I’d been reading raves about Dominique Ropion’s ‘Cologne Indelebile’ and its lasting power, which for a neroli-based scent is a striking aspect, worthy of note. It announces its name definitively, without asking or requesting, content to state itself without any other option for dispute. Yet it does so in the most elegant and refined manner, not flopping excessively about with its sweetness, or departing after one whiff. Its neroli notes are reminiscent of any number of similarly-themed scents, but this has a surprisingly long life on my skin (consider it the powerhouse version of Tom Ford’s Neroli Portofino, with a more masculine slant).
Don’t ask me why I paired the packaging with a peony for these photos, other than the simple fact that I loved the pink juxtaposed beside the fiery orange. I suppose in certain peonies there is a hint of tea and spice, just as there is the slightest hint of such elements in the Cologne Indelebile, so perhaps they are bound together in ways not initially or outwardly detectable after all. Everything happens for a reason. There are no accidents.
For the summer of 2018, this is an auspicious beginning, and a signature scent that recalls summers past with anticipation and citrus vibrations of what’s yet to come. A nod to the before and after.
Two words that hold power and meaning, no matter how awful.
Two words that, when put together, are going to cause a lot of trouble.
Two words that Robert DeNiro said on last night’s Tony Awards:
Fuck Trump.
And I couldn’t agree more.
It’s time.
It’s time to resist everything to do with Donald Trump.
It’s time to stop all that he’s trying to do. There are no more passes to be given. There are no more opportunities to meet him halfway. He has burned all those bridges, and now he’s burning our standing in the world.
He has endangered our citizens, our country, and our earth with his utter ineptitude at being President. It wasn’t enough that he lost the popular vote, that he gleefully welcomed intrusion by Russia in the election, in the e-mails, in all the things we don’t even know about yet, he then had to take the vaunted office of President – an office once respected and honored the entire world over – and burn it to the ground. He’s destroying our economy and bankrupting America like he’s done with all his companies. Our deficit is the largest it has ever been. He’s stoking division and inciting hatred among our people. He is morally corrupt, mean, petty, and abusive.
What’s worse is that we have let it happen.
And we continue to let it happen.
It should have been stopped in the Republican primaries.
It should have been stopped in the general election.
It should have been stopped every day he has occupied that office.
But it hasn’t been.
The only way to do that is to resist everything Trump. The media needs to stop writing him free passes. The GOP needs to stop being silently complicit in what he has done and stop their support. The Democrats need to stop playing the traditional political game and realize he will never play fair. The American people need to stop excusing and normalizing what he has done.
We all must stop him at every turn.
It’s the only way.
This is how you deal with a dictator.
And so I say, “Fuck you, Donald Trump.”
Fuck you for all the evil you have unleashed in our country and in the world.
Fuck you for all the hate you have condoned, promoted and released.
Fuck you for all your lies, your hypocrisy, your racism, your intolerance, and your ignorance.
Fuck you for defiling the office of the President and making posts like this necessary.
Joe’s Pub at The Public, June 9, 2018 – 9:30 PM
The slightly restless sonic soundscape of ‘Ecotopia’ signals that this won’t be the usual night of standards by a typical Broadway chanteuse, but Betty Buckley has always been much more than that. Never content to tread the same old boards, she tries death-defying vocal aerobics and challenging interpretations of songs she loves, story songs in which she believes. If you’re brave enough to come along for the ride, the rewards are rich and ample. She’s also got a backing band that does justice to her wide-ranging selections, as evidenced in that opening piece of evocative, contemplative and deliciously moody music. The only way to find hope is to go through some dark places, and dark places have always inspired some of the best songs.
She kicks things off with the ambivalent ‘Any Major Dude Will Tell You’ in which she struts the stage in her high-heeled black boots and enough swagger to knock out any Scoundrel-in-Chief; clearly, Ms. Buckley came to slay, and we came to swoon. More than just telling a story with music, Buckley absolutely inhabits her songs, evidenced by moments when she was clearly moved – and we are moved in return.She has mastered the art of connecting to an audience on an emotional level and at such times, as in the transcendent and exquisite ‘Chanson’, she manages to turn Joe’s Pub into a church, stilling the bustle and holding the room absolutely rapt at this wonder of an artistic vessel. (A simple ‘Mmm-hmm’ near the beginning of Lisa Loeb’s gorgeous ‘Falling in Love’, a throwaway sigh that might be barely noticeable if sung by anyone else, is given a world of emotion in Buckley’s heartbreaking reading.) Complemented by a band that seems to have an innate understanding of Ms. Buckley’s wide-ranging musical skills and styling, the evening is anchored by the brilliant Christian Jacob, whose intuitive arrangements and piano work prove a marvelous extension of Buckley’s own musical instincts.
