Crazy Crap Item #171: The part where we have fun with food

Sub-Part A

Eamon and I regularly gather with a gaggle of his friends from high school. About every three months, we have a rotating dinner party for which each couple takes a turn hosting. Two of the couples live in the Milwaukee environ; the other two (including the valiant Dalys) live in the whereabouts of Chicago.

At each gathering, the hosting couple supplies the entree and, usually, a side dish. Other couples volunteer dessert, appetizer, salad.

As will be no surprise to anyone who has met him, Eamon sees this a sort of competitive event. That is, it's competitive when it's our turn to host. He could care not one fig for desserts, appetizers, and salads, which are relegated to me. But when entree turn comes around, it's Eamon's time to shine.

In the past, this has meant attempts at outlandishly picturesque meals, such as the Pineapple Juice-Can Quail (like beercan chicken, but smaller). At least I got to set the table.

This time around, he fixated on fried chicken. Not picturesque, you say? Well, imagine if its paired with mashed potatoes served in a bacon cup!?! Eamon had caught wind of this remarkable innovation via the intertrons, and had to give it a go. He experimented with several methods--weaving, encircling, toothpick, no pick--and two varieties of bacon--real and turkey, with varying results. I vote woven pig meat.

And how did our guests enjoy it? Well, in a week of fiascos (to which I've alluded here), it was no surprise that all six of our planned guests declined to attend. As a last ditch attempt to dazzle the masses, we invited Eamon's intertron buddy Andrew (founder and publisher of the notorious website Gaper's Block) and his presumably lovely but as yet unmet wife Cinnamon. I say "unmet" because, in keeping with a week of disappointments, she suffered a bout of stomach flu and could not attend.

But Andrew joined us anyway, bringing with him another culinary delight, little walnut-shaped shortbread cookies filled with a delightful chocolate fudge, purchased from neighborhood standby, Devon Market. They, and the bacon cups, were a delight.

Sub-Part B

Last Sunday, we attended Easter dinner at the home of Eamon's Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ken.

"What can we bring?" I asked Aunt Kathy.

"How about dessert," was the reply.

Music to my ears, as I love nothing better than the concocting of sweets. Citrus-scented angel food cake, I decided. A light, airy dessert, perfect for the season.

Eamon was not so pleased. "What makes it Easter??" he demanded.

It did not have to "be Easter," I replied. It's light, airy, spring-like flavor and texture would be Easter-y enough, I assured him.

To no avail. Easter-y it would be.

Behold the Easter-y goodness.

Crazy Crap Item #170: The part where I question the last 20 years of my life.

It's remarkable how in one single moment, you can see in a flash what a monumental idiot you are.

In this case, a musical idiot.

So, as is well known, I like to warble. Showtunes. Yes, embarassing, I know, but a girl can't fight what she is.

This has been a long-term obsession, stretching back to the womb, or at least back to my first viewing of The Sound of Music at age 5. Looking back, it was strange that at that tender age, I didn't want to play the actual 5-year-old in the play (the youngest von Trapp child Gretl). No. I wanted to be Maria. Sigh.

Fast-forward to college, where I have the enviable opportunity to participate in "Musical Theatre Workshop," a course offered through the Music department, where you basically get up twice a week and make an ass of yourself by trying out your audition material. Besides being a forum for receiving feedback every 18-year-old kid should have to learn to deal with (Did you know I'm "too thick for my type"? It's true!), it was a great place to learn really obscure songs that no one in their right mind ever sings. I still dazzle friends with my ability to recognize ditties from How Now, Dow Jones and Flora the Red Menace.

And that, my friends, is how I came in contact with a song which came to be something of a signature piece: "The Joint Is Really Jumping Down at Carnegie Hall." Before it belonged soley to me with all rights in perpetuity, it belonged to one Adrianna Villem, a classmate. And before Adrianna got her hands on it, it belonged to one Judy Garland.

Funny enough, though I've sung the song for some 20 years now, I'd never actually heard Judy sing it. It's from a movie called Thousands Cheer, which I've never been able to find hide nor hair of.

So I've always wondered: how did Judy sing it? What tempo? Does she slur the way I do? Does she mess with the rhythms?

