The Fairy Feller's Master-Stroke

Two weeks ago I saw Mama Mia! I know that sentence makes it look like I am still so excited about my theater-going venture that I feel compelled to use an exclamation point, but if you are in the know, watch Bravo, or have ever looked at the back of an ABBA album, you understand that this is not the case. Yes, I did go to the movie opening night, and yes it was the same night that The Dark Knight was released, and yes I enjoyed a meal at The Olive Garden beforehand, but this does not, in fact, make me a fanatic. That said, I did cry a little and deemed it a delightful summer romp that did a great job of not taking itself too seriously. I also thought Pierce Brosnan was terribly miscast.

The movie made me feel many things:
1. Amanda Seyfried will no longer be known as Karen from Mean Girls
2. Amanda Seyfried has an amazing rack and made a beautiful movie bride
3. I want to have an adult daughter
4. I want to have an inn in Greece

But mostly, I was struck by what a great idea it is to create a show out of music that already exists and started brainstorming about how I could cash in on it. All you have to do is write the story that frames the music and it doesn't even have to be very good or even particularly feasible. (As my friends pointed out, Meryl and Amanda could have probably just taken a LOOK at the potential fathers to, at the very least, narrow it down to two.) I have decided that the music of Queen is the perfect fit. It's already pre-chorally-arranged and the tone of almost all the music lends itself to explosive dance numbers. This way, casting lots of extras to fill the stage will be a snap.

I'm thinking it's the story of one man. He's a staunch and savvy business man. The opening provides exposition on his life and is set to "Under Pressure." Somehow he develops a meth habit (we could go on a D.A.R.E. tour. They still have D.A.R.E. right?) that gets out of control. The soundtrack to his downward spiral is "Don't Stop Me Now." Somewhere along the line he falls for the wrong girl. She is glamorous and rich and older than him. She might be played by Diane von Furstenburg (she doesn't have to sing and can provide costumes). He sings "Killer Queen" whilst lounging around her impossibly luxe apartment. He steals money from her. Then...SOMEthing happens...
Anyway he ends up in the gutter. Big company number: "Somebody to Love". He has a turnaround and the show closes with a blissful and rousing rendition of "You're My Best Friend." The audience joins in. Awards are won.

There are still details and logistics to figure out of course, but I assume one of my sisters would do the choreography, the other would do the vocal direction, and my brother could get together and lead the instrumentalists. I would be the visionary so all we need are rights to the music and financial backing. I plan to unveil it in my elementary school's rec center summer of 2011. Tickets are a $100 bucks (roughly) and we will hold a meat raffle at intermission. There is a possibility you will be badly burned or lose an eye during the performance. FROM HOW REAL YOUR TEARS ARE.

Smell Ya Later

WOW I just have to say that, so far, today has been exceptionally smelly. Maybe it was the early morning, disgustingly humid air that brought out the worst in Northeast and downtown Minneapolis but my bus just smelled straight up of urine. And the guy next to me was like convulsing with laughter at whatever he was reading so I kind of leaned under him to try and see the dust jacket and make note. You want to know what it was? A Midsummer Night's Dream. I mean, yeah, it is categorized as a "comedy" but it's like a study in comedy. It's comedy for people who don't watch TV. Plus, really? I mean I appreciate the mirth and the myth and the fantasy of the writing but like, laugh out loud on the bus funny? I just don't think it's what Bottom and Robin Goodfellow originally intended.

Somewhere around Dunn Brothers smelled just like old potato salad, and then I was hit my the overwhelming stench of like, a dog's ear, you know? Like something that smells like it is waxy and cavernous and INside. SICK! People always say that they love the smell of the air after the rain. But to me it does not smell fresh and washed away. It smells like all the smelliest smells that have been hiding under the blanket of dryness have released themselves from the earth and come out to play with their other, dirty-little-kid friends.

Not to mention the worms. You can talk about Easter and rebirth and buds on the trees all you like, but this is the reason I don't like Spring in general and crave the Fall all year round. Even when it is Fall.

Anyway, as sort of a disclaimer, I would like to say to the people that I work with at my full-time job who might read this blog, per yesterday's post I do not plan to quit.

But I will probably quit my restaurant job. I have never quit a job before and would like some tips on how to make it a little bit dramatic. I plan on, at the very least, a strongly worded letter to my new manager listing my reasons for quitting.