The hymn-like ‘Hope’ by Jason Robert Brown is the centerpiece and elegiac heart of the show, an antidote to our ever-dimming world, even as it struggles with its primal ambition: how does one find hope in such a world?
‘I come to sing a song about hope
I’m not inspired much right now
But even so
I came out here to sing a song
So here I go
I guess I think that if I tinker long enough
One might appear
And look it’s here
One verse is done, the work’s begun’
In a year in which so many have been left hopeless, the mere act of trying, of getting up and getting dressed is its own act of rebellion and resistance, its own form of fighting back. When one looks back upon Buckley’s astounding career, and the many curves and unlikely roads it has taken, it is clear she knows of what she sings. When she pauses, and Mr. Jacob’s piano work carries Mr. Brown’s sweet sounds and melancholy lyrics across the night, it is a moment of delicate bittersweet joy. This is the Artist, come to grieve, and come to heal. She didn’t even need to explain; every person in that room understood.
Now more than ever, Buckley’s message that no one is better, or, more importantly, less than anyone else informs her shows in ways that belie the multiple standing ovations she gets throughout the evening. That may be the essence of the ‘Hope album: honoring the experience of everybody. It’s there in the characters she brings to life, and the way her own life experience in turn informs her performance. It is, in essence, the very purpose of art. To resonate. To reveal. To connect.
That kind of connection begins with the close-knit group of musicans she has assembled. They are tightly in tune with her rollicking journey here, and each gets a little spotlight at some point in the evening. The most glorious moments, however, may be when everyone is working together in rockers like ‘Don’t Take Me Alive’, when all cylinders are firing away with locomotive-like might. It as at such times that the driving drums of Dan Rieser, the slinky fluid bass of Tony Marino, and the rapturous rock-star licks of guitarist Oz Noy coalesce with Jacob’s piano genius, finally getting their chance to let go as in the rousing ‘I Feel Lucky’. A difficult but wondrously-executed take on Paul Simon’s ‘Quiet’ demonstrates the trust within this group of musicians, with Buckley’s voice soaring over the meditative lyrics.
A touching memory of Gilda Radner sets up a moving version of ‘Prisoner in Disguise’ and she brings the audience through the heartbreak and loss with a brittle bit of beauty and a delicate balm of soothing vocals. Maybe that’s where we will find the hope that sometimes feels so elusive these days: in the way we share with each other, in the same way Buckley has shared her voice and her talent over the years.
Rather than keep it dangling there, however, she offers a coda of release and relief, and a wink at what happiness might just yet come. ‘Young At Heart’ was the requisite encore, and a neat nod to where she is heading. As she prepares to embark on a much-anticipated U.S. tour of ‘Hello, Dolly!’ Ms. Buckley ends on a positive and nostalgic note, a blissful ending to an evening of musical enchantment.When it dawns on her that she won’t be playing Joe’s Pub for a while, she pauses wistfully in the realization, and some of us felt the slightest twinge of sadness that there won’t be a fall show this year. But sometimes it is best to share such wonderful talent with others, to spread the message of hope that she so expertly managed to capture, if just for a night, with the sheer happy exuberance of doing what she loves and doing it so well. It is only fair for her to take that joy on the road, across a nation that needs it like never before.
Besides, a meadowlark sings best when she is free.
Every year it happens in the same way: as soon as the buds come out, I wonder why I originally envisioned them to be so much bigger than they appeared. It’s only with the lilacs, which makes it initially the most disappointing. My mind recalls the bodacious bouquets of my childhood, when the blooms filled and spilled out of their vases to perfume whatever lucky room got to show them off.
As is sometimes the case, I jump the gun in judgment and in disappointment. I always forget how much those buds fill out once they burst into bloom, the way a bunch of balloons becomes something glorious from a paltry pile of rubber.
With these Korean lilacs – smaller of stature but just as potent of scent – the buds are even smaller, but manage to blossom into something full and eye-catching. But don’t take my prose for it, see for yourself.
Of course, these are slightly airier than their American counterparts, which truly fill out into a solid pom-pom of bloom. I like the delicate display here, however, especially at a time of the year when everything is shouting to be noticed.
