"Excuse me, but is this vegan?"
I drank too much wine last night. I ate too much cake, and too much food in general. I stayed up too late and had too much caffeine. So how come the amount of fun I had was just right?
The boyfriend and I threw a small dinner party last night. Because I love to cook, I enjoy the preparation of dinner parties sometimes more than the event itself (which wasn’t the case last night, but I’ll admit I’ve sweated over a meal for days only to provide it to its intended guests, then wished I could hide upstairs with some hummus and carrot sticks and original Star Trek.)
Catering provided by Play-doh
Last night’s meal consisted of curried vegetable pasties, asparagus with nutmeg hollandaise, and a raspberry-chocolate flourless cake with homemade whipped cream. Naked ladies dancing with abandon beneath a decaying Sun*. I was most proud of the cake. You know how sometimes you’ll taste a dessert and you immediately feel that you’re doing something so wrong but it feels so right? I guess the word is sinful. You’re stomach screams “This is blasphemy!” but your taste-buds whimper, “Do it again…!” (If you’re interested, I’ve included the recipe below.)
I’m a bachelor this week – so to speak. Emotionally I am in love and committed to the boyfriend, but as he is in the Great Country of Texas for the next week, I am functioning as single. As much as I miss him, I do get to indulge in certain activities I would otherwise not.
For starters, I can safely wear wife-beaters without incurring any catty remarks about my “smacking my girlfriend around” or needing to go out and “fix my bike”. I like to pair my wife-beaters with basketball shorts and hair un-brushed to the point where I look like a White Panther. A half-empty bottle of Bud Light would really complete the look, but I’m no fashion sheep.
On the runways of Paris this summer.
Speaking of alcohol, when alone I get to drink wine my most favorite way: straight from the bottle. It looks awful. It looks trashy, debaucherous, and to outside eyes would seem like a red flag signaling the starting race towards alcoholism – but I don’t drink any more from a bottle than I would a glass, plus this way I get so much more oxygen with each sip, thus facilitating a burst of flavor and heightening all the complexities and subtle nuances a bottle of Charles Shaw has to offer. Also, it’s one less glass to wash, which means it’s greener. Drinking wine straight from the bottle helps trees and future generations of children!
Call it a survival kit.
The boyfriend is out of town this week, enjoying* the chilly dewiness of Portland, Oregon. (I wish I was with him – I get hungry just thinking about Portland, with all its easily accessible, diet-vanquishing, culinary goodness. Plus there’s a lot of hella rad folks who live there, and while I normally loathe good food and great people, something about the air there makes me all for it.)
I love my boyfriend, and I never find myself wishing he was gone; all the same, I cherish these times when it’s just me and the cats. It’s not that the boyfriend keeps me from doing anything, per se, but self-respect keeps me from behaving certain ways in his presence.
For example, alone, I do nothing with my hair other than washing it. The result is a blond afro which effectively doubles the size of my already-capacious noggin. I wear a wife-beater constantly – something that never fails to get me not laid in this house – and if it’s too cold, I simply toss a hoodie over the wife-beater. That’s fashion, kids.
The cover for my new album, Save Auntie
Perhaps it is due to the holidays, possibly because we’re in Paris, but we seem to be constantly raising our wine goblets high, toasting to a helluva lot of people, places and things. Needless to say, we’ve also been drinking a lot of wine, very good wine. Inevitably during the course of a meal, especially a holiday meal, several choice bottles are opened, glasses refilled and then refilled again.