
Like the song says, mix and a-mingle in the jingle bell feet.
Oh, we mixed and mingled all right.
As in lots of libations, lots of heavy hors d'eouvres and interesting discussion at every turn.
My hosts had recently moved into a new house on northside and had had it redecorated from top to bottom.
From the lipstick-red settee to the elephant parade on the bedroom drapes, the place was stunning.
My favorite thing was a striking abstract portrait of my friend hanging in the living room.
When I inquired about its provenance, I learned it was done twenty years ago and the only stipulation he'd given the artist was "no pink."
Of course, there were several large splotches of pink across the fabulously fractured face.
Most interesting to me was that his beloved had had no idea that the portrait was of him (it was that obtuse).
So all of us learned something about the house tonight, including the owner.
Over endless glasses of wine and plates of food, the talk rambled from the halcyon days of life as a 20-something in Washington, D.C. (me and one of the hosts) to protocol when a restaurant keeps you waiting 30 minutes when you have a reservation (two restaurant types).
Two of us discovered that we'd frequented the same clubs at the same time.
Not that we'd known each other then, but it presents some compelling what-ifs.
I was a tad surprised to have to tell a Church Hill resident what the new restaurants in her 'hood were, but obliged.
One guest went on a rant that surprised the rest of us and effectively shut down conversation for a few minutes.
We heard about one couple's plans for a Christmas eve day trip, although they hadn't yet chosen mountains or Williamsburg as a destination.
I can appreciate the idea of a non-traditional holiday celebration, even if it is only the eve of the big day.
In fact, the conversation was so colorful, the laughter so frequent, that by the time I looked up, I realized that five and a half hours had passed since walking in the door.
Now, that's a good cocktail party.
Even if it did come with one wee regret.
I wish I'd had the sense to have my portrait painted twenty years ago. With or without pink.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Stables, I Mean Loft
What could be more fitting than a Christmas party in a stable?
Okay, former stable, but you get the idea. The invitation came from a couple whose loft is part of the former Richmond dairy stables across from the milk bottle building.
And although we see each other out all the time, it was my first time inside the home they created out of a blank canvas of a space.
The ceilings were incredibly high and only the guest bathroom had a lowered ceiling. Otherwise, walls between rooms were 8' high and ceiling-less.
The host's "beer sculpture," an elaborate stainless steel beer brewing station with a separate fermentation tank full of his latest brew, sat next to a grand piano.
All of the art, he told me, was "from the 'hood." Old photographs of J-Ward in the '30s lined one wall.
There was even a daybed in the kitchen for enjoying the afternoon sun.
It was the perfect backdrop for a mix of interesting people to get to know each other.
I met a couple who had been homesteaders in the Ward, having put their offices here long before most people chose to be anywhere near this part of town.
They've since moved to bigger spaces across the river, but I didn't hold that against them.
A woman tried to convince me of the benefits and fun of the Navy SEAL classes she does daily.
Not my idea of fun.
A Colorado transplant explained her confusion when first faced with spoonbread when she moved here. Even her Georgia-born mate didn't know it till coming here.
I may have been raised further north but I did have a Richmond grandmother, so unlike her, I always knew spoonbread.
Meanwhile, I talked to party-goers about kite surfing, the demise of Kluge winery and how confusing UR's campus can be.
When I finally left the festivities, it was to go to a show at the Camel that was billed as starting on time.
And it almost did, especially for a Camel show.
It was the very first gig for Mermaids, I mean Whales, a one man act with somber songs and a room full of friends and family.
After two very sad-sounding songs, he said, "I'm going to take it down a notch." Down where?
He said he'd set a goal to play one cover song at every show he plays and tonight's was "Sixteen Tons," a song he'd heard his parents sing as a child.
It'll be interesting to see what he covers in future shows.
Moonbees played next and it was my first time hearing them, despite having heard good things about them.
Somewhat psychedelic and very melodic, I loved the harmonies of three male voices singing together.
