Dad's in London! He arrived this morning and is staying until Saturday - and he's come just to take care of me in my hour of need. Okay, he also has friends and work colleagues in London and so will be productive as well as paternally protective (man, look at all of that alliteration!) but I'm just glad that he'll be here to keep me company as I start to figure out how to be single. Thanks, Daddy.
By the way, am I the only one who was obsessed with this song when it came out, or did you go a bit Mayercrazy also?
We'll take in a night or two of theatre as well as some scrummy dinners out and maybe a homecooked meal at my new place and, if I play my cards right, I might be able to take Friday off work so that we'll have a whole day together. I'll keep you appraised of our adventures, obviously!
Naturally, I found myself back on my exact block less than one week later. I was invited to dinner with friends who live in the 80s on Amsterdam Avenue. I met them at an Italian restaurant I had never been to (nothing shot holes in my arguments for the Upper West Side like my general refusal to venture farther north within my own neighborhood). After dinner I strolled down Columbus Avenue for a while, both indulging in and scolding myself for being nostalgic for the neighborhood I had barely left. It requires a supreme level of sappiness to look longingly at a bank that isn’t yours next to a children’s store you never once entered. - Empty Rooms, No Regrets; NYTimes, 23 February 2011
On Friday evening, due to a total train screwup (and by that I mean "Betsy didn't look at the boards properly before hoofing it onto a departing train and therefore ended up in the wrong place") I found myself walking to the flat I had shared with Jon and John and Sam in Clapham from Clapham Junction. This route takes you directly down Northcote Road. You have to understand, I have loved Northcote Road ever since my first exploratory journey through my then-new neighborhood back in July. It's full of high-end high-street shops, sweet cafés and restaurants, and bars galore; essestially, it was my local Mecca. Walking down Northcote Road even just to grab a paper on Sunday mornings made me happy.
So, on Friday evening, I found myself walking down Northcote Road on my way back to the flat I had left only a few days earlier with the keen purpose of packing all of my personal belongings for Saturday's move. I should have walked with motivation because, after all, moving out of the flat I had shared with my now-ex was the right thing to do. But I realized after a few blocks that I was meandering slowly down the street, my hand almost imperceptibly caressing the air, gazing longingly at the shops as I passed.
Packing wasn't terribly heart-wrenching - though tucking away all the loving cards that Jon has given me over the years was, unsurprisingly, difficult - but I felt fragile for several hours afterwards because of that walk. Because that was, conceivably, the last time I will walk down Northcote Road to that flat; the last time I will pass our café, our favorite brunch spot; the last time I will stare at the you-can't-afford-it-so-don't-even-think-about-it dresses at Question Air; the last time I will stop in front of the Antiques Market and imagine that wrought iron bench in my fantasy garden which would be, of course, just around the corner behind the lovely Edwardian rowhouse that I shared with Jon.
Once I walked through the door of my new place later that evening, I was a bit less unsettled. But for a few hours that evening, I felt completely rootless, and overwhelmingly nostalgic for a place and a dream that I had barely left.
By rights, I should be going wild and crazy. I just exited - as gracefully as possible, I think - a relationship that lasted two and a half years. I should be out on the town every night, drinking my bodyweight in whiskey and dancing until my feet bleed.
Want to know what I did Tuesday night? Post-breakup, my friend Alex and I went to the pub for one drink, came home to her flat, ordered takeaway and watched crappy TV. After work on Wednesday I went straight to Alex's and spent the evening alone, eating pasta and catching up on Glee. Last night I did get a few drinks with friends, but tonight - Friday night - I'm at home in my pjs. I just pulled a batch of scones out of the oven and am listening to the new Adele album on repeat. I am also, just to mix things up, contemplating a bubble bath.
It's funny, I thought that I'd go bonkers being alone without Jon. I thought that I'd slide into depression; I'd drive myself mad with thoughts of how desperately lonely I was.
But, somehow, I'm really enjoying my own company - something I haven't done in a very long time. I'm thinking my own thoughts, breathing my own air, and simply focusing on myself. Breaking up with Jon may have been an incredibly selfish thing to do and for that I feel terribly guilty, but this me time is unabashedly mine and I am luxuriating in being unashamedly selfish.
Therefore I think I will hie myself to my bubble bath and then curl up in bed with a book and a cup of tea and I will get to know me.
I hope you're all having as lovely a Friday evening as I am - and I hope that, this weekend, you make time for you.
