Measured Extravagance

10 February 2002 - 9:24 p.m.

When I first took this a couple of months ago, I was some sort of short red vodka-based concoction with a cutesy name that time has already mercifully erased from my memory. Today:

Drink me!


Which drink are you?

What I'm actually drinking at the moment is an Orangina, and what we'll be drinking for dinner is a dry pinot noir rosé (Toad Hollow, 2000), which I opened to use with the lamb shanks currently braising in the oven.

It doesn't feel like it's been much of a weekend - I had planned to go to a movie, a show, and/or the Frist, but I was so tired after work yesterday that I just stopped in Hillsboro Village instead, where I picked up sushi for dinner, eclairs for dessert, and olives for future snacking, and went to bed before 11.

This morning, we had a guest musician at church - Lynn Piethman, a cellist with the Nashville Symphony. She and our pianist performed a wildly lovely sicilienne by Fauré, as well as accompanying the choir on the Neruda-Raminsh piece. I also thought her very attractive - curly bronze-colored hair pinned back on her fingerboard side, a form-fitting pale green dress and tall black boots.

I think Jason may be about to request some sort of proofreading for the orders of service. When he took the pulpit to lead Hymn #329 (Life Has Loveliness to Sell"), he said, 'There is one small correction regarding the music you heard during the offertory. The piece you heard Susan performing was "For Me and My Gal" -- not "For Me and My God"...'


Before falling asleep this afternoon, I read through Enid Futterman's Bittersweet Journey: A Modestly Erotic Novel of Love, Longing and Chocolate, which was not really to my taste but pleasantly undemanding. I also paged through some recipes and laughed again at the entry for "scrod" in Craig Claiborne's food encyclopedia:

A man arrive in Boston on a first visit. All his life he has hungered for Boston scrod. He goes to a restaurant, glances at the menu, and tells the waitress, "I'd like an order of Boston scrod, please."

"Sorry, sir, I just sold the last order."

He leaves the restaurant and goes to a fish house across the street, looks at the menu there, and tells the waitress, "I'd like an order of Boston scrod, please."

"Sorry, sir, we're out of Boston scrod."

He departs, goes to the curb and hails a cab. "Is there any place in Boston," he asks the driver, "where a man can get scrod?"

The driver stares at him a moment and says, "Mister, I been driving a hack in this town for thirty years but you're the first person I ever heard ask for it in the pluperfect past tense."

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