What I don't want to do is sing a little song about it like when Johnathan Schaech (?) quits The Wonders in That Thing You Do. My roommate feels this scene is "embarrassing."

It's Enough To Drive You Crazy If You Let It

In an effort to prepare for an upcoming karaoke outing, I listened to the song I plan to sing approximately ten times on the way to work today.

The song is 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton and it's a karaoke song that I have never performed before. As much as karaoke is still fun when it's kind of shitty, I prefer to rock it and not be caught with my proverbial pants down. So if it's a song I don't know THAT well, I like to give it a listen just to know if there is some crazy high chorus, or like, a beatboxing section that I am going to be completely thrown off by. The event for which I am preparing is just a night at The Vegas Lounge. There's no honor, no glory, and no cash prize. There are mostly drunk middle-agers that won't even perk up an ear for a youngin' unless they are singing Crazy by Patsy Cline (which I often do). But this weekend, some very special drunk middle-agers will be in the crowd, my friend Brett's parents, and I want to impress the hell out of them so they tell all their hunting buddies how Brett's cosmopolitan, Minneapolis friends are "just so talented."

But something happened that I wasn't expecting. Let me walk you through my growing ire with each reprise of the song.

First time through: "Man this is a good song! It's been such a long time since I've seen this movie...I wonder if that's what kind of ushered it the chic secretary blouse or if the blouse came first. I really wish I would have gone to Dollywood when we went to Tennessee. Maybe next summer..."

Second time: "Okay gotta get serious about learning these lyrics. They go by kind of fast and they are POIGNANT so you'll want to be sure and spit them all out and - oh hey! She just said 'out on the street the traffic starts jumpin' and THAT'S what's happening to ME right NOW. This applies so much to my life! It's my anthem! 'HEY PEOPLE OF DOWNTOWN! I AM A WORKING GIRL!' - maybe not such a good idea to announce to the warehouse district..."

Third time: "I have to try and remember to do that pretty little upswing she does on 'the tide's gonna ROLL you away' part and to not rush it. I feel so bad for her. No one knows how smart she is. NO ONE BUT ME. She is just a step on the boss man's ladder but he would never get to where he is without her. No one in country music would be where they are today without HER. She can accompany herself on her NAILS for pete's sake! HOLD ONTO YOUR DREAMS DOLLY - don't let them go and watch them shatter."

Fourth time: "Basically I have this memorized. With the help of screen lyrics I should be fine. But what is MY dream? Am I really going to spend all my life putting money in his wallet? Don't I deserve a fair promotion? WILL I EVER MAKE IT TO OPRYLAND?"

Fifth time: "I'm quitting my job."

Nutter Butter

One of the challenges in making pie wherein custard is the star, is simply striking the right balance between the richness of the custard and the thickness and consistency of the crust. This recipe is a great one to try if you are making a fruit and custard tart.

BONUS: Adding nuts is also a great way to lower (slightly) carbs if you are cooking for people who care about that shit. They probably won't want custard though either. In the case of these kinds of guests, fill the pie with sausage. Anyway...

Almond Pie Crust from Chef de Cuisine - makes one 9 inch pie crust

3/4 cup flour
1/4 cup sliced almonds
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons chilled butter
1 tablespoon cold water

For this you really want to use a food processor or you will spend all your time trying to get the nuts to break down uniformly.

Start by preheating your oven to 425 degrees.
Blend first 4 ingredients in food processor until nuts are finely ground.

Cut butter into pieces and add to flour mixture. Process until it resembles coarse meal.

Add enough water and blend until dough clumps together. Wrap in plastic and chill for at least 20 minutes.

Roll out on a lightly floured surface and transfer to tart pan with removable bottom. This last bit is important as this particular crust is not as sturdy as other all flour-and-fat one. Freeze crust in tart pan for about 30 minutes.

Pre-bake crust for about 15 minutes. Cool, Reduce oven to 325 degrees. Bake crust until lightly brown.

Spoon vanilla custard in bottom of crust, cover with fresh fruit, and glaze.

As the Teen Girl Squad would say "SOOoooOOO GOOD!"

No, Rose, The Katzenjammer Kids

You will be missed, Ma.

