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  • Home for the Holidays

    Well, for starters, be sure to peruse our January issue. We had ourselves some fun with this one, so … enjoy.

    We’ve also had some teriffic online exclusives lately. If you haven’t already done so, be sure to check out John Ervin’s "Higher Than Fi" and Ann Bauer’s "Scientology: The Local Source" and "Keeping the Faith" — actually, Ann has had some fabulous blog posts as well, so don’t miss out on those. And if you haven’t checked out our new guest blog, Just Passing Through, be sure to do so. Rich Goldsmith is wrapping up this week, and we’ll have some great urban images from Taylor Carik next week.

    Now… assuming you’re not going to spend all weekend reading The Rake website…

    FESTIVAL
    Drumming and Dancing and Fire, Oh My!

    What better excuse is there to play with fire then to celebrate the winter solstice on the darkest day of the year? Join the Cedar Cultural Center’s celebration of this Pagan holiday with a drumming, dancing, fiery jam. Come at 6:30 p.m. and learn how to juggle with Mr. Fun from Mystik Toyz. The fire dancing begins at 8 p.m. — complete with batons, poi, devil sticks fire juggling, and fire fingers, fans and wand numbers. Many local drumming guests will be led by world percussionist Robin "Adnan" Anders and his group Boiled to Lead. If you’ve been in the Twin Cities any time during the past twenty years, you’ll have heard of them. —Kate McDonald

    Friday at 6:30 p.m. Cedar Cultural Center, 416 Cedar Ave. S. Minneapolis; 612-338-2674; $10, children free.

    DANCE
    Crying Babies All the Way! This Ain’t No Regular Ballet!

    Crying babies and restless toddlers are welcome and wanted at a special performance of the James Sewell Company’s ballet Amahl and the Night Visitors.
    This child-friendly performance on Saturday morning will be short, and
    the lights will remain on. Dubbed “First Chance Dance,” the experience
    is meant for the youngest of ballet enthusiasts and includes a pre-show
    in the lobby with live model dioramas that will show scenes of
    multi-culture giving traditions. —Kate McDonald

    Saturday at 11 a.m., The O’Shaughnessy at the College of St. Catherine, 2004 Randolph Ave., St. Paul; 651-690-6700; $10.


    MUSIC
    Heiruspecs for Homegrown Hip-Hop

    Gotta love the homegrown hip-hop. It’s hard to believe that Heiruspecs has been around long enough for a ten-year anniversary show and subsequent album release concert, but this group has been a favorite on the local scene since their early beginnings at Central High School, in St. Paul. Their show on Saturday will also feature performance by Power Struggle & The Show Is The Rainbow. —Kate McDonald

    Saturday at 5 p.m., The Turf Club, 1601 University Ave., St. Paul; 651-647-0486; $10. —Kate McDonald

    Matthew Santos Comes Home

    I get a lot of emails and PR kits for upcoming events now. That’s no surprise. Still, I try to pick the most promising events, regardless of how hard I have to dig for them. Sometimes, though.. sometimes… a PR person leaves an impression. I’m not saying this show isn’t promising — quite the opposite, in fact — but I just have to send some kudos out to this incredible woman whose enthusiasm and obvious commitment to the band became contagious. So, let’s welcome home another Minneapolis native. Matthew Santos is playing this weekend at the Fine Line, and this is no small potatoes. While Santos is best known for his collaborations with other well-known (and even Grammy-nominated) musicians, this weekend’s gig will be a solo performance, so we can fully appreciate the real deal. (See the full line-up here.)

    9 p.m., Fine Line Music Cafe, 318 1st Ave N, Minneapolis, 612-338-8100; $7.

    COMEDY
    The Comics Come Crawlin’ Home

    Comics who have abandoned Minnesota for the more humorous-centric states of our nation are coming home for the holidays, and Bryant Lake Bowl is reaping the benefits this Sunday. Their annual show will feature Casey Feigh, Matthew Sullivan, Lizzy Cooperman, Maggie Faris, Andy Ritchie, Johnny Pemberton and Hugh Moore — proving that they remember their Minnesota-nice roots enough to put on a hometown show even after they have hit the big time.

    Sunday at 7 & 9:30 p.m., Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949; $20.

  • Talk Radio for Women

    So what do you get when you take a huge risk on launching a female-oriented FM talk radio station back in June of 2002?

    You get blackjack!!!!!!

    When Todd Fisher first told me that Hubbard Broadcasting was going to launch a new talk-radio format…. I was elated! Finally, a well-respected family-owned business was going to put their money into a venture ridiculed by so many people in the world of broadcasting. Guess who’s laughing now… I hope the Hubbard Family!

    If this company went public I would invest in a heartbeat!!!!

    Well, it’s almost 2008, and I, for one, want to say "Congratulations" to anyone out there that followed a dream despite skepticism from advertisers and derision from program directors.

    Let’s start with Lori and Julia, who are not only sisters-in-law but also business partners in a company called Body Perks, whose nipple enhancers have been worn by Samantha on Sex in the City.

    To purchase Bodyperks go here. Do not go out and buy knock-offs of these little jewels, because Lori and Julia deserve to reap the financial rewards of THEIR invention!

    So, these two sisters-in-law pitch a show to Ginny Morris, and — with the help of Donny Michaels (who looks great working with a mostly female staff) — the LoJo Show has become a hit.