These flowers only shout with their perfume, and it’s a delicious noise at that.
It is less sharp than the American version, and not so instantly detectable. It’s sweeter in other ways too, particularly when it deigns to re-bloom nearer the fall – something that is an occasional surprise at a time of the year when it’s most needed.
The form and structure of these shrubs are more manageable and neat than the usual lilacs we have here, and they are ferociously resistant to the mildew that creeps into the American hybrids, making them quite useful in the landscape.
Though they are just finishing up, they’ve lasted for a decent time. Some years their show is hastened by hot weather. There are benefits to when the spring cools down and pauses.
SHE HEARD THAT INTO EVERY LIFE A LITTLE OF IT MUST FALL,
SO SHE SPENDS HER EVENINGS PRAYING
FOR A LITTLE OF THAT SOUTHERN RAIN.
~ COWBOY JUNKIES, ‘OUTHERN RAIN’
The planning was just as important as the operation itself, and if we were going to pull it all off we’d need precision. Such things required tact and foresight, reservations and schedules ~ the very things I found most appealing to a proper Virgo. In the late spring of 1992, we made our way to Boston to implement the planning stage of a European visit that would find us attending a two-part New York/Finland wedding of a family friend, while bringing Suzie back from Denmark after her year abroad had come to an end. We had survived, friendship-wise, through a steady stream of letters sent back and forth over the Atlantic ocean. Not that I had ever doubted our friendship or placemark in each other’s life ~ we were family and never to be torn apart ~ but a year, and half a world away, can change things no matter how much you hope it won’t, especially when you’re only sixteen years old. But before we made it to that reunion we needed to plan…
We arrived, in a bit of rain as I recall, at the home of Suzie’s relative Susan who would be joining us for the expedition. She was hosting the dinner in which we would begin to hatch the plan for our trip. There was another event that coincided with and gave additional impetus for the trip: a wedding in Finland for one of the first Ko exchange students. Now, part of our contingent for the trip was assembling: my Mom, Suzie’s Mom (in Boston while she was taking a course to become a Montessori school teacher), and Susan.
We sat at the table eating a delicious and simple tortellini plate while a Cowboy Junkies album played in the background. Plans were made, dates were plotted, and cities were designated. It was my kind of meal: good food and future planning. Surrounded by adults, part of me still wished Suzie was there, hanging onto our childhoods because what boy or girl can do such a thing alone, but part of me was giddy at being at the adult table. That part of me had never been able to wait to grow up. Now that I was entering adulthood, I was simultaneously enchanted and scared. Even so, I couldn’t wait. I wanted culture and worldly experience. I wanted to see what was beyond the small confines of Amsterdam, New York and the Mohawk Valley. Mostly, I wanted to see my friend again, see how we had changed, see where we might still go.
It had not been an easy year away for Suzie. I feared her sorrow and pain perhaps more than I feared my own. My hurts were petty and insignificant when placed beside hers, and what she had gone through terrified me. Losing her Dad so early and unexpectedly, then going to Denmark and being without her own family a few months afterward ~ I couldn’t get my head around how she could do that, but I remember talking to her about it, and how she said it might be the best thing after everything that had happened. She couldn’t know her new host father would die so soon after her arrival, and it must have seemed like she couldn’t escape death or shadow for that whole year.
In my usual knack for timing, my own brushes with suicide didn’t help matters, and in retrospect they feel foolish and selfish. I couldn’t see that then, and when Suzie called me around Christmas that year, when I was in a truly despondent state and had written as much to her, I pretended everything was ok when it really wasn’t. She jolted me into saving myself, at least for the moment.
A RIVER TO THE SOUTH
TO WASH AWAY ALL SINS.
A COLLEGE TO THE EAST OF US
TO LEARN WHERE SIN BEGINS.
A GRAVEYARD TO THE WEST OF IT ALL
WHICH I MAY BE SOON BE LYING IN.
~ COWBOY JUNKIES, ‘OREGON HILL’
Her name was in the Cowboy Junkies song still playing as dinner finished. It was an early-spring night. Winter had only just departed, but warmth was in the Boston breeze that accompanied some of the rain. We talked of castles and lakes, of a two-part wedding in New York and Finland that would unite two people, two countries and two cultures, and all the logistics of how it would work. For a quick moment, I felt a slight trepidation in going. Two moody teenagers don’t necessarily make for an easy way of getting along, even if we’d always felt like brother and sister, even if we were standing within the glow of a gorgeous wedding on a lake in Finland.
