I know I’m getting older because it takes more than an instant to recall everything I did this past weekend. Earlier in life I could give you the rundown in less than ten seconds of everyone I saw, everywhere I went, and everything I’d done in the last 72 hours.
Alas, I am now thirty-something.
I’m not knockin’ it. I love how much more I know about people and the world we all live in. It just takes a moment to rewind the DVR in my head. Well, sometimes more than a moment. Sometimes it takes a cuppa green tea or a good poo (yep, I said it) to jog my memory. Often times one follows another.
Aging. Yep. I’m talking about my bowel habits on my blog. Lervely.
SO, the weekend was filled with Die Mommie!, street festivals, friends, drinks, movies, and a gorgeous successful-yet-tasteless Anginetti recipe. Let’s go chronologically, shall we?
Friday night I was a very good boy and decided despite my thirst, I was not going to head out for a cocktail after DMD ended at midnight. Instead I got home, stripped and showered, climbed right into bed with my cats and slept until 6am, when my body decided to wake me up.
Originally I had my alarm set for 8, at which time I was going to rise, feed myself, put my street festival gear on (Spin shirt, steel toe boots, cargo shorts), and head down to meet Ken to open the Spin booth at the Belmont-Sheffield Music Fest. But for whatever reason, my internal clock woke me up at 6am. Despite the snoring Oberon to my right and the sleepy-eyed Meo on my left, I got outta the bed and got my day started.
The weather was perfect. Ken and I, along with David and some other peeps got the booth in order and set everything in motion. I had to jet at 3p because I had another round of Die Mommie! that evening, so I missed the major-moneymaking times. But no matter, I had fun with my Spin folk.
After the show I headed out with Corey, a friend I met through Rudolph this past season. We hit the street fest, oogling the hot fratboiz, and hopped here and there up and down Halsted until a bit of his own personal drama crept up, and he headed home. For a second I considered heading back out after he left, but instead I got caught up in watching Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
It’s like my mother always used to say
Two tears in a bucket
Motherfuck it.
-The Lady Chablis
Love that damn movie. Thank you Roku!
Sunday I woke up with visions of creating a delicious sweet treat for the cast. Yesterday should have been our final performance of the run, but we’ve extended by two shows this week. In either case, I was planning to bake something magnificent. I’d been shuffling around with recipes for Anginetti, those iced Italian lemon cookies, for a long time. Looking at my counter, I spied four lemons that were screaming to be used, so I decided Anginetti it would be.
The recipe was written proportionally ok, but I noticed there was only a small bit of sugar. Instead of trusting my gut and adding more, I followed the ingredient list exactly. Three heaping teaspoons of baking powder did their work, and the dough came out cakey and full of bubbles, light as a feather (thank you shortening) and yellow because of the four eggs.
The problem is that I should have followed my gut and added more sugar. Beautiful and cakey as they were, they tasted plain. I knew they wouldn’t be sweet, but I could detect NO sweetness at all. Baking is science, and I’m accomplished enough to know my genoise from my dacquoise, but because it was a new recipe for me I didn’t want to alter it.
And it bit me in the butt. Actually, the tongue.
I frosted them anyway with homemade lemon glaze, hoping the super-sweet-tartness of the creamy white coating would cut the plainness of the cookies. But it didn’t. Their bland taste just lay there on my tongue, like a scone with no jam, a linzer with no filling, choux with no cream.
Moral of the story: I’m a good enough baker to know when to add more sugar. And I shoulda. I’ll make the recipe again, but for now I’m resolved to eating them with a cuppa Earl Grey with extra milk and sugar.