    Why? Well, although Lori and Julia are not trained radio personalities, they are two strong woman that are not afraid to share their opinions on everything from sex to politics. I have watched Julia transform from an overalls girl (she was wearing overalls the first day I met her) to a Hot Mama, and Lori, who was a successful corporate executive with Carlson Travels, became another Hot Mama that has been told she looks like Sharon Stone.

    Donny? Well, you would think he would have a few more wrinkles from working with these two crazy gals, but instead he has turned into a metro-sexual dad who looks great in Pink!!!!!

    So, why is FM 107.1 so successful? Here is my opinion, as someone who has spent years in radio:

    When you have a line up like this… how can you go wrong?!

    Ian and Margery — 5:00-9:00 A.M.
    This real-life married couple — who are actually married in real life — always have something fun to say about each other, as if they were newlyweds.

    The Kevyn Burger Show     — 9:00-11:00 A.M.
    Kevyn is a self proclaimed cheapskate that has recently braved her Breast Cancer Diagnosis with humor and courage. Kevyn could have pulled the sheets over her head and battled this fight privately, but instead she dealt with it head on and has found a loving husband to support her through everything.

    The Colleen Kruse Show — 11:00 A.M.-1:00 P.M.
    Rake columnist Colleen Kruse started out working with the multi-talented Andrew Zimmern, but has gone on to prove that it’s not just her great taste in shoes bringing her success — it’s her mindful stories on being a super-hip Mom with moxie.

    The Stephanie Hansen Show — 1:00-3:00 P.M.
    I worked with Stephanie years ago, when I was on the KS95 morning show and Stephanie worked in sales. I always thought this woman was too opinionated and sarcastic to be in sales. She needed her own show, and by gosh she now has it!!!

    Lori and Julia — 3:00-6:00 P.M.
    I have no doubt the LoJo show will go into syndication, because Lori and Julia are not afraid to put themselves on the line, be self-deprecating, and most important, have the confidence and gift for gab that it takes to pull off a national radio show! Lori and Julia also have regularly name specific stores, items, and movies they like, and — much to the delight of the sales department — their recommendations have so much clout that it’s not unusual for a store to sell out of an item that has earned the LOJO stamp of approval.

    Now, I don’t have the time to spotlight all of the FM 107 shows, but I do want to highlight a few more radio personalities with whom I have been lucky to work:

    Colleen Lindstrom — who filled in for two weeks as a producer for Lino Rulli and I with a big smile and a bucket full of sunshine, even at 4:30 A.M. Colleen is now a part of the Get Real Girls Show, which airs from 8:00-10:00 AM on Saturday mornings.

    Joan Steffend and Liv Lane — who also contribute their opinions on everything from marriage and raising kids to decorating tips. Liv is also married to my producer, Brad Lane. My husband and I have purchased several pieces of furniture from Joan’s sales, therefore I am a bit prejudice. 🙂

    Alexis Walsko and Allison Kaplan — from Shop Girls, which airs from 10:00-noon on Saturdays. Both of these woman know the best places in town to shop, and I have to give a shout out to Alexis, who not only looks like a young Marilyn Monroe, but is a blast to party with.

    Last but not least, Jason Mathison, from FOX 9, is now going to have a show on FM 107. Not only does Jason do the best impression of Jack from Will and Grace, he is a fantastic entertainment reporter, who… unlike most people who cover entertainment… is the real deal with a heart of diamonds and gold!!

    Now you have my take on why FM 107 has no where to go but up up and away, and I want to wish a sincere congratulations to the shows I have been able to hear and enjoy and the shows that I look forward to hearing and enjoying.

    For more information go to FM107.1 — Living Life Out Loud.

  • Where to Dine on New Year's Eve – Part I

    Monday night is cheap date night at the Bryant Lake Bowl –
    two soups or salads, two entrees, a bottle of wine, and two lines of bowling
    for $28. And since New Years Eve happens to fall on a Monday, they are offering
    a Not So Cheap Date Night – the same deal for $32, but with better than usual
    entrees and wine, and tablecloths on the table. They don’t take reservations
    for dinner, but you can guarantee yourself a seat if you reserve tickets for
    the Scrimshaw New Years Eve Spectacular, performed at 7 and 10:30 at the BLB
    Theater. The show, by perennial Fringe Festival favorites the Scrimshaw
    Brothers    , is billed as "comedy,
    music, dance, special surprise guests, and more broken resolutions than you can
    shake a Scrimshaw at!" The full BLB menu is available in the theater.
    There are some risks attached to sitting in the dark in a theater full of
    people who are eating and laughing at the same time, but heck, New Years Eve is
    the night to live on the edge. Showtimes are 7 p.m. and 10:30 p.m., and tickets
    are $20, or $15 with a Fringe Festival button. You can reserve tickets online by going to the BLB website, or by calling 612-825-8949.

    Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis, 612-825-3737.

    At BLB’s sister restaurant, Barbette, new executive chef
    Sarah Master is raising the gastronomic level a notch or two with a selection
    of a la carte New Years Eve specials such as bison carpaccio with arugela and shaved pecorino ($9), red deer with cherry-vanilla demi-glace, glazed vegetables
    and mustard spaetzle ($27), and
    butter-poached lobster with asparagus, tarragon potato cakes and caviar crème
    fraiche ($35).

