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The sun's been known to shine on our wandering kind
The sweet potatoes were baked for an hour this afternoon, microwaved another fifteen minutes after that (because they had been listening, clearly, to the Scheherazade pie), and then puréed with maple syrup, coconut milk, chipotles that had been soaking in water since eight o'clock in the morning, and cinnamon, and if you will not take my word that they came out deliciously, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel was my co-chef and we were kind of fighting over the spatula as the last of the purée was scraped out of the Cuisinart into the serving bowl. It was the last dish to be finished before the meal—as in, my mother had to call us up from ransacking the record collection to deal with it before the turkey could come out of the oven—and I should remember it in future, because it was a lot less dicing-intensive than the squash gratin (which I am pleased with, but it was the kind of dish where the squash is steaming while the garlic and shallots are softening in the olive oil and I'm chopping the parsley and sage to stir in with the cream and the two kinds of Swiss cheese I have to grate next) and there is a lot less left of it right now. The pumpkin pie that took forever is apparently the best we've made in years. Of the two apple pies, the disaster pie—the crust collapsed and the apples underneath started to dry out, so I dumped half a bottle of Halloween spiced cider in through the broken pastry and gave it up for lost—naturally turned out the far superior, to the point where I feel vaguely guilty about serving the other one first. And then somehow we also had zucchini rolls and two kinds of stuffing and spanakopita and my brother brought over an extra skewer of bacon-wrapped shrimp from his Thanksgiving dinner hosting his wife's family and there is a lot of food in this house, I thought it was going to be a low-key sort of cooking year and I think somebody missed the memo. Possibly me. I regret nothing, especially the sweet potatoes.
Or the rest of the day. This was a good Thanksgiving. I don't mean that all the food was done on time and nobody had fights with anybody else, although these things are true. I mean that I slept till half past noon and dreamed about being shown around the backstage of Sesame Street about twenty-five years ago, which was pure conjecture on the part of my brain. My cousin Tristen is spending the holiday with his father in Vermont, but his grandparents—my aunt and uncle—are staying through Saturday and enthused very loudly over the football game, which seems to have been epic. My brother had a work week from hell and in-laws from noon onward and still came for dinner, not just a dessert flyby. We listened to "Alice's Restaurant." (About half of it in live stereo, because of Rob.) It was the first Thanksgiving with neither of my grandparents living and we toasted those present and those in memory. It just all worked.
Have a stupidly adorable photograph of Peter Cushing and his wife Helen courtesy ofhandful_ofdust. I am, quite contentedly, going to bed.
P.S. Oh, there's even new preview Lackadaisy. I am thankful for Tracy Butler.
derspatchel was my co-chef and we were kind of fighting over the spatula as the last of the purée was scraped out of the Cuisinart into the serving bowl. It was the last dish to be finished before the meal—as in, my mother had to call us up from ransacking the record collection to deal with it before the turkey could come out of the oven—and I should remember it in future, because it was a lot less dicing-intensive than the squash gratin (which I am pleased with, but it was the kind of dish where the squash is steaming while the garlic and shallots are softening in the olive oil and I'm chopping the parsley and sage to stir in with the cream and the two kinds of Swiss cheese I have to grate next) and there is a lot less left of it right now. The pumpkin pie that took forever is apparently the best we've made in years. Of the two apple pies, the disaster pie—the crust collapsed and the apples underneath started to dry out, so I dumped half a bottle of Halloween spiced cider in through the broken pastry and gave it up for lost—naturally turned out the far superior, to the point where I feel vaguely guilty about serving the other one first. And then somehow we also had zucchini rolls and two kinds of stuffing and spanakopita and my brother brought over an extra skewer of bacon-wrapped shrimp from his Thanksgiving dinner hosting his wife's family and there is a lot of food in this house, I thought it was going to be a low-key sort of cooking year and I think somebody missed the memo. Possibly me. I regret nothing, especially the sweet potatoes.Or the rest of the day. This was a good Thanksgiving. I don't mean that all the food was done on time and nobody had fights with anybody else, although these things are true. I mean that I slept till half past noon and dreamed about being shown around the backstage of Sesame Street about twenty-five years ago, which was pure conjecture on the part of my brain. My cousin Tristen is spending the holiday with his father in Vermont, but his grandparents—my aunt and uncle—are staying through Saturday and enthused very loudly over the football game, which seems to have been epic. My brother had a work week from hell and in-laws from noon onward and still came for dinner, not just a dessert flyby. We listened to "Alice's Restaurant." (About half of it in live stereo, because of Rob.) It was the first Thanksgiving with neither of my grandparents living and we toasted those present and those in memory. It just all worked.
Have a stupidly adorable photograph of Peter Cushing and his wife Helen courtesy of
handful_ofdust. I am, quite contentedly, going to bed.P.S. Oh, there's even new preview Lackadaisy. I am thankful for Tracy Butler.