But my biggest question was: How does she handle that crazy high F? You see, "Joint" is swinging boogie-woogie belt tune. Most voices don't adapt nicely to the practice of belting for three minutes then jumping up into soprano-land. In singer parlance, it causes one to over one's "break"--a harrowing and often unsuccessful venture. So it's odd and cruel that this song, so deliciously belty as it is, requires a random high F.

This break-crossing has always been my bete-noire-- particularly in my younger years. I've gotten much better at it, but the extremity of this strange popped high F, and the adrenalin rush of performing (which typically resulting in way more vigorously than is healthy or advisable) usually means the F is, well, not quite right. A little sharp. A little off. Not "swinging."

Each time I'd pop--and miss--the F, I'd think, "If you were Judy, you could do it."

But exactly how did she handle? Anyone who knows the repertoire of Ms. Garland knows that, while she did many musical things, singing high Fs was not among them. Assuming she sang it in a lower key, the question remains: how did she leap out of belt into soprano?

Well, just the other day, I googled the song title--again. Past searches had turned up nothing but a few stray mentions of the song titles in "Lists of songs about New York," "Judy Garland's repertoire," and so forth. So imagine my shock when on this latest search, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a video of Judy singing it! Apparently, someone swiped the clip from the movie where she sings it and put it online.

So of course I wanted to hear it--in general to hear how she sings it but also to solve my age-old question: how does she handle that high note that has give me such grief over the last 20 years?

So, first off, she sings it one step key lower than I do, which is not surprising, as she /is/ Judy Garland, and has the vocal range of a long shoreman. But that still means her "High F" is a "High E", which is still pretty high. So I'm listening. And I'm listening. And I get to that dreaded high note... AND SHE DOESN'T SING IT! She drops it an octave down. Which, in the context of the song makes perfect sense. And actually sounds more natural and a little better. And IT'S SO OBVIOUS that that is what any sane person would do.

So I just start laughing. Just laughed as I sat there. Of course! An octave down. I'm such an idiot.

See, friends, there are songs where you have to sing the high notes. It's expected. They're famous. There's no point in doing the song unless you do. However, that is not the case with this particular song. And how I missed the obvious, well, I guess that's just the folly of youth.

So I'll keep singing that song. But the high F? Screw it. Just call me Judy.

Wanna hear the song? Here's Judy singing it. And here's my squeakier version (click on it from the song list on the right-hand side of the page).

Crazy Crap Item #169: The part where I announce a major award.

In response to my recent thumb-related fiasco, Mr. Michael Shattner wins the award for the best off-the-cuff invention of a name for the event:

Drama Amidst the Empenadas

As recipient, Mr. Shattner wins a shiny new dime!

Crazy Crap Item #168: The part where I discover that I am a Top Chef!

It's been one of those weeks.

Ever since, say, Sunday, my life has been riddled with fiascos and broken plans. I'm a survivor, though. I bounce back.

But things really spun wildly out of control yesterday. I'd been planning to have my good friends and fellow America's Next Top Model (ANTM) fans Jackie and Roxi over for a girlie tv night of Tyra-gone-wild accompanied by homemade empenadas.

But then Roxi got a last-minute, early-morning job interview scheduled for Thursday morning, so had to beg off. We suggested some alternate viewing plans, but since there was a still a chance that Jackie and I might gather (and since I'd already thawed out some meat for the empenadas), I thought I'd prep my little meat pies just in case. They do nice quitely, unbaked, in the fridge, thank you very much.

In my haste -- and due in no small part to my piss-poor knife skills and remarkably dull cutlery -- I sliced my thumb. Strike that. I sliced off my thumb. Or at least a the very tip of it. And some fingernail to boot.

Now, let me clear, friends: I'm an no stranger to damaged digits. See my note above about piss-poor knife skills. Scarcely a meal goes by during which I haven't slice and diced something on my person. So rather than panic, I simply stanch the blood with a wad of toilet paper and press.

I lift the wad. Still bleeding. I press some more.

Still bleeding.

It will stop, I assume. I attempt to dab on some Neo-sporin, but greasy ointments, I find, don't stick to blood. Funny that.

I manage to unwrap a bandaid with my remaining fingers and stretch it over my mangled tip. As the blood pools out the edge, a thought crosses my mind: This is no ordinary owie.

