Who says I don’t get out (other than me)? Last Saturday was a veritable barnbuster, crammed with both a First Holy Communion party – whoa! AND – AND – AND – another poutine party, this time a ladies-only affair.
Part 1: Body of Christ. We attended the First Communion party for the son of some old friends, though there’s not a lot to say here, other than I had a good time seeing folks, noshing, and watching others drink what seemed to be about 87 pitchers of beer (blood of Christ, etc…). We ended up staying far longer than anticipated, as things got funnier and blurrier by the hour, so I actually had to dash between events – and fit in a little supply shopping – before the Ladies’ Poutine Party. Our lovely hostess, eager to unload massive amounts of First Communion sheet cake (which prompted my ultra fabulous quip, “Holy sheet cake!”), sent departing guests home with platefuls of wrapped slabs. Whether by subversive design or divine intervention, we ended up with the following piece:
The Chosen One
Sure, others may have walked out with “Bless” or a chunk of frosting crucifix, but can you blame me for feeling smug? Naturally, no one in this house dares eat it for fear of being stricken with paralyzing guilt and a sudden urge to tithe.
(Special hello to my most supportive blog fan, Miss Rose, who was in attendance. I promise that when I find the photos, I will blog about the hole-in-the-Speedo. Not to be missed! Actually, it would have been really hard to miss.)
Part 2: Ladies Poutine Club. Given my mission to promote poutine to the masses, I was especially pleased to be included in a let’s-try-this-at-home gig. It only took several months of planning, since finding an open weekend evening among us in-demand jet setters is a task worthy of an MIT graduate student. Theme names were adopted, among them, Fryda Kahlo, Grace Slick, Olive Oil, and the like. In honor of my grandmother, Viola, I guess I’ll just be Fryola. Our mascot was Daisy the Westie who’s job was to ensure that the souls of any dropped fries did not come back to haunt us, or cause a slippery accident with five drinking women scurrying around the kitchen. Perhaps unwisely, I wore what I thought was “relevant” clothing, namely, my red CANADA polar fleece zippered jacket and my synthetic fur scarf, or as I call it, my “neck weasel,” which the Poutine Pup eyed all night.
Fryda Kahlo's classy joint - a significant upgrade from a picnic table
Fry, baby, fry
Grace Slick brought her brand new deep fryer – see similar occurrence here – and after a confused start, a phonecall to a family frying expert, and an internet search, we fired it up. O! for a fryer to lose its virginity to a batch of potatoes destined for poutine! There is surely a tier in the Appliance Afterlife where such service will be amply rewarded!
Daisy ...waiting for a moment of carelessness
Yet another version
My first serving
Without purists to interfere (other than me, but I shelved all judgment), we were free to mix and match our poutine toppings with abandon. Though standard cheese curd served well, we were all pleasantly surprised by a sprinkling of gorgonzola – brought by ME, so see, I wasn’t being a cranky purist. Both homemade and jar gravy were used, as was a bewildering array of ethnic condiments. Stealing the show were Indian coriander chutney and Belinda’s Smokey Chipotle Ketchup (hot, but I’m a weenie). My beverage of choice was a framboise lambic, with a touch of wine in between trips to the kitchen. French music played – no, not Canadian, because no one in the universe wants to hear Anne Murray, especially when eating, and Leonard Cohen would have been too depressing. Since we ate from plates like civilized ladies, we did lose the roadside quality of the poutine experience, but at least there was no danger of bees. Also, with poutine flat on a plate, the lower fries do not get soggy, which is either good or bad, depending on your perspective. I was willing to trade the usually desirable sog for the good company and china. Really, it all goes back to “there is no such thing as a bad fry,” except perhaps the one for which you are battling a dog on the kitchen floor….
Which leads me to my feigned poutine overdose pose, sprawled on the floor as if in need of medical assistance. We tried the shot over and over, hoping to get just the right look of bloated excess, unconsciousness, and desperation; I lay face down with a few stray fries strewn just out of reach of my slack-jawed face, a few more fries clutched in my crabbed hand. Daisy, however, could not suspend her duties as floor monitor, and thus kept diving in, as terriers do, for the quarry. Rats, fries, whatev. After clunking heads and coming lip-to-lip many times, I realized it wasn’t working as planned, and it was also unfair to tempt the poor dear with floor fries next to an apparently dead body.
For me, there will always be a next time.
Poutine Coma, Take 1
Poutine Coma, Take 2
Poutine Coma, Take 3