Lady T

Hell, YES, Ma'am! Where/when do I show up?

In the name of my workload, I should at least put in an appearance on Friday morning, to avoid the sh*tload that will otherwise grace my desk on Monday. In my workday frenzy, I've misplaced the train schedule. What time will the train be leaving?

Well, Maggie, Thursday night's rehearsal will be in northwest Evanston with my favorite group of WhiskeyPalians. Sunday morning, however, is in the synagogue this week; Rosh Hashanah services will extend from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., give or take, on Saturday and Sunday (not to forget the Erev Rosh Hashanah service on Friday night, which is a 'two-fer', being also Shabbat, and therefore incorporating a few extra bits of liturgy for which traditional tunes Must Be Sung, or the congregation fusses -- quite as Episcopalians do if their fave hymns don't happen). How's that for a compound-complex event? Confused yet? It gets better...

Up and rolling, kinfolk.

Gulp. Missed my cue, did I? So be it: keep up with me if you can, kinfolk... Monday breakfast didn't happen. Running too fast... Monday lunch, inhaled at the desk with a micromanager hanging over my every bite, was sushi: couple kinds of nori rolls and Diet Coke. Monday dinner: consoled myself with leisurely saute of cut-up tomatoes/crimini mushrooms/asparagus/small amounts of chopped parsley, basil, oregano, all over penne pasta with Parmesan. Good chunk of good bread (can't complain; I baked it, back on the weekend). Hess Select Chard to drink. This is the last meal I will be able to cook until Saturday, for a variety of reasons which will become clear to y'all during the week. Tuesday breakfast...didn't happen. I blush. But I needed the sleep more than I needed to eat. Tuesday lunch is what I'm eating now, at the desk again: a more-than-merely-decent attempt from downstairs White Hen at a chicken Caesar salad. Produce is surprisingly nice -- but gotta lose the oversalted pink gloop they think is salad dressing. A dark-chocolate Dove candy bar provides both consolation and blood-pressure medication. Can I rationalize or what? But the RFQ (Request for Qualifications) I was hacking out got done. Correctly. It's notarized, duplicated and in the correct City of Chicago agency's hands, a sumptuous hour and a half ahead of deadline. Gah. Tonight, lugging a seven-point-six pound notebook full of mostly hand-copied and/or multiply photocopied music, I will go to sing a three-hour rehearsal at a local Conservative Jewish congregation, as a member of their choir for the High Holy Days. Dinner is gonna have to be fast, cheap, and commercial, at a nearby IHOP (International House of Pancakes). To be continued...

*Reads previous entries. Slinks softly away in terror.*

Thank heavens for that, Maggie. My Muse responds badly to arm-twisting, coercion, and other forms of forced production...I go to see what I might do to the household's nomenclature.

That's a confirm. I'll go wherever the household decides. I'm flexible, so I am.

Maestro Difonte: Of the illnesses and fatalities at the table you must have seen during your career, would you care to speculate about how many were actual assassination attempts and how many occurred due to foods that had been around too long and were far past their prime?

To Ugo: Welcome and thanks for taking the time to chat with us. Given that the courts of your time swarmed with spies all happily reporting to various employers/masters -- did you have ways of keeping an eye on what was going on in the kitchen (who had access, who'd done the shopping at the market or the hunting in the field, who was cooking), to improve your odds of survival? Were you able to do that yourself, or did you have to attend the lord of the manor all the time? To Mr. Elbling: Apologies if I'm repeating a question from elsewhere/elsewhen, but I do wonder how long the translation of Ugo's journal took -- and if there are sources that might yield more of his history, perhaps?

Hi, Al -- Each blogger gets to choose his/her own successor. When Katie finished her blog, she tagged several of us and told us to sort it out among ourselves; since beans is exceptionally busy with the Alaska business, Heather's going next and I'll follow when she's done.

*Bows politely* You first, Ms. Shorter, and I'll follow when you're done...later this week, or early next, as you like.

That'd be my guess, Nero. Not sure I'd want to eat anything he cooked, at this rate.

Thank you for taking the time to answer our questions, Ms. White. Along with the whole sweet/not-sweet cornbread question comes the argument about "Southerners never use yellow cornmeal; Northerners never use anything but..." I was raised (in Chicago) to bake a slightly sweet yellow cornbread for breakfasts, and a savory version, still yellow, as a 'goes-with' for lunches and dinners; what's authentic in terms of Southern tradition?

I refer you to the works of Mark Twain and George Bernard Shaw. Excellent way to regain perspective -- and spend a whole lot of time laughing. Feel better soon.

I watched this happen in my neighborhood not all that long ago -- and participated myself, actually, since the independent across the street from my home (Ennui) was the beneficiary when large numbers of Rogers Parkers gleefully didn't go to the Starbucks which opened four blocks south of me on Sheridan Road. Me? I'm just lazy. I also like Ennui's scones better. Starbuck's has plenty of business; they can't do otherwise that close to Loyola -- but Ennui is where I go to sit/drink/think.

I'm not sure that'd be a classic item of long-term wear, Mags...

Enthusiasm counts, though, especially for TV, and the near-telepathic service is a huge component of the experience at CT's. That doesn't sound as if you turned in a loser test, NSM.

Doesn't necessarily disqualify you, NSM. You couldn't do a worse job than some of the diners have done who actually got in and got their faces on TV. You're waaaaaaay qualified. Don't count the possibility out until you get the 'sorry' letter from them...

Yep. Opera's fine by me. I do purely want to see Gentle G tangle with that kung pao beef.

Or do we simply pass the hat to get you folks some round-trip plane tickets for a long weekend in Dubuque?

She'll be a sous-chef by that time and well able to afford the good stuff. I have faith in our Nero.

No truly good foodstuff is safe around me at that phase of the moon, nailed down or not. That's why God made crowbars, after all. Not to mention screwdrivers, pliers, and if necessary, tweezers. Oh, yes: and forks. Say on, o Muse.

At the moment, it's the Dove dark chocolate bar...primarily because I love cracking the local White Hen clerk up by referring to it as "my daily dose of blood pressure medicine."

Rare, absolutely. But raw -- ack! Rare is the best.