    Barbette, 1600 W. Lake St., Minneapolis, 612-827-5710.

    The very romantic Grand Café is offering a six-course prix
    fixe menu for $65, and a modified version for vegetarians for $10 less. The
    structure of the menus is the same, but the vegetarian agnolotti are stuffed
    with celeriac, while the carnivores get foie gras; the seafood course of diver
    scallops with lobster sauce is replaced by polenta with sweet carrot sauce, and
    while the meat eaters get with a potato and cepe pave, the vegetarians get the
    potato and cepe pave without accompanying animal flesh.

    Grand Cafe Minneapolis, 3804 Grand Ave. S., Minneapolis, 612-822-8260.

    Creating a menu that combines the spirit of a Northeast
    tavern with the structure of a five-course $65 French prix fixe menu isn’t easy, but the chef
    at the Sample Room has risen to the challenge: the first course offers choices
    such as country pate en croute with Cumberland sauce, (in lieu of meatloaf),
    and performing the role of bratwurst, a house-made maple chicken sausage.
    Entrees choices include a beef tenderloin, chicken breast stuffed with
    prosciutto, and striped sea bass with sautéed spinach and walnut butter sauce,
    but also a tavern classic – roast breast of turkey with brown gravy and butternut
    squash puree.

    The Sample Room, 2124 Marshall St. N.E., Minneapolis, 612-789-0333.

  • One Curmudgeon's Opinion: The Ten Best Films of 2007

    Ah, year’s end: the time to reflect on the bounty that was the 2007 movie year. There were many truly great films, one that I would actually call a classic, scores of excellent documentaries, and even a bunch of major studio flicks that are actually worth watching and only missed this collection by a hair (I’m thinking Sweeney Todd and Juno–which was the fruit of a major studio).

    Sadly, the Oscars are going to ignore some of the best, and it’s becoming apparent that, for the third year in a row, the Academy is going to ignore the finest performance by a male lead for the third year in a row. In ’05 no one, in my mind, was better than Jeff Daniels in The Squid and The Whale: a brutally honest portrayal of a man falling apart in his career and his watching his sons desert him. In ’06, Toby Jones was Truman Capote in Infamous (showing us both the joy and the despair of being Truman). That film was utterly destroyed by the inferior Capote a year earlier. This year, Tommy Lee Jones was perfect in the deeply flawed In the Valley of Elah. His examination of a soldier coming to grips with the death of his son–and, in essence, his faith in his country and the military that ostensibly protects it–was simply magnificent. Since he didn’t even get a Golden Globe nomination, there’s not a junebug’s chance on a windshield that Jones’ll get any recognition.

    Sadly, this was also a year that saw some of the finer big-budget films fall to the wayside, as garbage like 300 and Wild Hogs raked in the dough over Grindhouse and Zodiac. But them’s the breaks, I suppose.

    Without further bloviating, here’s my favorite from the year:

    10. Grindhouse One of the battiest and most enjoyable three hours you could spend in a theater. Real grindhouse fare is only fun if you’re dead drunk or stoned, and even then it’s damned tedious. Directors Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino know this, and made a pair of crack films that stand up to repeated viewing. The fake trailers, fake blood, awesome car chases and sexy chicks made Grindhouse a barrel of fun. Why Miramax didn’t release this in the summer–and during the drive-in theater season–is beyond me.

    9. INLAND EMPIRE Yes, it is supposed to be in all-caps. David Lynch’s most bizarre film (and that’s saying a hell of a lot), INLAND EMPIRE bookends his masterpiece Mulholland Dr. as the most thorough and damning examination of the nightmare that is Hollywood, the devourer of dreams (and dreamers).

    8. My Kid Could Paint That Sad, beautiful, and the most thought-provoking documentary of the year. Amir Bar-Lev’s little film about four-year-old Marla Olmstead, who may or may not have painted giant abstract paintings that have sold for many hundreds of thousands of dollars. Some people walk away from My Kid Could Paint That convinced Marla painted these, more come away feeling like her parents are charlatans. But everyone comes away conflicted about the nature of modern art, child rearing, and their own complicity in Marla’s damaging fame. Watch it with your children for an even more complex experience.

    7. Brand Upon the Brain! Read my review here. A wonderful film. I doubt fifty people saw this thing when it was in town. Soon to arrive on DVD, but where?

    6. Killer of Sheep Shot in 1977 in the Watts district of Los Angeles, and suppressed for these thirty years because director Charles Burnett had never secured the rights of the songs in the film. Worth the wait: Killer of Sheep is an unsparing look at the vicissitudes of poverty, how adults try to maintain their dignity and children try to find joy in the midst of such despair. Utterly heartbreaking.

    5. The Lives of Others This tale of an East German Stasi officer who finally becomes a human being was made even more poignant with the death of its star, the great Ulrich Muhe, who died this last spring from stomach cancer. No doubt he was suffering when the film was being made. A wonderful movie about the power of art to wreck the calculating evil of the state.

