Red Velvet
I have finally been able to eliminate one major item from my to-do list: I have chosen the date and location of my second Bon Voyage party.
I get how people might not understand just what an accomplishment this is, but trust me: I am taking my victories where I find them at this point. I mean, seriously--I just checked my computer's calendar, and all this is getting just a little...close.
Anyway. Last night, Andrea introduced me to a fabulous newish bar with cheap and excellent drinks, space for a party, and a completely acceptable noise level. Plus, the bartender was French.
Actually, I need to take a minute to address that. Suddenly it turns out that everyone is French. My supervisor at my real job, I just discovered, was born there. "French is my mother tongue," she said. "Could you not hear my accent?" I checked around to make sure that I wasn't going crazy, and everyone agrees that while there is obviously something unusual about her speech, it does not remotely resemble a French accent. I mean--not even a little. Not even now that I know. But it's been a year and a half; how did I not know?
Mary's now-ex boss, who called me about the dream job a few weeks ago, was raised in France as well. And now this bartender. I know you notice something more when it is relevant to you, but is there anyone in this country who is not fluent in French?
"And we're right across from Buttercup!" Andrea realized at a certain point. She called it fate, since it has been her favorite forever and I have never actually been, although as it turns out I have had their work before--Andrea, do you remember when you rode to Boston with us, and brought us cupcakes? I had red velvet then, too, which makes this the third time, because the first was at Cliff's birthday party a few years back, when I was running on fumes and ended up falling asleep in a chair.
I woke up to a young man staring at me. "I feel like I should tell you," he said. "You have red velvet cake in your hair." And Nick, my dear, that was the man who was later called "smarmy," and paved the way for that fateful conversation in which Mary half-jokingly announced that you would be perfect for me. So, Nick, our relationship really began when someone brushed by me (because logistically it had to have happened that way, I swear) carrying a slice of red velvet cake.
My cupcake is now sitting on my coffee table as a kind of a promise. I have some baking to do, now, and it is well past time to get started. But if I do it tonight, then tomorrow all I have to do is roll out of bed, pick up a bit, and wait until people arrive to start eating my own signature dessert, which, while far simpler than it seems, carries an element of danger that I feel surpasses that of the cupcake. That cupcake, though, is what will keep me going: I refuse to put it back in the refrigerator, and I refuse to eat it before the batter and ice cream are done.
And I will certainly not go to sleep with it just sitting there. I have learned my lesson.
I get how people might not understand just what an accomplishment this is, but trust me: I am taking my victories where I find them at this point. I mean, seriously--I just checked my computer's calendar, and all this is getting just a little...close.
Anyway. Last night, Andrea introduced me to a fabulous newish bar with cheap and excellent drinks, space for a party, and a completely acceptable noise level. Plus, the bartender was French.
Actually, I need to take a minute to address that. Suddenly it turns out that everyone is French. My supervisor at my real job, I just discovered, was born there. "French is my mother tongue," she said. "Could you not hear my accent?" I checked around to make sure that I wasn't going crazy, and everyone agrees that while there is obviously something unusual about her speech, it does not remotely resemble a French accent. I mean--not even a little. Not even now that I know. But it's been a year and a half; how did I not know?
Mary's now-ex boss, who called me about the dream job a few weeks ago, was raised in France as well. And now this bartender. I know you notice something more when it is relevant to you, but is there anyone in this country who is not fluent in French?
"And we're right across from Buttercup!" Andrea realized at a certain point. She called it fate, since it has been her favorite forever and I have never actually been, although as it turns out I have had their work before--Andrea, do you remember when you rode to Boston with us, and brought us cupcakes? I had red velvet then, too, which makes this the third time, because the first was at Cliff's birthday party a few years back, when I was running on fumes and ended up falling asleep in a chair.
I woke up to a young man staring at me. "I feel like I should tell you," he said. "You have red velvet cake in your hair." And Nick, my dear, that was the man who was later called "smarmy," and paved the way for that fateful conversation in which Mary half-jokingly announced that you would be perfect for me. So, Nick, our relationship really began when someone brushed by me (because logistically it had to have happened that way, I swear) carrying a slice of red velvet cake.
My cupcake is now sitting on my coffee table as a kind of a promise. I have some baking to do, now, and it is well past time to get started. But if I do it tonight, then tomorrow all I have to do is roll out of bed, pick up a bit, and wait until people arrive to start eating my own signature dessert, which, while far simpler than it seems, carries an element of danger that I feel surpasses that of the cupcake. That cupcake, though, is what will keep me going: I refuse to put it back in the refrigerator, and I refuse to eat it before the batter and ice cream are done.
And I will certainly not go to sleep with it just sitting there. I have learned my lesson.
posted by Caroline | 2/10/2007 03:31:00 AM
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