They sang a song "We Are the Moonbees," as if to brand us with their name, although I can't imagine anyone who heard them would forget them or their name.
By the time headliners Lobo Marino got ready to play, the crowd was a good size but very talkative.
Lobo Marino was playing without mics and on the floor in front of the stage. They formed a semi-circle of chairs around them for anyone who wanted to hear.
You know I promptly took one of those chairs.
Beginning with two Christmas songs, "We Three Kings" and "Silent Night," they tried their hardest to be heard over the noisy crowd.
After those songs, horn and banjo player Nathaniel thanked the crowd for coming out and hanging around.
"I've been working fifteen hour days on the 'Lincoln' movie and I really didn't want to come here tonight," he admitted. "But now seeing all of you, I'm glad to be here."
He may have spoken too soon since the audience never really quieted down appropriately given that we were listening to folk music without mics, but what can you do?
Note to self: Karen, not everyone goes to a music show to listen.
Excuse me, what?
Okay, former stable, but you get the idea. The invitation came from a couple whose loft is part of the former Richmond dairy stables across from the milk bottle building.
And although we see each other out all the time, it was my first time inside the home they created out of a blank canvas of a space.
The ceilings were incredibly high and only the guest bathroom had a lowered ceiling. Otherwise, walls between rooms were 8' high and ceiling-less.
The host's "beer sculpture," an elaborate stainless steel beer brewing station with a separate fermentation tank full of his latest brew, sat next to a grand piano.
All of the art, he told me, was "from the 'hood." Old photographs of J-Ward in the '30s lined one wall.
There was even a daybed in the kitchen for enjoying the afternoon sun.
It was the perfect backdrop for a mix of interesting people to get to know each other.
I met a couple who had been homesteaders in the Ward, having put their offices here long before most people chose to be anywhere near this part of town.
They've since moved to bigger spaces across the river, but I didn't hold that against them.
A woman tried to convince me of the benefits and fun of the Navy SEAL classes she does daily.
Not my idea of fun.
A Colorado transplant explained her confusion when first faced with spoonbread when she moved here. Even her Georgia-born mate didn't know it till coming here.
I may have been raised further north but I did have a Richmond grandmother, so unlike her, I always knew spoonbread.
Meanwhile, I talked to party-goers about kite surfing, the demise of Kluge winery and how confusing UR's campus can be.
When I finally left the festivities, it was to go to a show at the Camel that was billed as starting on time.
And it almost did, especially for a Camel show.
It was the very first gig for Mermaids, I mean Whales, a one man act with somber songs and a room full of friends and family.
After two very sad-sounding songs, he said, "I'm going to take it down a notch." Down where?
He said he'd set a goal to play one cover song at every show he plays and tonight's was "Sixteen Tons," a song he'd heard his parents sing as a child.
It'll be interesting to see what he covers in future shows.
Moonbees played next and it was my first time hearing them, despite having heard good things about them.
Somewhat psychedelic and very melodic, I loved the harmonies of three male voices singing together.
They sang a song "We Are the Moonbees," as if to brand us with their name, although I can't imagine anyone who heard them would forget them or their name.
By the time headliners Lobo Marino got ready to play, the crowd was a good size but very talkative.
Lobo Marino was playing without mics and on the floor in front of the stage. They formed a semi-circle of chairs around them for anyone who wanted to hear.
You know I promptly took one of those chairs.
Beginning with two Christmas songs, "We Three Kings" and "Silent Night," they tried their hardest to be heard over the noisy crowd.
After those songs, horn and banjo player Nathaniel thanked the crowd for coming out and hanging around.
"I've been working fifteen hour days on the 'Lincoln' movie and I really didn't want to come here tonight," he admitted. "But now seeing all of you, I'm glad to be here."
He may have spoken too soon since the audience never really quieted down appropriately given that we were listening to folk music without mics, but what can you do?
Note to self: Karen, not everyone goes to a music show to listen.
