Dear Diary: Tonans
We had a super storm this evening. It was super for us because we were home — high and dry. I did think about the people who were just getting out of the theatre. The rain was coming down in curtains, like a blizzard, only much noisier — and that without factoring in the operatic thunder and lightning, for which, trust me, no expense was spared. Gigantic lighting bolts were thrust into Astoria as though Bette Davis were stubbing out cigarettes in a fit of pique. It suited my mood down to the ground.
It suited my mood down to the ground because I’d just found out the most incredible thing. I’ll be writing more about this incredible thing in a Portico page that I’ll link to next Monday, but for the moment it’s enough to say earlier in the evening, over dinner, before the storm, I was wondering what in hell I would write about this week’s New Yorker story. This week’s New Yorker story, “Max at Sea,” by Dave Eggers, turns out to be an extract from the novelization of Mr Eggers’s script, with Spike Jonze, of a film adaptation of Maurice Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, didn’t know that when I read the story. I didn’t find out until after dinner.
I was plenty pissed, I don’t mind saying. But that’s all I’m going to say for the time being.
***
We had one of our New Evenings, and it was a great success. As Kathleen left for work this morning (for the printer, actually), she said that she’d be home early, and she asked for a chicken salad. I don’t think that she really wanted a chicken salad, but that’s what does come to mind in a pinch if you have been brought up as Kathleen was. The idea of ordering dinner like a great lady, at the beginning of the day, does not come naturally to my wife. After nearly thirty years of marriage to the likes of me, she still has her Second Mrs de Winter moments.
In the event, Kathleen did make it home very early, and we did have a chicken salad. We had yet another chicken salad that I invented, this time to use up what was on hand, so that I wouldn’t have to go out to buy anything. Here’s how I did it:
I combined about a half cup of mayonnaise with a dash of curry powder, the juice of half a lemon, a quarter teaspoon (or less) of moutarde de Meaux, salt, and the top half of an avocado. Despite the ghastly summer weather that we’ve been having, the avocado was not quite ripe, so I had to process it into the dressing.
To this I added a left-over roast chicken breast — just the one. Cubed, as they say. Also the cubed other half of the avocado. About two dozen green grapes, halved. And a small handful of toasted walnuts.
This yielded just enough for two — such a relief. Frugality is my motto these days. It means making the most of everything, and that, in turn, means “no leftovers,” because Kathleen and I never eat leftovers. The leftover roast chicken breast doesn’t count, because it’s not really a leftover; we wouldn’t eat it at all, except in a salad.
***
Also over dinner, we talked about Mozart’s strep throat,* which soon enough led to (yet) another hearty denunciation of Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus. I used to wish that Mozart would come back to life just to see how neat it is to listen to all his music on the phonograph/cassette player/8 track/CD/Nano. But now I wish that he would write THE opera about being a misunderstood artist. Instead of “Salieri kills Mozart,” we could have “Mozart kills Pushkin/Rimsky/Shaffer.”
* It is taking me a while to adjust to the new Greg Kinnear portrait of Mozart, but I’m working on it. Mozart on CNN, though — it’s weak of me, I know, but I think it’s cool.