    4. Great World of Sound This sweet, melancholy little comedy never made it to Minneapolis–it’s amazing that the damn thing ever saw the light of day. Less a comedy than a thorough and uncompromising look at the life of snake-oil salesmen: in this case, losers with the Great World of Sound company, a so-called recording studio whose one goal is to fleece aspiring musicians. The director, Craig Zobel, could have taken the easy route and made the myriad auditions of amateur singers into fodder for cheap laughs or American Idol parody. But no one in Great World of Sound gets off easily, though everyone–even the rip-off artists–emerge with their dignity intact. A fascinating movie, less funny than moving, and anchored with a wonderful performance by Kene Holliday. When this finally hits DVD, put it at the top of your NetFlix queue.

    3. There Will Be Blood (opens at the Uptown on January 4) As epic and weird as Moby-Dick, Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood is bound to be a big, fat flop, box-office wise. The story of an oil man who inherits a son, meets a mad evangelist, and, of course, strikes oil and sticks it to both the major corporations and, in a sense, God. The insane ending is making everyone fidget, the movie is long, uncomfortable, filled with disagreeable characters who look as if they’re going to rip one another’s heads off, and has a screeching soundtrack reminiscent of Stravinsky‘s most disturbing work. This is one strange masterpiece that will haunt you for days.

    2. Zodiac Sadly, no one knew quite what to do with this movie. Zodiac looked like another great serial-killer thriller from David Fincher, the guy who gave us Seven, and the studios tried their level best to market it as such. But it’s far from a bloody slasher: Zodiac is instead a movie about frustration, about paranoia, and its nearly three hours leave you exhausted. And that’s great. The story of the men–police officers, journalists, and even a political cartoonist–who tried desperately to catch California’s Zodiac killer, and lost their lives (figuratively) doing so. These men are obsessives, following one lousy lead after another, and the movie does the same. Fincher’s direction
    is perfect, as obsessed with detail as the detectives who must search every nook, cranny, and dust mote at the scene.

    1. Ratatouille In reviewing Evan Almighty, The Onion brought up an interesting point: "Historically, throwing money at a comedy has never made it funnier, because there’s nothing more cost-effective than a joke, and nothing more ruinous than a spectacle trampling all over it." However, I can think of two exceptions to that rule: The General, Buster Keaton’s Civil War comedy that used the spectacle of soldiers, cannons, and a train crashing into a river to great comic effect (and could not do without it). But in sending a real locomotive crashing into the drink, Keaton made The General the most expensive silent film of all time, and might have ended his career. Then there’s Ratatouille. Now, Ratatouille’s budget, well over a hundred million dollars, is not so much the result of spectacle, but the cost of labor. See, this isn’t the 1930s, and you can’t hire animators to make a cartoon that’s as good or better than Snow White and Pinocchio and pay them in pennies, dirt, and empty promises the way Uncle Walt used to.

    But I digress. Ratatouille is sweet to look at, and could be the finest animated movie in history. Look at that kitchen–the reflections in the copper kettles, the crumbs under the stove, the way the marble steps are worn out just so. You could stare at the far corner of the screen, away from the action, and get an eyeful of rich detail. Director Brad Bird moves his camera through this crowded kitchen with the dexterity of Keaton leaping through windows and ladders. Ratatouille works on so many levels: the film is a feast of good humor, rich characterization, with a witty script and dynamite direction. It is slapstick and screwball mixed together (one is violence, the other sex), and is a touching examination of the sticky relationship between artists and critics. The vocal talent is spot-on, Patton Oswalt simply perfect as Remy, the rat who so yearns to cook that he’ll risk his life. Of course you should watch this delight with a child: the stuff they won’t get they’ll ache to understand, and maybe, just maybe, you can get that picky eater to chow on the titular–and vegetarian!–dish.

    Once again I have to gripe: Ratatouille garnered rave reviews across the board, and yet critics have seemed squirmish to place this on their year-end lists. Why? Cartoons don’t rate? Children’s films don’t rate? Rest assured, Ratatouille, which deserves every Oscar and accolade there is, will instead get its sole nomination in the Best Animated Feature category, along with Bee Movie and other lousy fare (even Persepolis, which will probably be nominated for Best Foreign Language Film, will be spared that indignity). I guess it doesn’t matter. Ratatouille ranks up there with the greats: His Girl Friday, Bringing Up Baby, and Sullivan’s Travels to name a few. All of which were ignored by critics and academies as well.

  • Balls of Bourbon

    Been a bit boozy lately, haven’t I?

    Well, it is the season of holiday parties, family gatherings, and all manner of cold-weather frolic that can be greatly enhanced by hot cocoa with a "bump"…

    It’s Nana’s fault.

    The old girl was a former society debutante who started smoking when she was a Campfire Girl and cocktailed promptly at 4pm until the day she died at the ripe ol’ age of 90.

    From her I inherited my lack of height, two crystal decanters etched with the words SCOTCH and BOURBON, and the habit of asking for a "skowsch" of water with any single malt over 18 years old. She wasn’t the kind of grandmother that cuddled, but she was a pip and I rather liked her most of the time.

    And now, during these festive days, there is a certain expectation from my social set that I arrive at a function with my signature treat. I bring bourbon balls.

    Not a cookie, not a bar, these little high-octane balls will sit on any holiday table and command attention. It’s the wafting nose of sweet Kentucky mash. The little beauties aren’t cooked, so every bite reminds you what it’s like to be over 21. Some people will shy away, opting for a weak snickerdoodle, but those who induge will find soft notes of vanilla and hints of nutmeg that play well with the rich bourbony flavor.