True confession: I've already started retail therapy. My sister turned me on to Gilt Group as a Thread Social sale was being featured, and I lost my marbles over this dress:
Absolutely gorge. Lady from the front, killer from the back. Love it. It's being delivered to DC, so let's make sure we have an outing for it when I get back to the States in March, yes? Yes.
The $1,000,000 (£617,151.22) question that I keep being asked post-break-up is this:
Will you move back to the States?
Let me firmly and unequivocally answer that no, I will be staying in London.
Yes, Jon was a real part of the reason I moved to England in the first place. But even without that major piece of the puzzle that is my life in London, I have bona fide ties to this city. I have a great job, wonderful friends, a musical community that is just starting to take off, and - fingers crossed - a new place to live already.
So no, this is not going to deter me from my dream of putting down roots in London. They will now be different roots, no doubt, but I am still committed to my life here and to making the most of every minute I have in this incredible city.
I think we can all agree that I should spoil myself for the next week or so, right? But for me, pampering isn't just about bubble baths and watching reruns of Law and Order: SVU - it's also about food. The right food can comfort you in crappy situations, whether it's a favorite meal that brings back happy memories or a stodgy standby that allows you to wallow. Since I'm trying very hard to be healthy at the moment, these aren't really options that I'll be going for (not often, anyway) though that's not going to stop me admiring gorgeous images of meals and mouthwatering websites with recipes!
As you may know, I lived in Paris for eight months as an undergrad. My first flat, shared with two other American students, was in the 5th arrondissement, right next to the Sorbonne and just around the corner from the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was an absolutely gorgeous location.
picnicking in the Jardin on Easter Sunday 2007
One of my favorite parts of living there, though, was becoming a regular at a café on the corner of the Rue St. Michel just by the gardens. I went almost daily, at first because my flat didn't have internet and the café was wireless, but then maintained my patronage through the months as I became friends with some of the waiters (oui, c'est possible!). Sometimes, when my classes didn't start until later in the morning, I'd stop by first thing for a café au lait and some breakfast, usually a tartine. I have such lovely memories of sitting by the window in the café, the sun just rising - it's always early spring, of course, in these memories - with my laptop on one side of the little round table and a plate on the other, little jars of honey and jam sprinkled around and my hot mug cradled in my hands as I considered my next blog post.
I won't repeat here how to make a tartine - you should check out either TheKitchn or Pret a Voyager, links above, for instructions - but I did want to share the mouthwatering photos with you, so thanks for indulging me. Thanks, also, for taking this trip down memory lane with me. It does help to have company, you know!
I hesitated to tell you this story because it makes me sound like an obnoxious elitist upper-middle-class white liberal softie, but I am sort of compelled to because it qualifies as a slice of life in London. I also hesitated to tell you this story because I've been debating with myself about whether or not it can be filed as a cultural differences adventure; I think that, in retrospect, this could have easily happened in New York or DC and I wouldn't have been shocked. There's no point to this story, but it's stuck with me for a while and so I think I will share it.
A few months ago I was waiting for a bus at Trafalgar Square. It was cold and dark and rainy - just another weekday evening in December - and so I was huddled into myself, willing the bus to arrive and ignoring everyone around me. A voice broke into my thoughts, though, as it approached the stop, and when it settled next to me I couldn't help but eavesdrop.
This voice - a man about my age, I'd guess, and pretty in a very feminine way with dark skin and absolutely flawless dreadlocks - was having what sounded like an absolute nightmare of a conversation. I was so caught up in what he was saying and the indignation that he was inspiring in me that I almost missed my bus.
It seems that this man, who was clearly not on very good terms with Babymama on the other end of the phone, was supposed to see his daughter the next day, but Babymama was playing him around. From the accusations he leveled at her, it sounded like this was a common occurance; Babymama would change the date and/or time of his visits with his daughter or simply not be at home when he showed up. This man was very distressed about being kept from his daughter. He kept talking about how upset he was, how much he missed his daughter, and how disappointed he was that they didn't get to see each other enough. The obnoxious elitist upper-middle-class white liberal softie in me was absolutely furious that Babymama could jerk him around like this. I wanted to grab the mobile from his hands and yell down the phone, to tell her that all the man wanted was access to his daughter whom he blatantly loved.