Outside, the rain slowed. At the table a round of coffee filled the space with the closing scent of a grown-up dinner party, of which I was now, ready or not, a part. I asked for the name of the CD that was playing and made a mental note of it for later. Memories were made from scents and music, as much as from love. A trip is only as good as its planning stages, and as we finalized our European plan, including a few stops in Russia, and a cast of characters whom I would quickly come to adore, I knew it was going to be good. Better than good; this would be life-changing.
LORD, YOU PLAY A HARD GAME, YOU KNOW WE FOLLOW EVERY RULE.
THEN YOU TAKE THE ONE THING WE THOUGHT WE’D NEVER LOSE.
ALL I ASK IS IF SHE’S WITH YOU, PLEASE KEEP HER WARM AND SAFE
AND IF IT’S IN YOUR POWER PLEASE PURGE THE MEMORY OF THIS PLACE.
THIS LIFE HOLDS IT SECRETS LIKE A SEASHELL HOLDS THE SEA,
SOFT AND DISTANT, CALLING LIKE A FADING MEMORY.
THIS LIFE HAS ITS VICTORIES BUT ITS DEFEATS TEAR SO VICIOUSLY.
THIS LIFE HOLDS ITS SECRETS LIKE THE SEA.
~ COWBOY JUNKIES ‘THIS STREET, THAT MAN, THIS LIFE’
After that dinner, when we’d gotten back to upstate New York, I found the Cowboy Junkies album ‘Black-Eyed Man’ and set it spinning on repeat as spring ripened into summer and the wait until our trip left me in a happy state of anticipation. I went to bed with the ethereal voice of Margo Timmins sounding over my prayers, and she woke me as the sun streamed into my childhood bedroom. The promise of summer tapped like the hawthorne branch against the window. There was other music that would come to personify that summer ~ ‘This Used To Be My Playground‘ for wonderful instance ~ but the Cowboy Junkies album would be the one that resonated the most. A collection of story songs that touched on the forlorn and the forgotten, it came with a lining of love ~ ambivalent love, but love nonetheless. It was a musical map of emotions, perfect for two haunted teenagers about to abandon their youth.
There had been many times when I wished Suzie had been with me during the year she was in Denmark. On New Year’s Day, faced with a house of extended family, I laid in bed dreading the walk downstairs and the social interactions that would be required. I didn’t have a name or explanation for such social anxiety at the time, and in the past all those holiday stresses were eased because Suzie was there. As soon as dinner was done I retreated upstairs and wrote her a letter. It was a habit I’d continued religiously because it was my only outlet during the maelstrom of a sixteen-year-old’s junior year of high school. As we finished the first part of the wedding in New York, and our plane flew us into Finland, I wondered whether I had revealed too much. It’s easy to pour your heart out to someone when they’re a world away. In a rare moment of unguarded non-planning, I hadn’t thought out how I might feel that someone knew everything I shared with the quiet non-response and non-judgment of paper and stamps, and that someone was returning to the States armed with all my secrets.
There was one quick moment of awkwardness that passed the instant we hugged, and it was the last time I’d ever feel awkward with her. A year apart, when we’d both had so much growing up to do, would change us more than we’d ever change between visits, and neither of us knew whether the other had turned into an unbearable asshole.
She had cut off her trademark ponytail while she was away. I would see it later that summer in a box, saved for a doll that her cousin would make. It was like a carcass, a body that had long ago let go of its soul. In that headless braid was our childhood, intertwined and neatly tied at each end, as if a colorful ribbon could make it pretty enough to distract from all the heartache it held.
On the night of the wedding, we held birch branches aloft in a make-do arch right after the happy couple had come ashore from being rowed across an impossibly-beautiful lake. It was the stuff of fairy tales, and felt far from our reach. We had not yet fallen in love with anyone, and neither of us was in any rush for it. We stepped out of the boisterous revelry for a moment and walked by the lake. What we were saying or talking about wasn’t important, at least not important enough to remember, and most likely we were just being silly and laughing, not quite ready to step into adulthood despite our ill-fitting grown-up outfits. (The picture here was taken before or after that quick walk.)
The green and silver tokens of the birch trees fluttered in the breeze. The lake, mostly still, barely lapped at its shore, asleep for the night. Far from home, in a land I’d never known, surrounded by happy strangers, I felt safe. Because of Suzie.