    Throw one home for Nana.

    Bourbon Balls

    3 cups Nilla Wafers

    1 cup walnuts

    2 cups powdered sugar

    1/4 cup cocoa

    2 tsp. nutmeg

    1/4 cup corn syrup

    1/2 cup + bourbon (Maker’s Mark, Jim Beam, etc.)

    granulated sugar for rolling

    In a food processor, grind up Nilla Wafers. Pour into a large bowl. Grind nuts, add to bowl. Add sugar, cocoa, and nutmeg and stir to evenly combine. In separate bowl mix corn syrup and bourbon, stirring until the syrup is dissolved. Work the liquid into the dry mixture, with your hands for best (but sticky) results. Knead the mix until all ingredients are combined, adding more bourbon if needed. The mix should be firm and sticky, not overly gooey.

    Pull off a small chunk and roll between your palms into about a 2-inch ball. Roll the ball in a shallow bowl of sugar until coated. That’s it.

    Store your bourbon balls in an airtight container and let them age for a few days.

  • Oh, Our Wretched Uteri

    I saw the ad recently when, after a long, tiring workday, I was passing the evening as I often do: Snuggled up to the boyfriend on the sofa, flipping through an issue of Vanity Fair, and only vaguely paying attention to the television. But then a singsong remake of “We’re Not Gonna Take It”—yes, the Twisted Sister strain—snagged my ear.

    I looked up to see a montage of smiling beauties. A blonde office-worker reclined in her swivel chair and used her strappy high-heel to boot at a floating word: Irritability. A kick-boxer jabbed at moodiness. Inside a fitting room, a shopper popped bloating as if it were a balloon. Finally, a sexy young thing strutting down a city sidewalk jumped in the air and dunked the phrase feeling anxious. “Yaz is the only birth control proven to treat the emotional and physical premenstrual symptoms that are severe enough to impact your life,” promised the voice-over. Oh, and it makes your skin look better, too!

    “That strikes me as an irresponsible way to market birth control,” I said to my boyfriend. But of course, he didn’t particularly see my point. The medical establishment says birth control pills are safe and, by and large, the populace seems to agree. In fact, hormonal contraceptives have practically become a staple of contemporary living: like the timesaving microwave oven, so indispensable that it’s nearly pointless to argue their detriments. But how did the Pill ascend from mere contraceptive to all-encompassing lifestyle drug?

    In the beginning, this pharmaceutical innovation was targeted to married women. But early adopters in the ’60s discovered the pill’s power against menstrual cramps. Soon, unmarried women caught on, feigning debilitating cramps wherever there was a need for a prescription. Still, the drug was not without its side effects: nausea, weight gain, and, in many cases, an obliterated sex drive.

    Such word-of-mouth marketing among consumers—and, just as important, between pharmaceutical companies and physicians—held sway until 1997, when deregulation enabled the companies to begin advertising directly to consumers. When I joined the fake-cramps crowd and started taking Loestrin in 1992, I wasn’t told this particular drug would also diminish my periods. But that’s exactly what happened (after three years, they disappeared altogether). Back then it was alarming; nowadays, of course, Loestrin’s ads boast: “The pill with a short period.” Then in 1996, when a physician suggested somewhat half-heartedly that Ortho Tri-Cyclen might clear my complexion, I jumped at the chance to change prescriptions. This claim—“clinically proven to help your skin look better”—is now featured front-and-center on the Ortho Tri-Cyclen website, providing teenagers and other single women with another handy excuse to start dosing.

    It’s what good marketers do, right? They pick up on consumer trends and exploit them to the benefit of their companies or clients. We, the people, shape the messages of these ads and those messages, in turn, shape us. These days women are sold birth control for every reason except preventing pregnancy. It seems like anyone with stomach pain or pimples is taking a contraceptive, whether she’s sexually active or not. In fact, this is likely how Big Pharma gets away with marketing to “good girls.” Today’s birth control ads invariably feature slender, hyperactive youngsters (often swimming or wearing white pants); the implication is that our periods prevent us from looking so beautiful and engaging in such fun, not that these beautiful, young things might be having sex. It goes without saying that menstruation is an annoyance, if not a curse, as it was once called. But I wonder whether today’s birth control marketing puts even more perfectionist pressures on women.

    The message: Not only must we be professionally successful and effortlessly hot, we must also be cheerful, energetic, and sound of mind—even when it’s that time of the month.

    The most radical marketing developments have come in the past few years with Seasonale, the pill that limits menstrual periods to just four per year, and now Yaz, which seems to cure everything inherent to the female condition: the monthly bouts of moodiness, fatigue, increased appetite, and water-retention that often go along with our periods.

    These ads prey upon a particular cultural prejudice—that having this messy, punctuated hormonal cycle is not just a grave inconvenience, but a curable medical condition. Seasonale enables women to plan their periods around vacations or, in the case of a woman I know, running a marathon. As for Yaz, it starts to look a lot like an antidepressant. Of course, the insinuated correlation between femininity and mental illness is nothing new. (The etymology of “hysteria,” derived from the Greek for uterus, says it all.) I can’t help but wonder why the Yaz ad, which goes the furthest in characterizing women’s bodies as diseased, hasn’t triggered mass outrage or, at the very least, a few thousand bouts of extra-menstrual irritability. Perhaps our birth control is a little too fabulous.

