Creepy, Creepier, Creepiest

I think I'm sufficiently chilled out--a mere 3 weeks later--to actually use words to express my recent experience with The Dark Knight rather than relying completely on pictures (yeah, the post from 21 July--the day I saw the movie--was one of those thousand-words'-worth deals).

Don't worry, no spoilers.

Macbeth and I decided to get Chicago dogs before walking to the movie since our plans for that kind of failed on our anniversary, so it was basically Anniversary Date, Take 2. We successfully got our dogs this time and also shared a strawberry shake and some fries. (Side note: although we ate the meal at 2:30pm, I wasn't hungry until the next day, and for me, that's really saying something!)

This detour to the hot dog stand is important to the story, though. Here's why:

We take our seats at Navy Pier's IMAX theatre and the movie begins. We see a man standing on the curb at an intersection. He is holding a mask. My brain is desperately trying to re-calibrate itself to take in the IMAX effects. Mac leans over and whispers, "Hey, we just passed that intersection!"

I gasp. I can see that he is quite right. So here we are, about 30 seconds into the movie, and I am officially creeped out. And guess what? I haven't recovered! Whenever I think of it, I get that creepy feeling all over again (not scared--I can't handle scared--just good ol' comfortable creepy). And if we hadn't stopped to eat hot dogs instead of making a beeline to the theatre from the bus stop, it wouldn't have happened!

The movie was fantastic and dark and I really would like to see it again. I've had three conversations about it with other people who like to dissect their films, each lasting at least half an hour. I've listened with horror as Mercutio, during a phone call, mimicked The Joker a little too well for my comfort. (Of all the people I want to talk to on the phone The Joker is probably last on my list. In fact, I think I'd rather talk to him in person, because then, at least, I could see what he's doing!) Seeing the movie events happen in the city we were actually watching it in was further coolness.

And I think I'd better stop now, before I get carried away. I did promise no spoilers and I want to keep my word. :)

The Supernatural Toe Episode

In keeping with Beatrice and Mercutio's recent posts, I will now post a childhood reminiscence of my own. This one is a memory involving three players, one of whom does not agree that events fell out as follows:

Setting: Summer, 1985. Backyard patio of cute little suburban rental home. Late afternoon. I am counting Beatrice's toes. Only something goes amiss.

Me: One, two, three, four . . . hey, Bea, you're missing a toe! Did I count right? Mercutio, come over here and count her toes.

Mercutio (counting Bea's toes): One, two, three, four--

Mercutio and I exchange concerned looks.

Mercutio (to Beatrice): Wiggle your toes. Are you hiding one?

Beatrice (wiggling toes): No. Not hiding.

Me: One, two, three, four--look, it's this one next to her pinky toe that's missing.

We count one more time just to be sure. Still only four.

Me (a little disturbed): Mom! MOOOOOOOM! Beatrice is missing a toe! She only has four!

The end of the story is that we counted Bea's toes again the next day, and she had all five. I know this cannot be possible, but Mercutio and I both remember it this way (unless he's changed his mind recently). Beatrice still insists that we must just be mistaken.

Guess it falls under the category of childhood mysteries.

Bunbury

Bunbury is the imaginary friend of Algernon Moncrieff in Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest. He (Bunbury, that is) has been on my mind lately because Horatio has been saying bumby a lot in the past few days. British accent included, it sounds a lot like Bunbury.

But I couldn't figure out what Horatio means when he says it. Ridiculously, I began to worry that it's a sign that, when he grows up, he'll be an incurable Bunburyist like Algy and invent a friend to excuse his gallivanting off to the countryside to make mischief.

Today, as he reached for his oatmeal, he said it again. "Bumby! Bumby!" he yelled from his high chair. I started guessing what it could mean. Again. "Give that to me right now?" maybe. Hmmm.

Then I had my revelation. Hungry! Bumby means hungry.

For a moment I felt better--until I realized that this is another clue that Horatio will be a Bunburyist. Now I'm worrying that when he is sad, Horatio will gobble all our muffins in a greedy manner when we have tea parties (just like Algy). Or that when he invites his aunt over for the afternoon there will be no cucumber sandwiches because he has eaten them all already, so then he will make his butler lie that there are no cucumbers at the market--"not even for ready money"--and the promised eats that his aunt loves will not be served. (Just like Algy.)

*sigh*

All right. Well, maybe it's been a day of taking mother-worry a bit too far. That does happen. But while I'm at it, I'd like to recommend to anyone who has not seen The Importance of Being Earnest on DVD with Colin Firth and Rupert Everett (not to mention Judi Dench!) to watch it. It's pretty jolly entertainment and worth at least one viewing. Second-best to seeing it live!