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Dream well.
Nine
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You know, it kind of was.
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According to Patchen, there are versions of it that are even longer and weirder.
P.S. Oh, there's even new preview Lackadaisy. I am thankful for Tracy Butler.
That...is epic. And very creepy in parts.
I also am grateful for Tracy Butler. (And, I guess, Verisilius.)
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There's "The Massacree Revisited," a twenty-ninth anniversary version in which the original song is speculated to have filled the famous eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap in the Nixon tapes; we have it on CD somewhere around the house (as opposed to the original vinyl Alice's Restaurant (1967), which I rummaged out of the stationary closet yesterday afternoon and is still sitting on top of the turntable). I am aware of the existence of other live versions, but I'm not sure I've heard any of them, although I might recognize random fragments if played.
That...is epic. And very creepy in parts.
I am similarly impressed by sabertooth Viktor and Nazgûl Mordecai.
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I heard Arlo Guthrie do that version, or one very like it, live, sometime round 1990 or 1991, I think. He said something about how he'd been refusing to sing the song for years and years; my father, who doesn't get these things, thought it was rude of him to have not sung it when requested.
It was a good rendition, and the new bits were very appropriate, although I'd suppose if one were talking recordings, rather than live, since I'd always pick the one that's there in the moment, that if I had to make a choice I'd pick the original 1967 version I grew up with.
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This morning I had a really demented dream in which you and Lila were asking me to memorialize a female comics artist who had very recently died under dicey circumstances. So I was going back over as much of her work as I could get hold of, and realized I'd read almost all of it even though initially I hadn't been able to recognize her name. Then I woke up, and thought: "Wait a minute...that art was by George Perez." (The stories and content were very different, though--far darker.)
The Lackadaisy preview makes me pleasantly antsy, though I'm trying to keep it under control. Damn you and your having-to-make-money ways, Ms. Butler!
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Thank you. It really was good.
This morning I had a really demented dream in which you and Lila were asking me to memorialize a female comics artist who had very recently died under dicey circumstances. So I was going back over as much of her work as I could get hold of, and realized I'd read almost all of it even though initially I hadn't been able to recognize her name. Then I woke up, and thought: "Wait a minute...that art was by George Perez."
That's kind of great. I dreamed about
Damn you and your having-to-make-money ways, Ms. Butler!
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I'm glad the holiday went well--big holidays always have such a lurking potential for discomfort, and those that fall after a big loss have their own special stresses. Congratulations on successful sweet potatoes.
Is it just me, or does Cushing, at that angle, have a certain resemblance to a bearded Tom Hiddleston?
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Thank you! I take them as metonymy.
Is it just me, or does Cushing, at that angle, have a certain resemblance to a bearded Tom Hiddleston?
. . . is not just you.
(He also resembles slightly a friend of mine from college, which I was not expecting.)
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I've never known anyone who was in a position to confirm from personal experience (so I think that's wonderful), but everything I have ever read about him agrees. It makes me happy.
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I'm not sure I'd actually seen any photos of her before
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...dreamed about being shown around the backstage of Sesame Street about twenty-five years ago, which was pure conjecture on the part of my brain.
Interesting dream. Do you by any chance remember if it was realistic conjecture or surreal?
We listened to "Alice's Restaurant." (About half of it in live stereo, because of Rob.)
Coolness. I used to know the better part of the words of that off by heart; it was on one of the tapes that was always in the car when I was a kid. Not sure if I still do. Should give it a listen, in any event.
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It was relatively realist, allowing for Muppets, but I very much doubt anything like the actual backstage of the show. It's not exactly an environment I know.
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Indeed; I'm in much the same position.
I was mainly wondering if it was the sort of scenario where the Muppets weren't puppets operated by human beings, but were actors themselves. Yourself being introduced to Mr. Oscar T. Grouch, who when he's not on the soundstage in his ashcan wears bespoke Italian suits, that sort of thing.
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No, that's Greg the Bunny. There were puppeteers in the dream.
(The Italian suits are a nice detail.)
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I knew there had been a show on that theme, but I'd not been able to remember what it was actually called.
Ah, well, puppeteers are interesting as well.*
(The Italian suits are a nice detail.)
Thank you!
*Reportedly UConn has one of the top puppetry programmes in the country. I know this mainly because an old co-worker of mine** had to take a day off at the site in order to attend a hearing as a result of his having thrown water balloons at a puppetry major whom, according to him, he'd mistaken for a friend of his who would have taken it as a friendly prank and responded in kind.
**We were digging up a farm outbuilding which we eventually worked out had been a forge from sometime in the 19th century and had been demolished sometime in the 50s.
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I can recommend it. I would be surprised if there is any disaster pie left by now at all.
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It was very heartening, since my last couple of dreams before that had been unbelievably mundane things like stealing a very comfortable sweater one of my lovers wears.