I rip off the bandaid and reapply the wad. Emergency room crosses my mind. I feel a wave a panic. I bat it down. I sit on the toilet lid and force myself to breathe very deeply. The panic passes.

I go back to the kitchen, where I had set up my laptop (a girl needs showtunes while cooking). I text Eamon with a brief explanation of my predicament. He expresses concern. I elaborate. He asks follow-questions. Tired of trying to IM with one hand (while keeping toilet paper wadded on my thumb), I ditch the laptop and pick up the phone.

Eamon: Do you think you need stiches?
Kay: There's nothing to stitch.
Eamon: Sounds like you need to go to the emergency room.
Kay: [weepy gulp] OK.
Eamon: Do you need me to come get you.
Kay: [weepier gulp] Yes.

As I wait for Eamon, I open the front blinds so I can watch our neighbor children cavort. Because, of course, this is the first day with cavort-worthy weather we've had in ages. Which I knew. And which I'd planned to join in for, pre-thumb-amputation.

To kill time, I go back to inspect ground-zero of my accident. Hey! There's my thumb tip, nestled amongs the diced onion. Actually, it's a big hunk of fingernail, with some scraps of skin attached. Still, pretty gross. I discard the tip, nail and onions. I even toss the potatoes I'd chopped before all the carnage, just for good measure.

Eamon arrives, and off we go to St. Francis, where within a mere hour and 45 minutes, I'm nicely equipped with more bandaids, hospital-grade Neo-sporin, and a shiny new tetanus shot.

Fast-forward to tonight. I watch ANTM solo, as I just couldn't imagine hosting poor Jackie with no delicious chopped items for her to savor. Later, I watch the season premiere Top Chef.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear? Chicago chef Stephanie Izzard (with whom I share a one degree of separation!) succumbs to nerves in the first Quick Fire challenge and... gasp! ... cuts her finger while chopping onions!!!!

Mayhap I'm a Top Chef after all!

Crazy Crap Item #167: The part where I discuss local Chicago ancestry

Last summer, our little neighborhood of 1500 W. Norwood suffered a lost. Long-time resident Bernadine passed away.

Bernadine was a beloved fixture on the block. When I think Bernadine, I think "dame." The kind of stylish, 1950's-style urbanite who might be seen just upstage of Katherine Hepburn in The Desk Set. When the ladies and I would gather at the benches during the summer, Bernadine would make frequent, brief appearances, always dressed to the nines in matching pantsuit ensembles with coordinating scarves tied with a tidy knot at the neck. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable.

Bernadine was feisty. She knew her own mind, and didn't sugarcoat a thing. "No, there's nothing afterwards," she'd say, with certainty, of death. Tart, I would call her. Wry.

She loved the kids on the block, calling them sweetheart and darling. She was an especial favorite of Sam, son of Ruth and Kevin, and the O'Connor triplets (now incomprehensibly fled to Milwaukee).

She was also the sworn enemy of Delores. None of us ever learned the source of this enduring enmity -- perhaps some borrowed folding chairs, never returned, or one too many requests for a cup of sugar. Me, I suspect there was no single trigger; rather, a deep and abiding difference in style, temperament, and philosophy of life. Like Bonaparte and Wellington, they were.

What I always respected about Bernadine was her absolute commitment to living as she liked. She was regularly teased about her "boyfriend," a local fellow who would squire her out to dinner, after which she would rib him about eyeing the waitresses. She was always ready to share an opinion about restaurants she'd recently visited, and, if not dining out, had a regular report of what she'd planned for her evening meal.

She occasionally spoke of her husband, who died of leukemia years before. He went into the hospital, she said, and never came out.

When she passed away, after several months of illness and hospital stays, she was deeply mourned. Her memorial had a large turn-out, with many Norwood families in attendance. Ruth gave a heartfelt eulogy, in which she recalled how Bernadine had taught Sam the pleasure of "drinking the little half-and-half containers" at the restaurants they visited on their regular dinners out.

Bernadine's memorial was an eye-opener. Her family had laid out tons and tons of family photos on tables. There was Bernadine, in the fashionable '50s, coifed and cutting-edge. She was a model, we learned, and it made all the sense in the world.