But, at the same time, the obnoxious elitist upper-middle-class white liberal softie in me was absolutely horrified by the language coming out of this man's mouth. He wasn't cursing much - no more than anyone would have been in his situation - but he was using slang that I had only heard when TV characters and/or personalities were mocking the state of the English language. Almost every phrase ended with "innit," and I have to admit that I wasn't even vaguely familiar with some of the other colloquialisms he was using. Though I'm not a terrible linguistic purist I was appalled that this was an acceptable medium in which to have a conversation.
I have to admit, guiltily, that I have no place judging this man or Babymama. I didn't know the context of that conversation or the history of his use of the English langauage. Of course, that didn't stop me from judging - but then, don't we all judge? - and from making up my own backstory.
Like I said, there really is no point to this vignette; I just wanted to air it out because I'm still mulling over how torn I felt while listening to this man on his mobile at the bus stop. And I wonder - has anything like this happened to you in a place to which you are not native?
There's a story in my family about a time years ago when my mother read a children's biography of Abraham Lincoln to my then-young sister. At the very beginning of the story, when Honest Abe's mother died in their log cabin, Sarah started to cry. My mother, trying to comfort her, soothed, "It all turns out fine in the end."
I don't know how familiar you are with President Lincoln's life, but even if you're not American you probably know that he was assassinated.
Nice going, Mom.
Anyway, in honour of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington, two of my country's most illustrious presidents, I would like to wish you all a very Happy Presidents' Day!
If you're in the States and have the day off, I request that you do a few things for me:
Sleep in, and then laze in bed with a book and a cup of tea for an hour...
Have a leisurely brunch with your significant other with bonus points awarded if you order the crab eggs benedict from Old Ebbitt Grill in celebration of Washington, DC and of the coming of spring...
Oh, and if you get a chance - could you please call my office and explain to them that I need to leave early to commemorate two of my country's exemplary leaders? Thanks
I love Ikea. I mean, I really, really love Ikea. It is a happy place for me. Even just looking at the catalogue transports me to heaven.
That being said, if we can't laugh at what we love, then... actually, I have no idea how to finish that sentence. You come up with some creative axiom.
The point is, I discovered this amazing website that creates your Ikea furniture name. Check out mine:
I've had a bit of an unusual weekend: Jon and John and Sam - all three of my flatmates - are out of town! They've all gone to their respective homes in the country to spend a few days with their families. I was supposed to head to Suffolk with Jon, but the thought of a boy-free weekend was too tempting to resist and so I proposed that I bury myself in our flat instead and Sort Things Out.
This involved a major clean of the house and two loads of laundry as well as a major grocery shop - all things that I, in a very strange way, find incredibly cathartic. (Okay, the mopping was a pain in the you-know-what. But otherwise I think that domesticity is very calming, don't you?)
A friend came over for dinner last night, which gave me the excuse to try out a new recipe for braised chicken. You see, we have a very small oven in our flat and so I like to cook as much as possible on the stovetop to free up the oven for those recipes that demand it; this explains why I make so many braises and stews and soups! Anyway, I thought for a hot second about trying out Julia Child's coq au vin (via Smitten Kitchen) but decided that it wasn't worth making for only one guest and without a real occasion. (All you who say it's easy - pah. I read the damn thing. I know you're lying.) I looked up a bunch of recipes from here and here and here and then, with a little help from trusted sources (you know who you are) put together my own recipe! Voila, though sans photos, sorry:
Braised Chicken with Lardons
Serves 6
6 chicken thighs, skin on
1/2 lbs lardons
2 tbs olive oil
1/4 c flour
2 onions, diced
6 tbs garlic, minced
4 tbs Dijon mustard
1 1/2 c dry white wine
1c chicken stock
3 tbs parsley, chopped
salt and pepper
Mix flour with salt and pepper and coast chicken thighs with the mixture. Heat oil in a large pot or Dutch oven on moderately high heat and brown the chicken on each side. Set the chicken aside.
Sauté the lardons in the same pot, stirring frequently. Set the lardons aside.
Add the onions and garlic to the pot, stirring occasionally, and cook for five minutes or until softened. (Don't let the garlic burn!) Degalze with the wine and mustard, scraping up all the bits from the bottom of the pot.
Pour in the stock and bring ti a boil. Nestle the chicken and lardons in the pot, making sure all is as submerged as possible. Cover the pot and simmer for at least an hour.
Serve, garnished the parsley and with the sauce used as gravy.
