It’s been a while since I’ve set words down to publish on this blog. In spite of my lack of narration, I have continued with my recipes. Hosting a regular dinner party does afford one the discipline to look into cookbooks… at least monthly. I even started an entry that I left in draft form some place on this computer… but I’m afraid I let the mental occupation of my past few months distract me from posting.
Part of that was work.
So I guess I can’t feel too guilty for giving attention to what pays for
the ingredients of my kitchen. The
second – and more recent – part of my distraction was the fact I agreed to step
into a play halfway through the rehearsal process and perform two weekends of
it.
One major reason I agreed (in spite of my better judgment to
avoid doing plays during Banned in Boston season) was because of the
director. The last play in which I was
involved was his production of Crimes of the Heart. It closed on September 16th. I remember visiting my grandmother the
following Sunday. We talked about the
play because she had read the review in the Worcester Telegram. That was the last conversation I shared with
her.
I thought of that as I drove home the nights I didn’t have
rehearsal and would pass her house. I
knew the tv room light wouldn’t be on, that she wasn’t reading the review of
this play. I knew the house was lit for
different, exciting reasons… but I couldn’t help but sigh and acknowledge this
was the first time I have been in a play and she didn’t know.
She didn’t come to all my plays. And that’s probably a good thing. There have been times in my life when I’ve
been involved in shows right on top of the next… and that’s not reasonable for
anyone, never mind my 70,80, 90 year old grandmother. But she did come to a lot of them. Even when they were in the basement of Hovey
and required descending those stairs and going backstage to get to the
bathrooms. Even when it was a bleak
Irish tragedy, with no real redemption when the stage goes black. She wouldn’t hesitate to express an opinion
of the story… or the appreciation of the work.
She always liked to tell me how George Edward liked
theater. Because in a family of sports fans, I was noticeably the artistic one. But then another cousin
or two would do a show… and she would tell me.
Because theater was my thing. So
I would appreciate it. She also told me
about a professor at Clark who used to put on plays. She would go to those plays with her
father. Or maybe it was her brother… but
she always liked those plays. He did a
lot of Shakespeare, so I would probably like them. That Clark professor, it turns out, went up
to Barre in the 1950’s and revived the Barre Players. The theater where I cut my teeth on directing
and got to act in some of my favorite roles.
Where my grandmother sat in the audience several times.
I missed those conversations this month. Even though the story of the Clark professor
was a familiar tale. It was a comfortable routine. A sort of warm blanket to fall into when I
felt the letdown of a show’s closing. I
knew it wouldn’t be there at the end of last weekend, but I decided some
comfort was necessary. So I made
cookies.
Actually, this used to be one of the things I did at
Hovey. Not for every show… but certainly
the ones that I really enjoyed being part of.
I like to bake and a cast full of actors in need of a quick sugar fix
was always the perfect opportunity to share a batch of cookies and not be left
with the lot for myself. So that’s what
I made before our last Saturday show. It
proved most handy after the show… as our performance was next door to a bar…
and these cookies were necessary carbohydrates.
Her recipe is the one you can find on the back of Nestle’s
chocolate chips. But… somehow… it tastes
better because it is in her handwriting.
I actually have six or seven left that I put in the
freezer. For a rainy day. Or a day I just want to think about sitting
in the kitchen with a cup of tea, one of these chocolate chip cookies from the tin in the pantry closet, talking to my grandmother about theater.
