Friday, October 5, 2007

I want a basket of kisses NOW.

During a recent dinner party with my dear circle of friends in Nouvelle-Orléans, (The circle, a melange of between 10 and 16 persons, all practicing members of the drinking class yet arbitrarily but meticulously chosen, represents the cream of our particular generation and the fact that each and every person hails from another point of view, another lifestyle, yet all depraved and gnarled and yummy only helps define the originality of the times).
Our host and hostess are the antithesis of a successful and photogenic couple, She a quirky CPA with the wit and wisdom expected from a force of nature- a whiz in the kitchen- and an absolute dervish of glamour on the dance floor- He, a successful architect and gourmand - also with a penchant for "cutting a rug" (preferably a rare Aubusson) -with an artistic talent that causes one to weep bitter tears.

The entire table was filled with conversation and good cheer- as is the norm in this particular View Carre manse, I was seated between our lovely hostess- whom I shall refer to as "Monsieur Mommy" and a neighbours Mum- we will refer to her as "Dotty" when I found myself suddenly on the receiving end of Mme. Dotty's womanly passion and heart-touching devotion to subjects not usually known to mere mortals outside of The Vatican Library. After a few moments (some say months, but who is really keeping track of time), I became thoroughly beguiled and entered into this expeditious yet informal engagement, all the while digging a fish fork into the back of my hand under the table to maintain a look of sincere interest.

After covering the topic of the subtle differences in the plumes worn by members of the Italian military, - and a few bottles of cava- we segued into the subject of how Italian artistry is still unparalleled in the production of carved bois, but lamenting the fact that most American would prefer a reproduction Louis Quinze armoire than the genuine article. As I turned to grasp a much needed chug of my Brandy Alexander, Our lovely hostess caught my eye, asking, "What are you two hens tittering about now"? "Reproductions" I offered with a strained smile. Without batting an eye, Monsieur Mommy, not only a bastion of hearth and home, but also Mother and Grandmother- exclaimed in her deep Lauren Bacall voice, "I think Children are highly overrated! They are all selfish and manipulative!"

The stunned silence was accompanied by a certain look on the faces of the gathered that was not unlike the look a baby makes when you fire a gun over its head.

Then as if on cue, the dashing Monsieur David- Monsieur Mommy's brilliant architect husband, sent a second Brandy Alexander to my end of the table. As I leaned down the table to thank him and perhaps spark up a new subject of light conversation, Mssr. Mommy cast a withering look at poor Monsieur David-not unlike a Cobra to a sparrow - and then glanced torpidly at me asking breathlessly "SO what do you think of children my dear"? Worried that she might be channeling the Baroness from Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang, I did my best to disarm the moment and perhaps engage in a bit of benign flirtation remarking, "Are you tying to seduce me Mrs. Robinson"? (The subsequent collective rolling of eyes around the table looked like a casting call of a little theater production of The Exorcist.)
Trying to keep the ball in the air, a fellow guest Comtesse D___ , ejaculated "Well, I think children look just awful in evening clothes!" (She and her jaunty young escort, the Monsieur Special K, arrived a good hour and a half post-din din time. - Monsieur Mommy had explained earlier that the Comtesse was still feeling indisposed, and thus would need a longer amount of time with her toilette.) Predictably the Comtesse was decked quite elaborately -- this costume a theatrical 30s ensemble meets Gothic dominatrix: fan, gloves, bracelets dangling and a large, ostentatious brooch clasped at the bosom of her corseted wine velvet gown, ending with her hair cemented into some sort of bob with gilded chicken bones en tremblant. -The effect was both stunning and mouthwatering.

After we all agreed that children did in fact look better in uniforms - school or prison- I sat for a moment lost in my thoughts- For although somewhat childless myself, I am in fact possessed of some fairly strong opinions of the rearing of the young. My reasons are certainly Rococo at best, villainous at their worst- (I will spare you for now- maybe we can discuss it over a roaring fire and a bottle of absinthe sometime oui?) luckily my pensive mood was broken by a glance at the a pair of Chanel motorcycle boots the Comtesse was wearing- (You know, it has been said that I possess a particular attraction to bright objects, It has also been said of my beloved boyfriend Monsieur Moose that he does not share this tendency.) Giving a gay gasp, my thoughts drifted to the land of haute couture, ending all musings of children- sticky, horrible, selfish, manipulative children- I suppose Monsieur Mommy is right- she always is.
Even though I never had much Peanut butter and Jelly growing up, (some choosy mothers choose gin) I have acquired in my adult years the appreciation of many new tastes- here is an adult beverage version of "PB&J"
Peanut Butter & Jelly
In a Shot glass:
Chill 1/2 Frangelico
1/2 Cranberry.
Strain into a Flintstones glass
Frankly I don't know how it works out so well, but I swear to God you can almost taste the Wonder Bread.......

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zeitgeist, particular friend, perky libertine, animated trickster, iconoclast, rabble-rouser, object of worship, provocateur, capricious damp enchantress, idiosyncratic beloved reptile, whimsical saucy booze hound, bellwether, luminary, stoic, pensive illicit paramour, aloof, engaged, intuitive, curious, perplexing deranged mastermind, passionate, lasciviously adored offspring, amorous, sultry flamboyant charioteer, scholar, scribe, exalted thespian, voracious, considerable chieftain, impaired, cynical colleague, dreamer, procrastinator, loathsome glutton, artist, oppressed peasant, dainty heathen, narcissist, self-loathing...renaissance man