Dear Diary: Impromptu
Here I was, thinking that I’d be spending the evening alone, when Ms NOLA wrote to ask if I’d like to go to a book party. The upshot of ensuing parlays was that Ms NOLA came to dinner after the book party. Over an impromptu series of small dishes, we spoke of cabbages and kings — stuff far too electrifiying to be discussed in these holy halls. Then Kathleen came home, from a dinner date with an old friend, and Ms NOLA told her the latest news.
I might have gone to the book party if I hadn’t ventured forth on a round of errands in the later afternoon. That a traingular walk — from 86th and Second to 92nd and Madison, down to 82nd and Madison, and hence home — should reduce me to geriatric biliousness is, sadly, no surprise. When I got home, I felt that strange sick feeling that overcomes me on very hot afternoons (but at no other time).
But I rallied, and dinner was interesting when it wasn’t simply tasty. I’ll report on the interesting part later. A lot of the food was purchased last Thursday, for the dinner with Irving’s parents. I’d overbought shamelessly. Among other things, we ate some delicious plums. Well, I did. There was only one of those, I realized ruefully. When I’d gotten over cooing about it, I had a plum of somewhat differerent provenance that Ms NOLA had already tasted. It did, as she said, have a “fermented” edge, quite unlike the utterly sweet and uncomplicated fruit that I’d begun with. If I were a very, very rich person, I would hire somebody just to buy fruit. Have I already told you the story about Lorenza de’ Medici (a famous Italian cook) and Lauren Bacall? The setting was a cooking promo at The Cellar, Macy’s basement kitchen shop. A propos of the dish, Ms Bacall asked, “But wherever do you get such good pears?” A true New Yorker — to which Ms de’ Medici’s truly Tuscan answer was, “Why, from your garden <where else?>.” There’s nothing like a good clash of cultures, is there.
And so to bed…