    Now that the male pill is in trials, a sick, moody, and yes, female mind starts to wander: What groovy side effects might it offer? Already, it’s been shown to curtail libido, just as the female pill does. Might it cure other pesky byproducts of manhood, such as aggression, overconfidence, and snoring? For the sake of all that’s good and decent, one hopes scientists can engineer it to tackle back hair and Male Answer Syndrome, that sex-specific compulsion to present as fact all educated guesses. And if there’s any justice in this world, rather than causing fellows to accumulate fat around their hips, perhaps this new pill will trigger muscle loss in, say, their biceps.

  • We Like Ourselves So Much We’ll Have Seconds!

    Ah, the all-American hot dish—when you think about it, it’s a surprisingly spot-on analogue to the American people. Both contain three primary ingredients: meat, starch, and some sort of binding agent. Both have protective exteriors, yet their innards are tender and rife with all manner of improbable juxtapositions and mysteries. And, just like people, hot dishes come in all shapes and sizes. Some are for breakfast, some for supper. Some contain unusual ingredients, like pimientos, and some don’t. Virtually all of them, however, can be categorized as quintessentially Midwestern exotica—sort of the culinary equivalent of the Fargo accent. Riddle us this, then, fellow Americans: If you were a hot dish, which concoction would best capture your personality and tastes?

    How do you generally greet loved ones?
    Handshake (1 point)
    Nod of the head (2 points)
    Bisou, bisou (3 points)
    Smothering embrace (4 points)

    Another cold weekend is on tap. How do you spend your Saturday night?
    Go for supper at the VFW (1 point)
    With a six-pack of Old Mil and pay-per-view wrestling (2 points)
    Paging through Finnegan’s Wake and sipping brandy (3 points)
    Drinking herbal tea and scrapbooking (4 points)

    Someone gives you an unusual gift. What do you exclaim upon opening the package?
    “Well, that’s different.” (1 point)
    “What the flyin’ fudge is it?” (2 points)
    “Omigod, did you get this at Bibelot?” (3 points)
    “I LOVE IT!” (4 points)

    Now total up your points and find the corresponding hot dish below.

     

     
    Meat Loaf and Potato Casserole
    (3 to 4 points): You’re a stoic Midwesterner with a decent disposition—until you’re asked to eat your vegetables. This peas- and carrots-free dish features all your favorites: beef, potatoes, eggs, milk, and cracker crumbs. No Funyuns in this bad boy! Ketchup is optional but highly recommended.

     

     
    Chicken A La King
    (5 to 7 points): This traditional dish covers the basics—broth (thank God for bouillon cubes!), chicken, mushrooms (canned), rice (instant), and pimientos (out of the jar)—but it’s all gussied up with a name so preposterous that it could be ironic, which it isn’t. And, you know, pimientos have a way of commanding more respect than they truly deserve—just like you, come to think of it.

     

     
    Cassoulet
    (8 to 10 points): There’s nothing too ambitious in this baked dish of sausage, kidney beans, tomatoes, onions, and carrots. Except, that is, for the fancy name, which pretty much means “hot dish” in French. For your part, while you might put on a few airs, at heart you’re really a no-nonsense, salt-of-the-earth type.

     

     
    Tamale Pie
    (11 to 12 points): This fiery recipe, while encouraging improvisation, calls for ground beef, tomatoes, peppers, cornmeal, and, if you’re feeling extra daring, pepper jack! If you really want to go to cheeky extremes, top it off with Fritos and Cheez Whiz. You’re whimsical and highly creative, with a passion for Southwestern cooking to boot.

     

  • Ripeness Is All

    We all, they say, have one book in us. God knows what mine would be. How about Good Wine Needs No Bush: Political Maunderings of an Expatriate Oenophile? Or perhaps Latin Love in a Cold Climate: Memories of a Minnesota Classicist.

    These are merely titles in the mind. More intriguing are authors who produce one brilliant book and only one—vox et praeterea nihil. What fresh dragons of injustice did Harper Lee slay after she killed her mockingbird? Search me. Peter Beckford was a Georgian foxhunter of broad and elegant taste. He was partly responsible for introducing Clementi, the pianist, to polite English society, and yet his classic Thoughts on Hunting in a Series of Familiar Letters to a Friend are the only thoughts I know he committed to print.

    Until last week I had always thought of Rose Macaulay as another such auctor unius libri, all her unread early work leading to the great triumph of The Towers of Trebizond, the funniest book ever written about an Anglo-Catholic suffragette traveling around Eastern Turkey on a camel. Then I found, in a second-hand stall (in original dust jacket, some damp staining, slightly foxed), The World My Wilderness, the story, published in 1950, of Barbary, a farouche seventeen-year-old art student, allowed to run wild through the wasteland of ragwort and fireweed, ruined banks, and roofless Wren churches that was the Square Mile of the City, the historic and commercial heart of London, in the years following the Blitz.