From that summer day she shared her grape taffy beneath a grape arbor, to the time she shut my fingers in the car window en route to ‘Mary Poppins’, from the late-night talks we had in high school, college, and beyond, through the moves and homes, the marriages and divorces, and all the births and the deaths, Suzie has been home for me. No matter what happens, no matter where we go, she is that space of safety and security, the one sure thing in a world of ever-receding certainty.
WE ALL GOT HOLES TO FILL AND THEM HOLES ARE ALL THAT’S REAL
SOME FALL ON YOU LIKE A STORM, SOMETIMES YOU DIG YOUR OWN
BUT CHOICE IS YOURS TO MAKE, TIME IS YOURS TO TAKE
They are in their full glory right now, but the “blooms†of a dogwood tree are one of those wonderful journeys of nature that begins in the high heat of summer, when the buds are first formed and kept hidden, secret, and as safe as they can possibly be. They stay in the tips of the branches, nothing more than a swollen end to indicate that something so precious is stored there, and if they’re lucky, and the winter winds aren’t too rough, they’ll survive into the spring.
As the days elongate and the temperatures ascend, they slowly unfurl, first with these bracts, then with the actual flower (the insignificant little buds barely seen here). Those bracts are what we perceive as the “flowerâ€, and in the dogwood’s case (not unlike another bract beauty, the poinsettia) they are where the real beauty originates.
A bonus is that they last much longer than an actual flower petal would, extending the vision of late spring prettiness they so magically encompass. The bright green of them will soon be a gorgeous light cream color, fluttering against a blue sky like so many butterflies.
Tomorrow night a dream comes true as I finally get to hear Betty Buckley sing live again – a first since the mid-1990’s for me, as I always seemed unable to coordinate enough to get to one of her shows. This time Andy is joining me in New York for her Saturday night performance at Joe’s Pub, and we are super-excited. Having been a fan since her triumphant reign as Norma Desmond in ‘Sunset Boulevard’, I’ve enjoyed every album she’s made, as well as her turns on the big and little screens. Yet I’ve always felt her greatest way of reaching people has been through live performance.
She’ll get to wow audiences across the nation when she takes the helm of ‘Hello, Dolly!’ later this year and I’m already plotting out how many cities we might visit to catch her in the title role. Though some of her work is decidedly (and deliciously) macabre (check out ‘Carrie’ and the upcoming ‘Preacher’), I have a sneaking suspicion she’ll make a grand comedienne – and she certainly has the vocal prowess to stun the largest theater into gleeful submission.
As for her performance at Joe’s Pub, I’ve already reserved a special spot on this blog for a write-up before we take our summer hiatus, so stay tuned for that. When you have the chance to hear an angel sigh, you must listen. For so many reasons Ms. Buckley has been that vocal angel for me, and tomorrow we’ll get to hear her take flight.
Here’s the blurb from Joe’s Pub:
Betty Buckley — the Tony Award winning Broadway legend — will return to Joe’s Pub at the Public to celebrate  Palmetto Records release of her inspirational new album Hope, recorded live at Joe’s last Fall. This exclusive four-concert engagement coincides with her debut as Madame L’Angelle in the  AMC hit television show “Preacher”.  The third season begins June 25.  The four concerts at Joe’s also preface her rehearsals this summer as she begins work for her starring role in the first National Tour of the smash Tony-winning revival of Hello, Dolly!Â
Highlights at Joe’s Pub will include the album’s inspiring title song by Jason Robert Brown, selections from the seminal jazz rock fusion group, Steely Dan; Buckley’s favorite singer/songwriters Paul Simon, T Bone Burnett, Joni Mitchell and Mary Chapin Carpenter and classic pop standards. Hope, Buckley’s eighteenth album, features her quartet of musicians including the renowned multi-Grammy-nominated Christian Jacob, Buckley’s long-term Pianist, Arranger and Music Director, and guitarist Oz Noy on guitar, Tony Marino on bass and Dan Rieser on drums.
Hope will first be available for sale at Buckley’s concerts. The in-store and online release date is June 8. Pre order for the album is available here.
