Sunday, May 15, 2016.
Jittery Sequence. Puzzles.
A busy day, with the Marys running around the South Shore working on ML's wedding plans. Still no band has appeared that suits ML's tastes.
My day begins with my solo of the Pentecost Sequence. I don't know why this makes me nervous, but I am, and I lose my place for a second in the middle of very familiar music: the Ode To Joy part of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. I think I would have done a better job in a higher voice. But all comments are congratulatory.
I have plenty to keep me busy at home all afternoon. I fire up the lawn tractor and give the meadow by the pond its first mowing since last September.
A busy day, with the Marys running around the South Shore working on ML's wedding plans. Still no band has appeared that suits ML's tastes.
My day begins with my solo of the Pentecost Sequence at St. Janes. I don't know why this makes me nervous, but I am, and I lose my place for a second in the middle of very familiar music: the Ode To Joy part of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. I think I would have done a better job in a higher voice. But all comments are congratulatory.
I have plenty to keep me busy at home all afternoon. I fire up the lawn tractor and give the meadow by the pond its first mowing since last September. Even after the feet of rain we've had in the early part of the year, it's been dry enough in the last two weeks that I can roam all over the meadow with no fears of getting stuck in the mud. In fact, the big inconvenience is billowing dust when I pass through the many dried-up crawfish towers out there.
Now a five-lap, ninety-minute rapid walk around the Cool Water Ranch. I am followed a long way--and at my pace--by the dog Susie. She went to the vet a couple of days ago, and the doctor showed us the X-ray of the complete break in her left front leg, caused by bone cancer. So how is she all but running along with me? This old girl is some kind of tenacious. The doctor says that there is nothing to be done, but Susie seems to want to prove her wrong.
The Marys finally return home around five. We meet up for supper at Zea, one of our longtime Sunday-evening venues when there were still three or four of us to be fed. The Marys have eaten already today, or else I would have felt a push in the direction of the confounded Chimes. Usual menu: tomato-basil soup, a house salad, rotisserie beef with a red-wine sauce, and a scoop of ice cream for me. The girls just eat salads.
When we get home, the Marys resume the entertainment they have pursued throughout this visit: assembling jigsaw puzzles. Of course, there are pieces missing (MA found the old puzzles in a closet she was excavating), and the cats like to jump up onto to the table to see what's going on, moving a few dozen pieces each time as the girls shriek.
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Monday, May 16, 2016.
The Five Figures. Smoke. Ching-A-Ring-Chaw.
The Marys want to have lunch today at Smoke, the newish barbecue joint in Covington, operated by the same chef who owns the hip, gourmet-leaning Ox Lot 9 in the Southern Hotel. We've been to Smoke a few times, and we all agree that it's one of the two or three best smokehouses on the North Shore.
The girls split a platter of ribs, greens, grits, and macaroni and cheese. I have hot link sausage and fresh-cut fries. All very well achieved. Only two complaints: the kitchen ran out of lemon wedges, of which MA routinely uses a half-dozen or more for her iced tea.
[caption id="attachment_49934" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Bread that needs some toastiness.[/caption]
The other comment--hardly a gripe, really--is the bread served by Smoke. It's a thick slice of more or less plain white bread, served at room temperature and drying up minute by minute. If I had dictatorial culinary powers (not that I'd want them or accept them in anyone else), I would require that all bread (with a few exceptions) must be hot out of the oven or, at least, from the toaster. That one little procedure improves nearly all breads worldwide. The aroma of freshly-toasted bread make that point forcefully.
All these eating needs addressed, the girls open a subject they are loathe to put before me. They have calculated the cost of the wedding, and they hit me over the head with the number. It is more than I was expecting, but when I do the addition it becomes reasonable. Mary Ann notes that this will be the last big family expense we will ever bear. And we have carried some very big ones. Tulane tuition, to name one outstanding example. How can I do less for my only daughter? I am told. At the end of the our smoky lunch--it takes me that long for me to get used to the idea--I give my assent. Where will the money come from? I am not clear about this, but Mary Ann seems to be confident.
Maybe it's trying to swallow that thought, I do a terrible job of singing at tonight's NPAS rehearsal. It brings me to the edge of despair. Some of the songs we are working on for our June 3 and 5 concert of early American music seem well beyond my capabilities. I can blame a little of this on the confusing way some of the songs are printed. And a little bit more to what seems like intentional, perhaps even mischievous complexity on the part of composer Aaron Copland. "Ching-A-Ring-Chaw" is filled with nonsense words, and there doesn't seem to be any point to the story being told musically. If I can learn all this, I will know that my musical abilities have come a long way since I joined NPAS a year and a half ago.
Smoke. Covington: 1005 North Collins Blvd. 985-302-5307.
The girls split a platter of ribs, greens, grits, and macaroni and cheese. I have hot link sausage and fresh-cut fries. All very well achieved. Only two complaints: the kitchen ran out of lemon wedges, of which MA routinely uses a half-dozen or more for her iced tea.
[caption id="attachment_49934" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Bread that needs some toastiness.[/caption]
The other comment--hardly a gripe, really--is the bread served by Smoke. It's a thick slice of more or less plain white bread, served at room temperature and drying up minute by minute. If I had dictatorial culinary powers (not that I'd want them or accept them in anyone else), I would require that all bread (with a few exceptions) must be hot out of the oven or, at least, from the toaster. That one little procedure improves nearly all breads worldwide. The aroma of freshly-toasted bread make that point forcefully.
All these eating needs addressed, the girls open a subject they are loathe to put before me. They have calculated the cost of the wedding, and they hit me over the head with the number. It is more than I was expecting, but when I do the addition it becomes reasonable. Mary Ann notes that this will be the last big family expense we will ever bear. And we have carried some very big ones. Tulane tuition, to name one outstanding example. How can I do less for my only daughter? I am told. At the end of the our smoky lunch--it takes me that long for me to get used to the idea--I give my assent. Where will the money come from? I am not clear about this, but Mary Ann seems to be confident.
Maybe it's trying to swallow that thought, I do a terrible job of singing at tonight's NPAS rehearsal. It brings me to the edge of despair. Some of the songs we are working on for our June 3 and 5 concert of early American music seem well beyond my capabilities. I can blame a little of this on the confusing way some of the songs are printed. And a little bit more to what seems like intentional, perhaps even mischievous complexity on the part of composer Aaron Copland. "Ching-A-Ring-Chaw" is filled with nonsense words, and there doesn't seem to be any point to the story being told musically. If I can learn all this, I will know that my musical abilities have come a long way since I joined NPAS a year and a half ago.
