Sunday, November 27, 2005

Cash Post-Thanksgiving Crash

The whole Thanksgiving thing is finally done. Last week was a madhouse, from two separate shopping excursions for the menu, Monday & Tuesday--Monday was a late night 9pm to 11pm expedition at the all-night Giant, and Tuesday a run-through of several stores looking for what I was missing. The Giant ran out of brown sugar, all kinds, all brands. Very strange. Like all of Bethesda is suddenly re-discovering the Rolling Stones or something. Like white sugar just doesn't cut it anymore.

Wednesday and Thursday, cooking all day. Two different pies with two different time consuming crusts--things that must be refrigerated periodically, baked separately from the pie, rolled out, refrigerated again. At least the pies were good. And my pie crust making issues are finally solved with a recipe from Real Simple magazine. I have never made such a good looking pie. Banish the old-fashioned recipes with only butter and Crisco--this one had an egg! And vinegar!

Friday was shopping. The find of the day, a Liz Claiborne business tote at Hecht's, originally $67, got it for $21. I may have a job. I'll know more next week. It's scary.

Saturday more entertaining of guests and cleanup. Sunday cleanup.

Saturday was our anniversary. Roger told me that his ideal physical type (when he was an adolescent/college boy type) was a cross between Mrs. Kotter and Diane Keaton in her Annie Hall days. Me: 'the one with the horrible glasses and the bad hair, and the other one who dressed like a boy?' I think that Mrs. Kotter was really a transvestite, by the way. It was not a terribly romantic evening.

The movie we saw was good, though: Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash/June Carter movie. "Folsom Prison" is one of my favorite songs, apparently the first one he ever wrote (says the woman with a fondness for vintage Led Zeppelin). We used to sing it to Robert on long car trips, substituting 'car seat' for 'prison'. Cute movie, basic biopic. Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon did their own singing for the movie--not too bad, but they were off-key several times. And Joaquin can sing bass, but not Johnny Cash bass. No one can go that low, not even the fattest of the great big old fancy opera singers.

In terms of poetry: I was thinking about Elizabeth Bishop and Marianne Moore and their projects to make the familiar strange. What about making the strange familiar?

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