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
MY GUY IS SENTIMENTAL,
HE’S ALWAYS FEELING BLUE
HE CAN BE SO TEMPERAMENTAL
AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT I SHOULD DO…
It’s hard to leave a good impression when you’re on the same album that birthed ‘Vogue’ and included Madonna’s first (and thus far only) collaboration with Stephen Sondheim. But when you throw in a silly song and awfully-affected vocal stylings, you’re practically doomed. Such is the case with ‘Cry Baby’, a song that adheres roughly to the theatrical bent of the entire ‘I’m Breathless’ experience, but is the album’s resounding dud. (Even ‘I’m Going Bananas’ was a notch or two higher on the low rungs of the Madonna canon, though that isn’t saying much.)
I DON’T WANT TO HURT HIS FEELINGS
BUT HIS OUTBURSTS HAVE ME REELING
BOO-A-HOO-HOOING ALL THE TIME
IF I TURN OUT LIKE HIM I THINK I’M GONNA
CRY BABY!
At the time, the whole world knew that Madonna was dating Warren Beatty. Whether or not this song is about him remains a mystery that will likely linger beyond the point where anyone really cares. Hell, we may already be there. But rumor had it he was on the whiny side, and this only fueled that fire. As for the musical merit of everything happening here, it’s catchier than it has any right to be, even if it gets bogged down by Madonna’s own boo-hooing, and it’s another character she can add to the rich pastiche of the whole ‘I’m Breathless’ brouhaha.
They bloomed later this year thanks to our lingering winter weather. They didn’t need to be so accommodating, as we stayed home on the Memorial Day weekend when they’d usually burst forth into full bloom all at once. I like the later bloom period. It slows things down. Let us rush madly through the end of fall and all of winter, but let the spring stay as long as she can. Let the beauty remain. As long as possible…
I spent the early-afternoons of many a summer in front of the television, watching the NBC soap opera line-up of ‘Days of Our Lives’, ‘Another World’ and ‘Santa Barbara’. My grandmother had gotten me into ‘Days’ ~ the rest just naturally followed suit. They appealed to my ingrained love for all things dramatic. It also offered a cool respite from the hottest part of the day, and even as a kid I could appreciate the luxury of lounging in air-conditioned splendor, sipping languidly from a tall glass of sweetened iced tea, popping in a raspberry flavored piece of hard candy in-between sips.
These days, I’ve switched from soap operas to Real Housewives, from iced tea to prosecco, but the general idea of summer freedom remains. I paired this bit of bubbly stuff with a bowl of cherries, and it’s my new favorite thing. Sitting by the pool, lazily turning the pages of a book, and letting the day pass blissfully by…
Contrary to what many people might expect, I’m not high maintenance when it comes to a hotel room in New York City. What I want, more than a trendy hotel bar, billion-thread-count sheets or chocolates on the pillow is a simple respite from the street. A room, ideally with a view, that provides a comfort in a city that can be wild and crazy in the best and worst ways.
Fulfilling that for this weekend will be the Kimpton Hotel Eventi, which will be host to Andy and I while we attend a Betty Buckley concert, as it’s slightly closer to the venue than our usual Muse. The latter has always been wonderful, especially when seeing a show on Broadway, but it’s good to expand our accommodation knowledge, and Kimpton knows how to do hospitality right.
Whether it’s the Muse in Manhattan or the jewel of the Topaz in DC, Kimpton properties have consistently provided charm and a unique verve that sets them apart from other hotels. There’s nothing cookie-cutter about them, which makes each property a singular work of art. Best of all, their customer service has been impeccable.
Before the summer, and often during, rain is what keeps the gardens and the lawns and the trees alive. We do not mourn it or curse it just yet. Our summer has not yet begun. On with the last week…
Nobody wants to stand over a hot stove for anything more than ten or fifteen minutes during the warmer months, and that;s about the length of prep and cooking time for this easy summer pasta dish. I’m not going to bother with specifics – you can probably find it online, or Crotchety Carl can figure it out for you. This is just some olive oil, chopped onion, asparagus spears, a dose of prosecco, fresh parsley, then butter and freshly grated parmesan. It’s light, but surprisingly rich. Elegant and decadent. The very best parts of a coming summer.
(Important recipe note: it is mandatory to drink a glass or two of the prosecco while cooking. It won’t taste as good if you don’t.)
What is this summer’s popcorn movie? I’ve been out of the loop and ignoring the pop culture landscape of late. I think ‘Infinity War’ came too soon to be a proper summer movie. I’m looking for the next sleeper hit – like ‘The Others’ or some similar, off-kilter fare. Of course, I’m also willing to make-do with the return of Jurassic World, but the previews look too cheesy to be any good. (A dinosaur at the foot of a child’s bed? There’s just so much belief I can suspend.)