I found myself thinking of Bernadine this morning, as I was perusing my copy of City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America. After Bernadine's passing, her family held an estate sale. We were all invited to look in. I did, not expecting to actually buy anything. As is well known, I'm tight with the purse.

But, as it turns out, Bernadine had amassed a fascinating collection of books about Chicago. I snapped them all up, including City of the Century. I recalled that Bernadine's son-in-law, when he got up to speak at her memorial, described her great pride in her family's old-school Chicago roots. He mentioned her maiden name, Beaubien, and noted that her family stretched back to some of the city's first founders.

So it was this morning that Bernadine came back into my life. I cracked open City of the Century, and some 50 pages in lit upon Mark and Jean Baptiste Beaubien. Mark is described as "a devil-may-care Creole from the Detroit area." With the help of Jean Baptiste, he opened a tavern called "The Sauganash." To quote City of the Century:

"Visitors from the more civilized parts were shocked to see Indian braves spinning the white wives of fort officers around the dance floor of the Sauganash to the frenzied fiddling and toe tapping of Mark Beaubien, or Indian and white women drinking home-distilled liquor straight from the bottle..."

Sounds remarkably like a 1500 Norwood block party. No wonder Bernadine loved living here.

Crazy Crap Item #166: The part where Eamon takes the plunge

I recently posted that Eamon asked an odd question. Strangely, no one has yet expressed surprise or asked for any follow-up. Despite my readers' lack of interest (or, perhaps, familiarity with Eamon's character and habits), I will provide a follow-up, gratis.

Polar Plunge, you see. A bunch of people jumping into Lake Michigan as a fundraiser for the Special Olympics, you see. Derby-related, you see.

I will digress for a moment to note that I've never quite understood the rationale of the "make-a-pledge-so-you-do-unpleasant-things" style of fundraising. I like my friends. I like the causes they support. I don't need to be bribed into giving them money in exchange for the pleasure of viewing them in uncomfortable circumstances--say, walking for three days straight, or climbing the stairwells to the top of the Hancock, or, for instance, jumping into a freezing cold lake in February. But that's just me.

Back to our story. The Windy City Rollers entered a team to jump. They would be costuming themselves as the "Babe-raham Lincolns." Chicks dressed as our 16th president. Top hats and beards abound.

But tragedy struck when one of the skaters was unable to do the plunge. Who, a stricken nation cries out, could possibly take her place???

Yeah, one guess.

So Eamon is set to plunge. But, since a tall, bearded man dressed as Abraham Lincoln is neither funny nor gender-bending, he decided to attire himself somewhat differently. As "Betsy Rawsome."

This puzzled me some. Betsy Ross. Abraham Lincoln. I questioned. I gingerly reminded that they weren't from the same historical period. I was told not to be snippy.

Leaving doubts and a basic knowledge of American history behind, I settled in to watch the fun of Eamon cobbling together -- yes -- another costume.

It started with a wig and bonnet ensemble from the local party store, amusingly labeled a "Betsy Ross disguise." (Why a disguise? Are we thinking someone will mistake him for the actual Betsy Ross?)

Then, he tried to squeeze himself into an old hand-me-down bridesmaid's dress I had on hand. It used to serve as the foundation for my ever-popular Snow White costume (royal blue, big puffy sleeves, full skirt). I assured Eamon it would never fit, as even I can no longer zip it up. He refused to believe without proof. A few popped stitches later, and he had his proof.

It was then that one of the skaters stepped in, with two former prom dresses, in the famed size 14 mentioned earlier. A pale blue taffeta gown fit the bill nicely.

As it was strapless, Eamon asked if I had any white fabric on hand that would serve as a shawl. Being the best wife ever, I remembered some lace curtains I had packed away. A patriotic themed pin to hold it together completed the ensemble.

And so it was that, bright and early on Sunday morn, we headed to North Beach where Eamon and the Babes took the plunge. And won first prize for individual costume. I am not kidding.

Another Daly triumph!!

Crazy Crap Item #165: The part where I am witty

Yesterday, Roxi informed me that it was "National Grammar Day."

To which I responded, "Do you think they chose March 4th as the date because the date itself is a full sentence?"

I'm so clever, I shock myself.