    Barbary knows nothing about the centuries of commercial effort and bürgerlich devotion whose archaeology lies romantically at her feet, though she turns an honest penny painting watercolor postcards of the ruins to sell to rubber-necked tourists. She also turns several dishonest ones: shoplifting, stealing ration books (food and clothes were rationed in England for years following World War II), going with army deserters, and generally being the despair of her amiable if rather upright father, an eminent lawyer whose hair one imagines growing daily grayer beneath his barrister’s wig.

    In fact the only thing that would prevent a right-thinking person from wanting to apply a stout boot to Barbary’s bony little behind is the fact that she learnt her unusual manners in an excellent school and while struggling for a good cause. Before coming to London she had been brought up by her divorced mother, a louche lady who had settled in the Côtes du Roussillon, not far from the Franco-Spanish frontier, just before the War. She stayed there for the duration, so Barbary had spent her formative years as a runner for the Resistance, dodging the Gestapo, sleeping rough on the maquis. Her mother, an easy-going artist, keen on painting and a quiet life, had never interfered. It is Barbary’s mother, in fact, who remains in the mind as a character, what the French call un type. You can savor her in your mind’s eye, lolling pneumatically on a chaise longue, an amber cigarette holder in one hand, a glass in the other, well-read, seductive, lovely to look at, delightful to behold, but perhaps a little overripe. One wonders if perhaps she is what Rose Macaulay herself feared she might become as she grew older: delightful but directionless, sunk in sin. She need not have worried; the published letters of her later years suggest a formidably crisp old lady, whose daily ritual involved early-morning mass and a cold open-air swim in a London park, followed by copious correspondence, much of it concerned with the technicalities of mediaeval Latin verse.

    Overripe, though, is the word for the Pepperwood Grove Old Vine non-vintage zinfandel that sits in a glass beside me as I write. For all that (it comes from the big California firm of Don Sebastiani), this is wine with strong character—some of it the sort your mother warned you to avoid—per Yeats, caught in that sensual music all neglect monuments of un-aging intellect. The color recalls deep red lipstick, the kind that leaves an indelible mark on a shirt collar; the sweetness rising from the surface is redolent of the end of summer, the bubbling vats of black currants being boiled into jam. (How distant summer seems. Où sont les confitures d’antan?). The taste is chewy, like well-hung mutton (for which it would make a better mate than red-currant jelly). The grittiness that lingers on the palate is flecked with sensations of black pepper. Best of all, its percentage of alcohol by volume (13.5) exceeds its price in dollars. I shall pour myself another glass and take a long, hot bath.

  • A Great Big Flip

    He’d been a groom before; I hated the idea of a puffy white dress. So we had a ceremony at the courthouse and left abruptly the next morning for Paris. I’d like to say it was impossibly romantic. But among the magical nighttime moments in the Louvre courtyard, there was plenty of bickering concerning the correct path to the Panthéon. After one particularly nasty exchange, I stormed ahead on the Rue Mouffetard, only to be halted in my tracks by the sweetness wafting from a street-side window. A man with thick arms plied a crêpe from a hot pan and slathered it with Nutella; I quickly ordered two. When my husband finally caught up, I handed him the warm confection. We shared a silent, wide-eyed moment of bliss with that first bite and continued on, hand in hand.

    It wasn’t the first time I’d used a crêpe to save the day; and it certainly wasn’t the last. But who can blame me? With a small list of ingredients, the options for sweet or savory fillings (not to mention almost endless topping possibilities), and a nearly fool-proof batter, it’s a versatile creation that belongs in every cook’s repertoire. In my family, crêpes have become the ultimate grab-and-go food: pour, flip, fill, fold, and see you later.

    The French obviously have a close relationship with the crêpe. During Candlemas in February, they have a tradition in which a preparer must flip a crêpe with one hand while holding a coin in the other. A successful flip portends a year of good fortune. Originating in Brittany, crêpes were originally known as galettes crêpes, or flat cakes, and were customarily made with buckwheat flour and used like bread.

    Today, the buckwheat version is sometimes called galettes de sarrasins and is customarily used in savory preparations.
    But it’s the sweet crêpe that lures most food-lovers. Whether for dessert or brunch, a delicate pancake filled with berries, chocolate, sweet cream, or simply butter and sugar is hard to refuse. My own mother used rolled crêpes covered with sugar to wedge eggs into my early, extremely limited diet. But as of late, my attentions have turned to the savory crêpe, including heartier versions made from whole wheat flour and laced with herbs. Softly folded around any number of ingredients (mushrooms and Gruyère, halibut and leeks, squash and chèvre with sage), crêpes allow you to skip the bread and ditch the pasta, all while lending an air of refinement.

    There’s no mystery to the mix, a basic batter of flour, eggs, and milk. Even with all the potential permutations and additions, it’s almost impossible to screw up. Check out the three pages dedicated to crêpes in the Larousse Gastronomique, where you’ll find recipes for sweet crêpes that call for sugar, vanilla, and cognac as well as savory recipes with beer. As for my own concoctions, no matter how off-the-cuff, each has yielded a wholly edible pancake. I think that’s the true magic of the crêpe: It can be anything you want or need it to be. If I was set upon by four hungry dinner guests and had only a sparsely stocked pantry, crêpes would not only suffice, they would surprise and satisfy.

    Patience may be the final ingredient—even an experienced crêpe chef knows the first of the batch will be an ugly one. But once you master the skill, the only mystery left is this: Why on earth haven’t you made these treasures more often?

