It's Saturday night, and I'm alone in the apartment with a vanilla vanilla cake (and two of those crazy copy edits—i.e., Taming the Cougar—I can't bear to look at right now). Untouched. Unphotographed even ('cause my camera batteries died). Cannot lure any old boyfriends over here, even for a piece of cake, and certainly can't snag a new one sitting at home (though G. Carlin once mentioned that after the age of 35 or 40—cannot remember—it's a bit weird/off to be calling someone your boyfriend*). I was hopeful last week after I dragged myself to a party in the East Village, because some cool Woodstock/NYC couple I met mentioned they knew someone they wanted to introduce me to, and the description of the guy—think inventor!, attractive!, divorced father of an eight-year-old boy!, looking for love!, lives in a pod (?) next to a waterfall!—sounded very promising. But I haven't heard from them since, and cannot seem to contact them, either. Yentl these people are not!
Today, while en route to find cake boxes on 7th Avenue, I was mistaken for a nurse, and then a butcher (true, the couple had just been to see an astrologer). I laughed about it to the class afterward, but later when I got home, I shoved my cake in the mini frig, and ran out and bought a new dress. Course I'm going to have to wash it at the laundromat down the street, 'cause I've decided I don't want those people touching/ripping apart my apartment anymore, and I've negotiated a small rent decrease (and the addition of a closet in D.J.'s room!) in exchange for them leaving me alone.
Additionally on the clothing front, I've decided not to wear my chef pants. I can't deal with them, and I don't like working and trying to create beautiful and delicious things while wearing a non-neutral hideous checkered bag with leg holes attached. Last week I told Chef I left them at home, but this week I didn't bother saying anything.
So now, I'm about to hit the third act of this baking/pastry journey, and turns out, maybe I'm just one of those dramatic characters who just doesn't change by the end of the story. In fact, isn't my dismissal of the pants proof of that? Is that possible? That a person wouldn't change in three months?
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We both know an 81-year old woman who refers to her "boyfriend." We finished your plain cookies yesterday (we had eaten the jam ones first); flavor developed over time.
ReplyDeleteAfter one more walk through the Maryland cherry blossoms - we saw the famous ones around the Tidal Basin yesterday - I'm off to the local Farmer's Market, hoping I can find more produce than storage apples and mushrooms this week.
Yes, well I think that woman could use a dose or two of George Carlin, but she's told me he's too edgy for her.
ReplyDeleteP.S. Last night I finished what was left of the chiffon cake, and still haven't tried my vanilla vanilla cake.
ReplyDeleteP.P.S. According to Chef Nola, in order to make the super thin chiffon cake, I was supposed to put only the smallest amount of batter in my sheet pan. Next time!
ReplyDeleteWhat Woodstock couple?
ReplyDeleteSome couple I met. They bought a house in or near Woodstock. He lives there full-time and she lives there and also in the city. I recognized him as a friend of that old edgy lover guy of mine, and we got to talking, yada, yada. They're short, light haired, he's got a nose ring, and she's got a 20-year-old daughter. I think they're around my age, or maybe younger. Do you know the inventor?
ReplyDelete