Nom, if I do say so myself. The chicken was lovely and rich; the mustard and the lardons really rounded out the flavour without making the dish too heavy. I used a lovely Spanish wine (the better to drink with, my dear) and it worked out even though I know nothing about Iberian whites. The sides, of course, were roasted Brussels sprouts with garlic and my mac and cheese with mushrooms - I kept things simple. We were too full for dessert, but I'm dying to try this recipe for chocolate cake doughnut holes. Hey, maybe that's a good project for this afternoon!
I did think about just vegging out all weekend, but when I started to try to do nothing I got kind of anxious and lonely. It seems I need Things To Do or else I start to get, as my mother would say, eh-ey. (That is the name for what a small child does when he is frustrated; the accompanying actions involve much bending of the knees while standing still, a possible flailing of the arms, and definitely a whimpering sound emanating from the mouth.) Don't get me wrong - I took a gorgeous nap and started catching up on my American crime shows. (If I'm ever a witness to a murder I'll be able to tell the investigators that there was lateral arterial spray as well some petechial hemorrhaging consistent with strangulation.) But, really, I need projects and/or company or I will go stir crazy. Out of curiosity, what do you do when you have the house to yourself? I could use some ideas.
The blogosphere is abuzz with images from the fresh designs of newcomer BHLDN, whose roots are in the lovely land of Anthropologie (which means that you can believe their stuff is gorgeous). I can't bring myself to look at the wedding gowns - don't want to scare my boyfriend - but I've been drooling over their dresses. Can't pick a favorite, so enjoy three!
TheKitchn just put up a question about the supposed death of the dinner party - but to judge from this blog and all the comments on that post (and on the original article) the dinner party hasn't died, it's just been reimagined.
My dinner party ideal, I will freely admit, involves lots of wine and, if all goes well, an impromptu post-meal dance session. We got close on Sunday night, although I started dropping off with exhaustion even before we finished eating.
As I said earlier, dinner party prep takes a long time if you have your gameface on. (That's the non-spontaneous gameface, you know; this differs from the spontaneous gameface.) I spent a few lunchbreaks pouring over smittenkitchen and TheKitchn and Epicurious and putting together a menu, presented here:
APPETIZERS
- feta salad with sundried tomatoes and kalamata olives (made way too much, oops)
- creamed mushrooms on toast (yummy but very rich)
- chorizo-filled cigars (definitely going to make this again!)
- prawns with cocktail sauce (made by the superduper Alex)
Is everyone having a good Valentine's Week? (I am firmly of the belief that holidays and birthdays should be celebrated to the max, aren't you?) I have to admit to you that things are a bit rough in my personal life at the moment, but even with all the mishegoss in the air I am still glowing from the wonderful Valentine's Day that Jon surprised me with by recreating one of our first dates.
handmade card from Mom
To top it all off, I'm thrilled that I've been waking up to actual sunlight (none of this still-dark-at-7:30 crap) and that the daffodils have really and truly appeared! See:
Also, the countdown has now begun to my trip back to Washington. I'll be home in 26 days!
A few lovely Valentine's Day tidbits for you all, my dearest of dear readers - I hope that you're celebrating loving someone and anyone and everyone today!
I have a sensation at the present moment as though I were dissolving... I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion - I have shudder'd at it - I shudder no more - I could be martyr'd for my religion - love is my religion - I could die for that - I could die for you. My creed is love and you are its only tenet - you have ravish'd me away by a power I cannot resist.
Preparing for a dinner party can take days - weeks, even, if you arrange things properly.
First you have to pick an available day and select an appropriate guest list. (Two weeks ago.) Then comes perhaps the most fun part: planning the menu. I like to drag things out and make this last at least a day or two. You've got to use all the instruments at your disposal. Cookbooks, foodie websites, friends' suggestions, Mom's tips - all are fair game. (Tuesday-Thursday this week.) Grocery shopping, depending on your needs, can be a multi-trip process. (Tesco tonight, Borough Market tomorrow morning.) And then the cooking - oh, the cooking - will, if you follow Ina's gospel of entertaining, be spaced out over hours if not the whole weekend. (Friday-Sunday this weekend.)
So tonight, to make the most of my quiet night in alone in the flat, I began nommy preparations for the epic dinner party I'll be hosting on Sunday evening. Another post will more details will follow soon, but let's start with tonight's adventure: hazelnut-coated truffles.
Oh, hello.
