Johnny Baseball

Friday evening we took the MBTA into Boston to see the new play, Johnny Baseball, at the American Repertory Theater (the ART). It was graduation week in Harvard Square which meant a lot of people were out and about, some of them even decently dressed.  The play was cute, clever and even touching, and the house looked full.  I suspected that non-Bostontians  might miss a lot of the references, but the audience seemed genuinely appreciative from the ovation at the final curtain.  

We caught the Red Line home and at Park Street, two gentlemen in Red Sox shirts got on.  They looked a bit glum, and said the Sox had lost big.   We were surprised, since going into the theater the team had led by three runs.  Whatchagonnado?

So they sat there, looking down in the dumps, Boston Irish faces if I've ever seen them. . . men of a certain age.  A pretty blond girl is sitting next to me.  Kids, by now it is way past eleven, but the girl, in spite of her sporty attire, must have one hot date, because she begins a major makeup session on the very public "T."   I became aware of her activities when a) she began brushing on bronzer and b) the faces of the  Red Sox fans across the car went from hang dog to interested.   I had obviously missed the foundation application, but the bronzer went on and on and on.  Gee, have I been doing it wrong?  I brush a bit across he cheek bones, and on chin, nose and forehead.   Blondie was plastering on a 1/4 inch. Note to self:  check makeup book or web for how to do this properly. 

Then came the colorless lip gloss.  Again, 1/4 inch.  Then some pinky lip stuff (not lipstick) on top of that.  Now came the mascara.  These trains aren't always the smoothest running vehicles, and I worried about her jabbing herself in the eye (as I would have likely done), but nope, she's got the steady hand of the brain surgeon.

In between each type of makeup, she checks her cell.  By now the entire car is watching.   After the mascara, she redoes her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and then up with a fancy clip.  Hot date for sure.

But wait:  Blondie call her mom and chats for a while.  Mentions she's on the red line.  No hint of where she's going or whom she's meeting.  Maybe Mom already knows.  She sounds kind of worried about Mom and my heart softens a wee bit.  Baseball fans debark.
Blondie gets off in Quincy Center, and we continue on.  Almost every trip on the "T," especially late at night, involves a story.

Did I ever tell you about the man with cherries on his hat?  No?  Well, another day.  Off to write something.  Finally.

Grapeshot  

The Californication of Mexican Food

You are reading a one-woman crusade against flour tortillas, effete, tasteless, showing-up-everywhere flour torillas. I expect that one of these days our New England supermarket will not even stock corn torillas but you will be able to buy seventy-seven varieties of flour torillas in white, yellow, orange and green, bland, white bread offerings. May I say just one word? Yuck!

I will be the one throwing a screaming fit in the International Foods aisle or at the dairy case. The red-faced, profanity shouting woman flinging the big, ungainly packages of flour tortillas at the hapless clerk.

At the Border Cafe in Harvard Square I have to ask for the fish tacos to be served in corn tortillas. The staff is very obliging and the fish tacos are mega-tasty.

There are new chains like Qdoba that only have corn tortillas in the hard crust out-of-the package variety. Everything else is wrapped in, well, you know what.

Today I was heartened to read in the Dining Out section of the NY Times about a place in East Hampton (did I say effete?) that has true south of the border food. And most of the locals like the unspiced inspidid variety. But not everyone.

I applied my eagle flour-tortilla spotting eye to the photos and guess what? Not a flour tortilla in sight. Thank you, God, thank you. Recipes look delicious. Spicy, too.

Did you know the heat (capisicum) in hot peppers in a POWERFUL Anti-oxidant. So put the kleenex on the table, have some sour cream and cold cerveza ready, and pile on the hot peppers. Wrap everything in corn.

Note: corn torillas have fiber and not too many carbs. Ha! Ha! Take that you mealy-mouthed flour eaters.

The only place a corn tortilla belongs is in a burrito. End of story. I mean, can you imagine a tortilla casserole made with flour tortillas. It would taste like unseasoned gravy made with water.

Viva corn tortillas, the true taste of Mexico. Down with wimpy flour tortillas! Down with tasteless wraps. Why don't you just use a few layers of paper towel? Tastes about the same.

My mom was a Kansas farm girl and I like bread and the amber waves as much as anyone, but not in my Mexican food. Give me corn, lots of corn.

Grapeshot, whose guerilla name today is Pilar.

The next rant will be about sugar in corn bread. Ye gods, even a good Southerner like Paula on the Food Network is spooning sugar into corn bread, flour too. No. No. Omigod, what are things coming to? Where is purity? Where is authenticity?

Whither?

A Marvelous Party

A photo of my cherry Clafouti. Our small guest ran around chanting, "shake your clafouti!"

Last night we trekked to Harvard Square, a feat in itself with the mess all day on Rte 128, to experience A Marvelous Party at the Zero Arrow Theatre. What a wonderful, indeed, marvelous treat. The cast really understood Noel Coward and what is amazing is that the actors were regulars from the ART, which normally does drama, and here they were doing fantastic musical comedy. Of course the audience was mostly over 50 and I wonder what will happen to these fantastic clever songs when this generation dies off. Alas. So hie thee to Harvard Square before August 8th and take in the music and giddiness.

Afterward we wanted a bite or three of dessert, not having had dinner. We nipped into Grendel's den but it was way to noisy and a bit too skanky for what I had in mind. But it did recall the evening my friend and I were asked to leave Grendel's Den. Years ago. We were drinking and smoking (ah the good old days) with a friend of hers called McGuirk who polished off 6 gin and tonics and when he ordered the 7th is when we were all asked to leave. My friend and I were on our 2nd white wine (how wimpy) and were not a little mortified, but later I thought about how cool it was to have been kicked out of Grendel's Den, a real feat at that time of life.

S.O. bopped upstairs at had a dessert that couldn't be beat at what used to be Upstairs at the Pudding and is now Upstairs at the Square. Or whatever.

Lots of posting to do today, so stay tuned. That's what getting out and about in the world does. Food for thought.

Grape Shot