Sunday, January 20
Today is Björk Day. I've decided to listen to all of the seven of her releases that I have, starting with "Gling-Glo" (but not the Sugarcubes) and concluding with "Vespertine," which will be my first time listening to it. In the meantime: eating, determining a shopping schedule, reading, transporting clothes and other objects, eventually record reviews. Perhaps Scrabble tonight? (what do you think?) I'm thinking to balance out yesterday's relative lack of inactivity.
Or, I'll start with Friday. Sunshine streams into this room in an intense way, so there will definitely be some blind action in the near future. To campus to mail a check, deposit another, order 150 more, recieve "El Producto" and a Humuhumunukunukuapua postcard (how's that for a new coinage), then back here. Sheets laundered, books shelved across the hall, clothes hung, refrigerator cleaned, long-dead-leftovers turned into a cornupopic moldfest in the sink, bed made, Alyssa arrived. Soon enough, so did Laurel and Amelia, for tofu-and-stuff (with black-bean-and-garlic condiment) and discussion of feminist magazines. It was just like being back at school, or maybe just like hanging out with some people. Tortoise and dishes and after they left I helped Rebecca paint her room Lipstick red, an impulse choice that looks spectacular, and makes the room decidedly hers. Nice light-switch plate too. And Alyssa was back to paint some too, while Georgy Harrison crooned "I dig love, I dig love……I love dig, I love dig."
The next morning we woke to a flurry of e-mails and …snow! In appreciable quantities, already having put a coat on the opposing rooftop by our rather late awakening, and enlivening the walk ville-wards. So did Nori's ambush, which pushed Alyssa clear off the sidewalk. Joel had warned us that she might be prowling the area. I successfully obtained eggs, cream, marzipan, green, tartar, a ladle, and a second can of lipstick. Bûche start time was about 2:30, and although it was a glitch-ridden process (the uneven oven rack/oven temperature rendered one corner of the roll burnt and the rest somewhat unsettlingly patchily colored; the first batch of meringue was a flop) the end result satisfied my goal of having it either look good or taste good. People apparently thought it did both. It was rather smaller than usual, due to burnt corner and cookie-sheet substituting for larger jelly roll pan, but appropriate since the only tray I could find was a rather small handled one from 2N (all other cutting boards having been lent to the souplords). I substituted Sunday pants for dishtowel. Nori came in to help with the mushrooms, but other than that I was mostly reclused in the kitchen all day only emerging at the end with the final product, replete with cinnamon holly-berries, lots of marzipan leaves and sprigs (which just happened to match my fingers) and what Allen McBride later praised as fungality, an hour later than the dinner was supposed to start. They (the new flatmate line-up plus sick Allison) were placated by it I think, and so we headed off for the craziness.
It was really quite a charming scene; one long table lined with rice-embedded candles, people like Claire, Roban, Benj, Gabe, Sarah Fritsch, Amanda Cravens, Alana, Jenny, Olivia, Abram, Emily Clough, and so on. Three soups, of which I sampled too (minestrone and poor: the conceptual soup), terrifically chewy zero-sum cookies by log-junkie Amelia (actually, I want your recipe), salad with green dressing, one wine glass which Claire clinked for short-winded toasters. Happiness, more or less. I ladled some soup into tupperware, and then we headed down the block for Christy's birthday party, which turned out to be a full-out Yale House soireé, with all the usual suspects plus some folks I hadn't seen in a while (Adrienne Fowler, Dave Auerbach, Abby Kluchan) and some that I'd never met: Ben Tiven, John Shainin, Matt Schwartz, and Mark Lotto, who along with the ineffable Patrick Conolly form a legendary cohort of like-hairstyled, prep-sweatered, somewhat condescending alleged hipsters, newly involved in a newspaper enterprise. They distributed their first issue (the oversize "Philadelphia Independant") and took control of the stereo (New Pornographers, White Stripes). I engaged Matt (with whom Alyssa apparently has some rocky history) over a bit of the leftover log, and met Mr. Tiven. Elsewhere, I repaid jaguar-pantsed Daniel Sproul, agreed to play accordion, or perhaps even audition, for Tiffany Lennon, and generally chatted about with relative ease.