I have to admit that I've always been scared of making truffles - nothing that delicious can be easy - but it was surprisingly simple. I essentially used Smitten Kitchen's recipe, which was adapted from the Barefoot Contessa herself, though I skipped the liqueur due to constraints of oh-hey-I-forgot-to-put-it-on-my-shopping-list.
Hazelnut Truffles
1 c hazelnuts (obviously I bought the pre-chopped option)
7 oz chocolate (the recipe calls for 3.5 oz semisweet and 3.5 oz bittersweet but my grocery store isn't that sophisticated and so I just went with dark chocolate chips)
1/2 c heavy cream
1 1/2 tbs hazelnut liqueur
1 tbs prepared coffee
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
Prepheat the oven to 350*f (gas mark 3 for me). Chop the hazelnuts / open the bag of chopped hazelnuts and place them on a baking sheet. Roast them in the oven for 10 minutes.
Chop the chocolates finely / open the bags of chocolate chips and place them in a bowl.
Heat the cream in a small saucepan until it boils and then pour immediately into the bowl of chocolate. Slowly stir the cream and chocolates together until the chocolate is melted. Whisk in the hazelut liqueur, the coffee, and the vanilla. Cover and chill for 45-60 minutes (mine took over two hours though I'm not sure why) until pliable but firm enough to scoop.
With a teaspoon, make dollops of the chocolate mixture and place them on a parchment-covered baking sheet. Chill for another 15 minutes. Roll the chocolate into the chopped hazelnuts and chill again.
Chocolate + cream + coffee + hazelnuts = pure deliciousness. On nom nom.
Jon's watching the Valentine's Day episode of Glee in the sitting room and so I've had to flee to our bedroom - I'm just not ready, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I need to be in the zone for all of that awesomeness, and that is going to take some serious prep.
However, I am in the mood for a little teaser, which is why I'm now YouTubing Glee love songs.
I hesitate to document this because I'm afraid I'll jinx things, but I have a sneaking suspicion that spring is on its way! (Maybe I won't jinx anything - I hear that the groundhog didn't see his shadow, so the arrival of spring must definitely be on the horizon.)
Temperatures for the past week or so have been at or close to double digits (10*c = 50*f) and we've just had two days of brilliantly sunny skies. Plus, the daffodils in my front yard are beginning to bud - how exciting!
Early spring flowers are some of my favorites. Of course, nothing beats the absolute abundance of late spring, but I love that the early spring flowers appear delicate but must in fact be terribly hardy to survive the temperature swings, wind, and rain. Contrasted with the still-bare branches of the trees, early spring flowers look terribly optimistic. I like that.
Just the thought of daffodils puts me in a sunny mood - so let's indulge in some pretty pictures of bright things, shall we?
Hello my darling followers! I have for you a shameless plug:
My concert is on Saturday!
Chromata, a chamber choir based in south London, will be performing a concert of 20th century French music for the first half of the program (expect Vilette, Messaien, Poulenc, Durufle, etc.) and the second half will include a sing-a-long of the Fauré Requeim for audience enjoyment/participation.
Bonus number one: I'll be doing the Pie Jesu in the Faure!
Bonus number two: there will be a pub session after the concert!
So. 7:30pm on Saturday 12 February at St. Mary's Church in Balham. Be there or... um... ask me about it on Sunday.
In the meantime, though, wish me luck. And the ability to roll my Rs. And also the option of becoming a prepubescent boy. You know, like this one:
I didn't watch the Superbowl last night. By the time it aired, homegirl had been asleep for a good hour.
But I did hear about Christina Aguilera's National Anthem disaster. Have you seen it? Watch:
Careful, watch it again. You might not have noticed the first time through that she - wait for it - forgot the words. She forgot the words. Holy cow. (Check it out at 0:53 if you don't believe me.)
Let's not go into what a mess this is musically; I respect that most singers like to add their own flourishes to the anthem, though this is one of those cases where I'd feel even more respect if she butchered this somewhere in Alaska where only Sarah Palin and the caribou could hear.
SHE FORGOT THE WORDS.
I'm totally with Alexandra Petri when she points out that maybe it was Francis Scott Key who screwed up the song way before Aguilera got a crack at it. But at this moment that is a moot point, because if you're going to sing the national anthem in front of a hundred million people while claiming to be a patriot, you should learn the [expletive] words regardless of how classy those words are or aren't.
Good lord.
(Did this make you laugh? It sort of made me cry, truth be told.)