New Five Year Plan

Well I found out that the winner of the annual Pillsbury bake-off gets A MILLION DOLLARS and now my life is ruined. Today I am grocery shopping and I am going to buy every product they have with the doughboy on it and force feed my over the top creations to my roommate until I make it, sliding in on a stick of butter leaving a glorious sugar trail, to the competition in Dallas.

Here's how it works. There are seven categories including crap ones like Mexican Favorites, which never get the grand prize, and one sponsored by GE that I totally don't understand. To get to the competition, you have to be one of one hundred finalists in your category and that admission is based on your recipe alone. Once there, you get three hours to make three versions of your recipe and then you pick one to present to the judges for tasting. Each category winner gets 5,000 dollars and then of those seven people, one person gets a MILLION DOLLAR prize. This year's winner, Carolyn Gurtz, was from the peanut butter category:

Her recipe includes chunky peanut butter, sifted flour, MSG, angel tears, and white guilt.

Carolyn Gurtz has probably been entering and winning competitions like this one since before I was born so I already know that I have hurdles to overcome.

But then I remembered that I once met Mr. Pillsbury himself.

The circumstances of my meeting him are another post entirely, but he has a house in Wayzata which is filled with little embroidered pillows that say things like "happiness is marrying your best friend". He also has major eye boogers. But that whole house just makes you want to die it's so flippin' cute. Mrs. Pillsbury, who is still really a stylish and sassy old lady, has a bath in her home office and it is surrounded with pictures of her children and grandchildren. She has a little greenhouse full of orchids and at some point the two of them purchased a questionable metal sculpture from their son's artist friend and plunked it in their gorgeous front yard. They are one of the original Minneapolis power couples. I tibbled from my glass of wine and had the following exchange with Mr. Pillsbury:

MP: "So you're a Smithie are you?"
Me: "Actually no, I went to school in Iowa. I went to Luther."
MP: "So you know old Westie Noble do you?"
Me: "Well not so much personally but sometimes I see him picking up trash around campus using a fifty dollar bill as a glove."
MP (unfazed): "Now what do you do?"
Me: " I uh...welll-"
MP (grandly): "My family was in the flour business."

Yes Mr. Pillsbury, I hear it was quite the racket. Now give me a cool mill for my Orange Dreamsicle Crescent Roll Nut Delights so I can pay off my student loans and the debts of my family, buy myself a modest home and then an amazing cabin, and put the rest into an aggressive growth mutual fund.

Tut Tut, Looks Like Rain

I really don't like my Tuesday/Friday morning bus driver. He takes too many liberties with the little microphone up front. For example he likes to tell us on Tuesday that we are "almost halfway through the week folks....there's only a couple more of those work-a-days left and you already put Monday behind you! It's Tuesday, folks, TUESDAY!" I just want to listen to CSNY and read the back section of my alumni magazine in peace so that I can make note of what CRAZY names people who are like two years younger than me have decided to name their second son. That I could do a whole post on.

Anyway, Takes-up-two-seats (which is the public transport Indian, sorry, Indigenous Peoples, name I assigned to her) LOVES him. I am not such a big fan of Takes-up-two-seats, because, as her name suggests, she is kind of inconsiderate. She is also EXTREMELY chatty, but only with the driver and the driver alone. This is another thing that bugs me about TUTS: stop distracting the damn driver! I know he is probably tired of announcing the same streets in the same order every day but I'd still like to arrive at the oft-puke-ridden corner of Washington and Hennepin in a single piece.

For the last three days TUTS has been describing to our different drivers, all the OTHER drivers that she doesn't like and whom she "may have reported". Each driver, all other passengers, and probably TUTS herself know that these threats are empty but I still don't appreciate the frequency and the vehemence with which she continues to threaten this. On my last day of riding with her (she will soon have her truck back, she tells the driver), I plan to present TUTS with an oversized tote bag in which she may transport the eight other small bags which she usually carries and which spill out across, at the very least, two of the bench seats intended for elderly and disabled people. This is my gift to future riders and drivers alike, but still doesn't ensure that she won't still sit in the middle of the bench and cross her legs towards the front of the bus, continuing to fulfill her destiny and TAKE UP TWO SEATS.

She makes me miss the Jimmy Lemon Lady.