There is a lot of singing at funerals.

I went to a funeral on Tuesday. I never met the deceased or his widow.

We went because it was a family death, my husband’s cousin’s husband.

He was 46. That is too young to die, especially of a coronary embolism.

Everything I now know about the man, I learned at his funeral. He was born in Nairobi, his father owns a hotel in Mombasa, he went to Oxford. He used to be an alcoholic, but was sober for 16 years before he died.

He was married, had a son, was divorced and then moved to America where he got married again. He worked at a church.

People loved him.

Oh, and his name was Max.

I don’t know what he looked like (I don’t view the dead if I didn’t know them in life…it’s too voyeuristic.)

I enjoyed the funeral (is that bad to say?)

It was transcendently beautiful. The church was a gigantic stone edifice on 5th Ave in Manhattan. The choir wore ruffled collars, and they sang. Beautifully.

I was struck by how much the singing human voice marks our passages through time.

Babies are sung to at their baptisms.

We are sung to at every anniversary of our birth.

Weddings are full of beautiful music.

And certainly, funerals; there is a lot of singing at funerals.

It’s like our voices were trying to reach him, or accompany him, or at the very least, mark that this happened…that HE happened.

Sweet

I like to think of myself as a good cook.  I really love baking and deserts and challenging recipes and all that.  What I’m about to show you will probably intimidate the shit out of you…but read on.

That would be my Genoise layer cake with lemon curd   filling and French butter cream.  Pretty gorgeous no?

Here, Let me show you a detail shot.

Oh yeah, I sure did use a miniature rosebud to decorate it (a la Flying Monkey).

Right about now you are probably quaking in your inferior oven mitts.

Quake not.  It was a disaster.  You see, this cake was intended to be the dessert for a little dinner party friends were throwing. These particular friends live in Germantown…on Lincoln Drive.  If you know Philadelphia, you probably know Lincoln Drive as the fastest, curviest road in the city…and it is.  Let me break this down for you.  Jeep Cherokee + Lincoln Drive + lemon curd = seismic shift.

My charmingly rustic gateau slipped and slid all over the place.  It was not pretty. (There is no photographic evidence of the event…thank god.)

So there I was with one hell of an ugly cake at one hell of a terrific dinner party.  No matter, as long as it tastes good, who cares what it looks like.

I was able to comfort myself with this thought all the way through dinner.  Then I sliced the cake.  It was…stiff? Impenetrable?  Hmmm, what is the right word for a cake having the consistency of hardened foam rubber?

It was embarrassing.  My dear son said as kindly as possible that it tasted like a lemony eraser.

Brett has Bionic Eyes

Brett invited me to his room last night. Sure there were 1000 other people at the Flight of the Conchords concert, but I know he was talking to me. I’m pretty sure we shared a ‘moment’. He must have, like, bionic eyesight since I was in the 4th row…in the balcony.

(But seriously, he said he was staying at the Sofitel in room 921.) You know that some poor roadie was harassed all night by star-struck drunken cougars.

The concert was jaw-droppingly amazing. Hubster and I BOTH laughed riotously, not necessarily at the same parts, but whatever, we don’t need to examine that too closely.

On the way home we spent the car ride discussing just what makes them so appealing.

You can easily imagine Jemaine and Brett back in their dorm room when you see their act. You don’t need to read their bios to “know” them.  Watching them is kind of like watching my friends John and Pete, but with guitars, and a script. They’ve perfected their selfconscious /imaginary world-influenced skit.

Last night they played all their hits.  If you don’t know them (like if you are poor and can’t afford HBO or something.) Watch them play “Business Time”.

The philly crowd received the Conchords well, especially since they apparently googled “Philadelphia culture’ before going on stage. There were plenty of shout outs to “West Philadelphia Born and Raised,” “Boys to Men,” and powdered wig-wearing “Ben Franklin.” The effort was mightily appreciated by their fans.  Shit, I screamed like a schoolgirl.

Last night I slept in my “Brunettes not Fighter Jets” tee, and had sweet sweet kiwi-filled dreams….

The Dog’s Dinner

I’m officially cooking for my dog now. Yep, that’s right. Home made meals from scratch. ORGANIC home made meals from scratch. HA!

Until Saturday, when I can get her new food from the vet, I’m making the dog’s dinner. Last night she had organic free-range chicken breast with Yukon Gold potatoes and La Seur baby peas. She had a little grilled salmon for dessert.

You see, my vet (and good friend) told me about the studies he has learned about the non-gluten food and their effect on seizures and he said that even the animals fed a high gluten diet can affect the dogs if used in their food, thus the whole free-range thing.

My husband is jealous. I haven’t been cooking for HIM at ALL lately. To be fair, that is mainly due to my whole oral surgery ordeal…that, and really…he COULD have made his own dinner. Not that that’s likely…just anatomically possible. Whereas the dog could not.

I promised him that if he ever starts to have seizures I will cook him boiled chicken and potatoes too. I know, I know, I’m a startling good wife.