Yesterday, in the dead minutes between 5:45 and 6:00pm, my colleague Sally showed me a website (that now, of course, I can't find) called something like "Delia Smith vs. Real Women." My favorite bits, as I remember them, went like this:
Delia: If you have a headache, take a lime, cut it in half, and rub it on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.
Real Women: If you have a headache, take a lime, cut it in half, and drop it in eight ounces of vodka. Drink the vodka. You might still have the headache, but you won't care.
Delia: Freeze leftover wine in ice cube trays to use in cooking.
Real Women: What leftover wine?
I thought of this because I made a very necessary pilgrimage to Borough Market this morning - it had been so long since I visited that I was in withdrawal - and therefore decided to cook for my flatmates and some friends this evening. On the menu: chorizo and chicken stew with 101 Cookbooks' mushroom casserole and steamed samphire. Nom, if I do say so! Anyway, the wine that doesn't go in the stew belongs to the chef (house rules, you know) and so I am a happy camper.
Mr. President, you're pretty great. I respect and admire you and most of your policies, and will almost certainly be submitting an overseas ballot with your name on it next year. I know that people all over the world - people much smarter and more important than little old me - are very impressed with you.
But I've gotta say that sometimes you are overshadowed. Sometimes you walk into a room and it takes me a few minutes to realize you've appeared. Sometimes my eyes are first drawn to... your wife.
(They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I don't even have a thousand words because looking at this dress reduces my brain to mush and I can only think in sound effects and colors.)
As you probably noticed - what, you don't have a bedtime routine that includes checking Us Weekly online? I thought everyone did that! - January was all about holidays to the islands and appropriately tropical attire.
Yup, you read that correctly. Although it is 6*c in London when we're lucky, for the past month we've been teased with runways full of waifs in chiffon and gauze.
So, in honor of the fact that my next holiday isn't until 15 March and in honor of that fact that on that holiday I'll be going to the extraordinarily temperate climes of the eastern seaboard of the United States of America, let's dream about going somewhere warm and sunny and sandy. Somewhere like.... Bali.
I burn my candle at both ends
It will not last the night
But oh my foes and oh my friends
It burns a lovely light
- Edna St. Vincent Milay
Edna, I have one thing to say to you: word.
via (eek, I can't remember; sorry, Internet police)
The past two weeks have been absolutely bonkers - a combination of non-stop work events, rehearsals and services, and social obligations have left me zonked and with barely any time for this blog. I feel that by not blogging I have neglected you, dear readers, but equally I feel that by not blogging I have neglected myself. As you all know (and are probably sick of reading), this blog is a bit of a creative refuge for me, and as such I find myself somewhat transported when I jot down thoughts/experiences or pretty pictures here. It really does say something that, given how much this blog means to me, I haven't been able to find or indeed make the time to write.
At the same time, though, I think it says quite a bit about my life here in London that I haven't been able to blog much recently.
On the job front, things are ramping up quite a bit. I know, I'm not supposed to blog about work, but I will quietly share that my predictions about these few months sans boss have been more or less right on the money, which is incredibly fulfilling from both a personal and a professional standpoint.
By the way, when Jon and I move into our next flat - which is a blog post for another day and absolutely not this day - I will carve out just enough space to make a home office like this one from the fabulous Well-Appointed Desk:
So pretty! Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, bonkersness.
My choir is preparing - or not, but it would be impolitic to elaborate - for our upcoming concert of 20th century French music. (12 Feb at St. Mary's Balham! Come one, come all!) On top of that, I was invited to sing with some new friends on Sunday afternoon at a church around the corner from my house. Evensong is one of my favorite services of the Anglican liturgy and I haven't participated in one for a long time, so it was really a treat. We mostly did music I didn't know (Smith responses, Murrill Mag and Nunc, and an Ave Maria by Ambroz Copi as well as a Howells' God be in my head) and it was tons o' fun.
And then, you know, friends plus birthdays/dinners/drinks equals not much downtime even when I'm not working or singing. Poor Jon - he's been at the losing end of the stick when it comes to doling out quality time.
But! That will change - are you listening, Jon? - and I will try to be better about my blogging. Je vous jure, mes amours. (Sorry, I've been translating French as a favor to someone-who-will-remain-nameless-but-maybe-he-will-repay-me-with-a-trip-to-Paris-as-a-thank-you-hint-hint and so I'm vaguely in the zone...)
Hey, that reminds me: I need to watch Paris, je t'aimeagain. It's time.
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