Sooner or later, I made the trudge back here, with the remaining half-slice of bûche. Cleaned up the evidence of its creation, and even swept. Jackson, Merrit, Simon on the Juno; Alyssa back and unwinding in the kitchen, fitful sleep and journalling. It's drippy now. I haven't figured out how I want to position myself with respect to these worlds of people. For brief stretches yesterday I was feeling in want of an ally. Stuff is going to start. Tomorrow, eh?
we could nick a boat
and sneak off too this island
i could bring my little jhettoblaster
Or, I'll start with Friday. Sunshine streams into this room in an intense way, so there will definitely be some blind action in the near future. To campus to mail a check, deposit another, order 150 more, recieve "El Producto" and a Humuhumunukunukuapua postcard (how's that for a new coinage), then back here. Sheets laundered, books shelved across the hall, clothes hung, refrigerator cleaned, long-dead-leftovers turned into a cornupopic moldfest in the sink, bed made, Alyssa arrived. Soon enough, so did Laurel and Amelia, for tofu-and-stuff (with black-bean-and-garlic condiment) and discussion of feminist magazines. It was just like being back at school, or maybe just like hanging out with some people. Tortoise and dishes and after they left I helped Rebecca paint her room Lipstick red, an impulse choice that looks spectacular, and makes the room decidedly hers. Nice light-switch plate too. And Alyssa was back to paint some too, while Georgy Harrison crooned "I dig love, I dig love……I love dig, I love dig."
The next morning we woke to a flurry of e-mails and …snow! In appreciable quantities, already having put a coat on the opposing rooftop by our rather late awakening, and enlivening the walk ville-wards. So did Nori's ambush, which pushed Alyssa clear off the sidewalk. Joel had warned us that she might be prowling the area. I successfully obtained eggs, cream, marzipan, green, tartar, a ladle, and a second can of lipstick. Bûche start time was about 2:30, and although it was a glitch-ridden process (the uneven oven rack/oven temperature rendered one corner of the roll burnt and the rest somewhat unsettlingly patchily colored; the first batch of meringue was a flop) the end result satisfied my goal of having it either look good or taste good. People apparently thought it did both. It was rather smaller than usual, due to burnt corner and cookie-sheet substituting for larger jelly roll pan, but appropriate since the only tray I could find was a rather small handled one from 2N (all other cutting boards having been lent to the souplords). I substituted Sunday pants for dishtowel. Nori came in to help with the mushrooms, but other than that I was mostly reclused in the kitchen all day only emerging at the end with the final product, replete with cinnamon holly-berries, lots of marzipan leaves and sprigs (which just happened to match my fingers) and what Allen McBride later praised as fungality, an hour later than the dinner was supposed to start. They (the new flatmate line-up plus sick Allison) were placated by it I think, and so we headed off for the craziness.
It was really quite a charming scene; one long table lined with rice-embedded candles, people like Claire, Roban, Benj, Gabe, Sarah Fritsch, Amanda Cravens, Alana, Jenny, Olivia, Abram, Emily Clough, and so on. Three soups, of which I sampled too (minestrone and poor: the conceptual soup), terrifically chewy zero-sum cookies by log-junkie Amelia (actually, I want your recipe), salad with green dressing, one wine glass which Claire clinked for short-winded toasters. Happiness, more or less. I ladled some soup into tupperware, and then we headed down the block for Christy's birthday party, which turned out to be a full-out Yale House soireé, with all the usual suspects plus some folks I hadn't seen in a while (Adrienne Fowler, Dave Auerbach, Abby Kluchan) and some that I'd never met: Ben Tiven, John Shainin, Matt Schwartz, and Mark Lotto, who along with the ineffable Patrick Conolly form a legendary cohort of like-hairstyled, prep-sweatered, somewhat condescending alleged hipsters, newly involved in a newspaper enterprise. They distributed their first issue (the oversize "Philadelphia Independant") and took control of the stereo (New Pornographers, White Stripes). I engaged Matt (with whom Alyssa apparently has some rocky history) over a bit of the leftover log, and met Mr. Tiven. Elsewhere, I repaid jaguar-pantsed Daniel Sproul, agreed to play accordion, or perhaps even audition, for Tiffany Lennon, and generally chatted about with relative ease.
Sooner or later, I made the trudge back here, with the remaining half-slice of bûche. Cleaned up the evidence of its creation, and even swept. Jackson, Merrit, Simon on the Juno; Alyssa back and unwinding in the kitchen, fitful sleep and journalling. It's drippy now. I haven't figured out how I want to position myself with respect to these worlds of people. For brief stretches yesterday I was feeling in want of an ally. Stuff is going to start. Tomorrow, eh?
we could nick a boat
and sneak off too this island
i could bring my little jhettoblaster
