Jazzy Friday mornings

I have been meaning to write about my Tuesday night going-away soiree, and will do so over the weekend. En bref, like any weeknight party that ends at 2am with a Madonna dance-off * involving my vintage kid glove collection (best you don't ask or think about that too much, I believe it was while we were all "Vogue'ing"**) the evening was a success. 

I pity those of my friends, i.e. everyone else, who had to go into work a few hours later.  The amount of wine the last few of us polished off during the dancing portion of the evening was roughly equivalent to what the entire group drank during the more civilized eating and chatting portion. 

Oh well. It was the first party I threw at my parents' house, and, if they have their way, the last. 

But a good time was had by all, and I got to spend all of the following day under my duvet reacquainting myself with the holy trinity of hydrating, carbonating, and caffeinating (i.e. the ultimate cure for the morning after usually involving copious amounts of Coke or Sprite, naturally rounded off with starch, grease, and water) . Plus I got to watch the first season of 30 Rock which I had never seen, reaffirming my non-sexual crush on Tina Fey. She is one funny lady. 

While this blog is supposed to be primarily about cuisine, haute, homemade, or otherwise, I can't help but write about the most amazing concert I went to last night at the Michigan Theatre:

Jazz vocalist Kurt Elling doing a concert in honor of the 1963 John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman album. That particular album has lots of good memories for me, mostly of my freshman year roommate at Middlebury an amazing woman with an amazing music collection. I had been a huge Coltrane junkie until that point, but was not familiar with the Johnny Hartman collaboration until Xhingyu turned me on to it. I definitely teared up during more than one tune as I was reminded of smoking out our dorm room window, drinking coffee (me) or tea (her), and listening to music. It was how we spent a good chunk of our time together, over 12 years ago. 

Simply put, the concert was fantastic. The set of musicians included tenor saxophonist Ernie Watts, the Ethel String Quartet, and the Laurence Hobgood Trio. The highlight of the evening was the last performance where our local jazz legend came out to do a trio with Kurt Elling and Ernie Watts. All of them "played" the saxophone, be it literally the case of the Ernie or vocally for the other two. I had never heard male jazz vocal scat, much less imitating and keeping up with a saxophone's riffs. I can only describe it as surreal, fun and energetic, and technically mind-boggling. 

So all in all, a great night ending a great day, and reminding me of why I get a rush while listening to jazz. Jazz is spontaneous creation, no two jazz tunes when improvised sound exactly the same. Each performance is a unique creation of art that only exists in that moment. As a classically trained violinist, the ability to let go of the rigidity of following notes on a sheet of paper, and use a tune to reinvent, recreate and just play with around with is hugely inspirational. Frankly, it is something I've never had the balls to do. Once you leave the safety of the written page, your technique will only get you so far and you really have to trust your own musical instincts as well as those of the people you are playing with. 

But to all of you who might be on his up-coming tour dates, I would highly, highly, highly recommend seeing the show. 

* our dance off was much, much, much better. 

** luckily my vintage black sequined hot-pants collection was at the dry-cleaners, saving us all from what could be very embarrassing photos. . . 

Monday afternoon vices

I was reminded yet again during a phone conversation late last night, just how much I am going to miss my current life of leisure. Poverty aside, there is nothing quite as lovely as going to bed on a late Sunday night, knowing that the only thing you really have to do the following day is go to a doctor's appointment. And buy wine for your Tuesday night party. 

There might be, oh, say 40 items on your to-do-before-move list, but clearly many things are best done at the last minute, in a rushed way. Clearly. Plus, there is something to be said about the joys of a quiet Monday spent buying wine, planning a menu for the following evening's soiree, and watching such cinematic classics as What Happens in Vegas. On a non-food related sidebar, the movie was surprisingly cute, and you can turn your brain off the moment you sit down. Ah joyful life of leisure - how I am going to miss you!

My day of leisure began with an early morning  Hurenfruehstuck, followed by a toasted  Zingermans bagel (the Parmesan and black pepper is by far my favorite) with cream cheese, and then some bulghur pilaf and Swiss chard salad for lunch. All in all pretty healthy. 

And now, I am enjoying one of the few vices that I have. Okay, that's a lie. One of the many, many vices, but food-wise, truly one of the few. I know it is not good for me. And yet, there is that intangible pull it has on my taste buds that I have to enjoy every now and then.*

What is this magic delicacy you might ask yourself? Slices of pata negra served with the baguette flown in from my old bakery? Hand-cut french fries with homemade mayonnaise, raw eggs and all?** A glass of France's finest wine and and some cheeses such as  a generous slice of Morbier rounded off with a nice wedge of Fourme d'Ambert and some Crottin de Chavignol  served with a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape from La Bastide St. Dominique, that my friend Veronique's parents make themselves? 

My own secret vice is a tad more provincial/affordable and very, very mundane: 

A can of ice cold regular Coke.  

If an old fashioned glass bottle is available, you have hit the jackpot, but otherwise it must be in a can and not from a plastic bottle. Certainly not Pepsi, and definitely not Diet Coke, but regular ole' straight-out-of-the-fridge-served-on-ice-with-a-straw Coke. 

Growing up my parents would rarely (if ever) let my brother and I drink soda or eat junk food. In retrospect, it might be a great way to raise children. However at the time, I felt like the weird little girl with the weird name and the weird spinach pie for lunch. Ethnic hadn't quite become "in" until well after I left high school. And no, I am not bitter. 

I have since learned to deal with my inexplicable pull towards Cool Ranch Doritos, which I know really do taste awful and literally chemical. Yet once in a blue moon, just the smell of one brings back a flood of overwhelming childhood memories. I find myself in a frenzied daze either looking down at an empty bowl of chips at at someones party (very, very embarrassing) or a crumbled bag from the vending machine with every drop drained. Fortunately, my friends rarely serve Cool Ranch Doritos, and much like an alcoholic can never drink, so too should I never get near those chips. 

My relationship with Coke is less dysfunctional.  Somehow sweet sweet Coca Cola still has that zing for me and puts me in a good mood every time. It is the ultimate kick of carbonated sugary hydration and caffeine. What could be possibly wrong with that? 

Always Yours. 

*"every now and then" = approximately once a week. 

**  For those of you tsk tsking the addition of mayo to what is already a fatty little treat, let me say you don't know what you are missing. Especially if the fries are just big wedges of British chips doused in salt and vinegar. The Germans have a great saying, "wenn schon, denn schon," meaning if you're going to do it, you might as well do it all the way. Which might be one way of summing up both my Weltanschauung as well as recent diagnosis of hypertension. Hence the reduction of food-vices. 

*** Does anyone else find it fantastic that French AOC cheeses all have their own website? Surely there are better ways one could spend one's time then to browse such websites, yet only in France would they value their terroir as much, and you have to give them credit for not letting their food culture be swept up in a wave of global trends.