    Savory Mushroom Crêpes

    For Crêpes:

    1 c. buckwheat flour
    1/4 c. all-purpose flour
    1/2 tsp. salt
    1-1/2 c. milk
    4 eggs
    1/4 c. melted butter (plus a touch for the pan)

    For filling:

    3 T. butter
    2 c. chopped baby portabellas
    2 T. freshly chopped thyme
    Shredded Gruyère

    Sift flours and salt together in a medium bowl. Slowly whisk in milk until blended. Whisk in eggs until smooth, then stir in melted butter. Cover and chill batter for at least two hours, giving it a quick stir before using.

    Heat a non-stick skillet over medium-high heat. When pan is hot, brush lightly with a little melted butter. Lifting pan from the heat, pour in just enough batter to cover the bottom of the pan and swirl to coat the surface. When the cake firms up, loosen the edges and flip. After a few seconds, transfer crêpe to a warmed baking dish in a 200-degree oven.

    Meanwhile, sauté mushrooms in butter with thyme until deep brown and soft. Add salt and pepper to taste.

    Place crêpe in a clean pan over medium heat. Top with shredded gruyère, and remove just as cheese is melting. Top one half with a spoonful of mushrooms and gently fold closed.

  • Satan in the Litter Box

    I hate my cat. Cat people, save yourself the trouble of emailing me. And, rest assured, this is not a one-sided kind of a deal. The cat hates me, too. I know it is childish and wrong for me to hate the cat. After all, it is not her fault that I bought her. I should feel sorry for her. Imagine, being purchased by someone you hate and not having the thumbs to do anything about it. Poor, sweet, evil baby.

    My cat is very beautiful, and people who come over to my house—cat people, that is—are beside themselves when they see her. They coo and moon like it was Angelina Jolie who just ambled into the room after taking a dump. “Who is this gorgeous one?” they say, stretching their spines sensuously. (Scritchy-scratch.) Or “Ooooooh, look at that pretty kitty!” (Caress, stroke.)

    Cat people, listen to me. I have never nor will I ever mistreat or neglect this wee beastie. If you want me to believe you when you say that cats have personalities just like humans do, then sure; I’m with you. Because then you will have to agree with me when I tell you that, without a doubt, some of them are total cat-holes.

    Having one cat does not make you a cat person. Having three or more does. Maybe you have a cat or a cat person in your life. I have four cat people in my life. They are all physically beautiful, well-educated people, but other than that, they come from different neighborhoods and socio-economic backgrounds. The wealthier cat people, I have noticed, can sort of mask their cat person-hood by claiming eccentricity. This doesn’t fly with those of lower income. These cat people just seem all the crazier for choosing to scoop poop and de-lint in their spare time, and for spending what disposable income they have on food, litter, and all manner of feline accessories.

    Cats cost about three hundred dollars a year to maintain. They have a projected fifteen- to seventeen-year lifespan. If you have three cats, this adds up to a grand total of $13,500. I understand that it is nice to come home to “someone.” But please try to think outside the litter box for a second. Nine hundred dollars a year might purchase you a shot at human companionship. You could take a life-enriching class. Get out and meet people. A painting class, maybe. You could even paint pictures of cats.

    Cat people, you love to speak of the companionship that these tiny terrors offer, but have you ever stopped to notice that there are no “man’s best friend” genre movies starring cats? Could Old Yeller ever have been made if the script called for an orange tabby? How come there are no such things as bomb-sniffing cats? Or seeing-eye cats? “Cats are too smart for that.” I’ve heard that one before. Tell it to Judge Judy. Cats are inherently wicked, self-involved pleasure seekers. If being a wicked, self-involved pleasure seeker equals smart, how come we’re so quick to call Britney Spears stupid? Britney Spears would totally be worshipped in ancient Egypt. And look what happened to the ancient Egyptians.

    Furthering my argument: The next time you go out for dim sum, check out the animals on your placemat. You’ll find a pig, a goat, a rat, even a snake! There is no year of the cat in Chinese astrology. They have a dragon. A pretend animal was better than a cat.

    Plus, cats have got that otherworldly, spooky vibe. Nostradamus was a cat owner, ditto Aleister Crowley. I don’t think it’s just black cats—all cats are bad luck. There is no good-luck correlation to cats. People don’t carry around lucky cat’s feet. Unlike horse manure, if you step in cat poop on a city street, it doesn’t mean that you are lucky.

    Cats are the opposite of heroic. You always hear modern folktales of devoted dogs who were tragically separated from their owners and sniffed their way cross-country from Nebraska to Vermont, making their way back to little Billy. People write love songs about dogs. “Lily,” by Pink Martini. “Queenie’s Song,” by Guy Clark. “Old King,” by Neil Young. What songs are there about cats? “The Cat Came Back.”

    As I sit here tonight, daubing my five-inch laceration with a sterile alcohol pad from the first-aid kit, these unkind thoughts about my cat comfort me. On the upside, it is nice to have a face (even if it is three inches wide and furry) upon which to superimpose all of my earthly hatred and anxieties. On the downside, it means putting up with violent and bloody surprise attacks in my own home. I am the bumbling Inspector Clouseau, and she is my Cat-o.