On the Beach

We live near a beach. Actually, I think it only counts as a beach for Chicago. If you're from California, you'd probably call it sandy pebble patch. But we love this little lakeside place. It's kind of noisy since it's right by a main highway. It's kind of littered with garbage (although that's at a minimum this year!). But it's just a bit of refuge from ultra-urban, and it's just a few minutes' walk from our home, so we visit as often as we can.

Top photo: Horatio hates the sand part of sandals, so Macbeth helps him get accustomed.
2nd photo: Horatio and me with Lake Michigan, complete with Chicago skyline as backdrop.
3rd photo: Katherina chooses rocks for throwing into the lake.

And now for a tangent in honour of Lake Michigan itself: if any who read this blog have not heard "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot, I highly recommend that you give it a listen.

Pie in the Sky

Not a flaming pie like John Lennon's. Just a regular cherry pie. And it used to be my arch-nemesis. Think of the three fairies from Disney's Sleeping Beauty cooking without their wands and you will be getting the idea of what I can be like when baking.

Flash back several years to Thanksgiving

Since Thanksgiving is the traditional pie-making time in my family, I'm trying to make a pie crust. I have the help of Rosaline.
Things are not going well.
The ice water isn't working.
The dough isn't clumping.
In fact, the so-called dough is basically a crumbly and gross mess.

"Help!" we yelp. Portia comes to the rescue. Portia is like the three fairies when they do have their wands. She can just look at a pastry and it will form itself into shape. Any shape she likes. Pie-plate shape!

So we were saved. That time. This is but a snapshot of my Thanksgiving-pie-making experience.

Flash forward to Thanksgiving 2 years ago

Rosaline is visiting for Thanksgiving. We know our history. We know what we must not do. I choose to make a pumpkin-hazelnut chiffon pie based on the fact that the crust is made of gingersnaps, not pie dough.

A week later, I am craving the cherry pie I did not get at Thanksgiving. I go to the store, buy a refrigerated crust and a can of cherry pie filling and plop them into a dish at home and bake. Then I ate it. Satisfactory? I think not.

Flash forward to June 2008

Got that cherry pie craving again! I saw a photo of a pie on a magazine and cherries are at their peak. I tell myself I do not need to compare myself to fairies who bake terribly. I will go forth and conquer! I find a recipe that calls for sweet cherries (since that's what's available here) and choose the 4th of July as an appropriate setting for my attempt to wrestle my pie-crust demon.

Final flash: 4th of July

The stage is set: we are post-picnic the evening of the fourth. The pie is cut, dessert is served. And . . .

. . . it's a success! Unmitigated success! I revel in the glorious compliments I receive as I eat my own slice of pie. Our guests exclaim over and over again how marvelous it is. My culinary friend whose tastes I respect most highly said (and I have permission to quote her exactly), "This is the best pie crust I have ever eaten!"

Best of all was Macbeth's look from across the table as he ate. It is a look I crave even more than cherry pie, and when I saw that look, I knew I could make anything I wanted.

Except cake.

Tongues of Flame

Macbeth has a taste for spicy food. Really spicy food. He's the kind of guy who likes to try the hottest thing on the menu when we're out to eat. When he says, "This is delicious!" I can't say anything at all because my lips are numb. I like spicy, but I do not like torture.

Mac has said that when he was a kid, he didn't like spicy food and wondered that anyone would eat it. I figured that's a typical kid thing and that they have sensitive taste buds or some other something that makes them avoid spice heat.

And yet, perhaps not.

Last Saturday, Macbeth went grocery shopping, as usual, but because a holiday is coming up and Doritos are on sale, he came home with quite a variety of flavours, among them Spicy Habañero. Since only he can eat those, he opened them first. But somehow Horatio got hold of the bag and came out with an ambitious little fistful--3 chips--which he stuck in his mouth. We shouted and scrambled to get the chips away and plied him with cold milk to prevent the inevitable wailing.

Then the oddity came: he didn't wail. He didn't bat at his tongue. He refused the milk. He ate as much chip as he could before we pried the rest out of his hand and became extremely grumpy (read: Horatio-fit) when we wouldn't give them back.

He wanted the chips. He liked them.

"Are his taste buds already dead?" his spice-sensitive auntie would ask.

I guess it's a fair question. Maybe his tongue is a scandalous aberration, a blot on the escutcheon of childhood need for mild food. But then again, maybe his culinary tastes are just advanced for a 15-month-old.