Jeremy was too exhausted to stay for the entire party and announced that he'd leave early, but I wasn't prepared for the curious manner in which he would make his exit. One minute he was sitting almost right next to me and, a second later, Nina was whisking -- or perhaps shoving -- him out the door. It seemed that she suddenly decided that it was time for him to leave and out, out, out he went. It happened so quickly that the entire thing was a blur. Jeremy didn't even get a chance to say a proper goodbye to the rest of us. As Nina was slamming the door in his face, I think I heard him cry out a muffled farewell.I'm not sure what it was about. At least I got to have my cup of borsch before I was whisked out the door. It was my first experience with borsch, and so now there's a puzzle to be resolved: do I love borsch, or just Nina's borsch? This being the common causal problem posed by trying new dishes made by someone who is an excellent cook.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
back on the blogck
Showing that reverse migration from the "fallen travelers" to "fellow travelers" sections of my sidebar is possible, The Divine Tonya B is back among the living-breathing-blogging. This anecdote that she tells about the recent birthday dinner at Nina's is completely true:
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6 comments:
I'm familiar with borscht, but what's borsch?
Most Russian-translated-into-English versions of the recipe use the word "borsch." Americans, pretending to be familiar with Russian, often spell it borscht. Check your cooking dictionary. Or Webster's.
--nlc
The dictionary lists them as alternate spellings.
there are times when shoving jeremy out the door does seem like a good idea. i'm sympathetic.
To clarify: if someone leans over the counter (where he is perched on a stool, incapable of even making it to the table, a mere six inches away) and says to you in barely discernible tones “I think I better go…” and that person’s face has all the while stayed a dangerously translucent-grayish color, wouldn’t you want to basically pick up the disintegrating body parts and gently shove them out your door? I felt the man had done the noble thing – he came, he raised his glass, he sampled the borsch. It was time for me to do the noble thing and let him go back to his RV and collapse to the sounds of Natalie MacMaster (or whatever he’s listening to these days).
Did I really look translucently gray? I must be making progress on those invisibility potion experiments I've been conducting in the RV...
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