Excuse me, what?
Friday, December 17, 2010
J-Ward Represent
Jackson Ward knows how to throw a party, let me tell you.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Food Coma Commentary
Thank goodness we're almost to the 25th because I went to my third Christmas party in a week tonight and I can't keep this up forever. Actually, I don't mind the dressing up part in the least. And I enjoy meeting new people and having unexpected conversations. And as for the gratuitous drinking, well, there are bigger crosses to bear. And staying up late on a school night, well that really has no relevance whatsoever to my life. But the eating! These holiday soirees can put you in a food coma if you're not paying attention.
Tonight's festivities included a white bean, onion and herb spread, assorted cheese and crackers, meatballs, a Jarlsburg/Gruyere cheese fondue, crudites and dip, pork tenderloin in a shallot butter sauce with a cooked apple sauce, sauteed squash/zucchini medley and an obscenely rich mac and cheese. For dessert, there were radar bars, lemon chess squares and chocolate fondue with mini bananas and croissant chunks for dipping. I think I had 2 1/2 plates of food, but the Food Police may have noted more. All I know is no amount of wine could compete with so much of a food base.
The general conversation somehow took a turn to the subject of things I personally don't do. Specifically mentioned were the facts that I don't wear jewelry. And that I don't wear jeans. And I don't have a cell phone. As inevitably happens when that last topic comes up, someone immediately said to me, "Congratulations!" and actually sounded sincere. Within minutes, though, a friend said, "I'm buying you a cell phone for Christmas." Do you know how many times someone has said that to me? So I was simultaneously applauded and pitied for my lack of 24/7 communication availability; no one seems to understand what a deliberate choice it is for me.
One woman, whom I had met just a few months ago, asked if there was an update on my job or love status. No, I said, everything was pretty much the same. I may have made a self-deprecating remark or two about the state of my affairs and she started to get visibly upset. "That makes me want to cry," she said.
Which made me laugh out loud because what earthly good would it do to stay upset about the turmoil that has defined 2009 for me? Sure, I'd change it all if I could, but none of it seems to be in my hands. Okay, I wouldn't change the no jeans, jewelry and cell phone parts.
And the self-deprecation is just part of the package, I'm afraid. But the rest could certainly use an overhaul.
Tonight's festivities included a white bean, onion and herb spread, assorted cheese and crackers, meatballs, a Jarlsburg/Gruyere cheese fondue, crudites and dip, pork tenderloin in a shallot butter sauce with a cooked apple sauce, sauteed squash/zucchini medley and an obscenely rich mac and cheese. For dessert, there were radar bars, lemon chess squares and chocolate fondue with mini bananas and croissant chunks for dipping. I think I had 2 1/2 plates of food, but the Food Police may have noted more. All I know is no amount of wine could compete with so much of a food base.
The general conversation somehow took a turn to the subject of things I personally don't do. Specifically mentioned were the facts that I don't wear jewelry. And that I don't wear jeans. And I don't have a cell phone. As inevitably happens when that last topic comes up, someone immediately said to me, "Congratulations!" and actually sounded sincere. Within minutes, though, a friend said, "I'm buying you a cell phone for Christmas." Do you know how many times someone has said that to me? So I was simultaneously applauded and pitied for my lack of 24/7 communication availability; no one seems to understand what a deliberate choice it is for me.
One woman, whom I had met just a few months ago, asked if there was an update on my job or love status. No, I said, everything was pretty much the same. I may have made a self-deprecating remark or two about the state of my affairs and she started to get visibly upset. "That makes me want to cry," she said.
Which made me laugh out loud because what earthly good would it do to stay upset about the turmoil that has defined 2009 for me? Sure, I'd change it all if I could, but none of it seems to be in my hands. Okay, I wouldn't change the no jeans, jewelry and cell phone parts.
And the self-deprecation is just part of the package, I'm afraid. But the rest could certainly use an overhaul.
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