The Lonely Detective just got lonelier. Click the comic if you don’t believe.
I was organizing my papers (something which is now a full time job and brings enormous satisfaction and wastes a lot of time which I could use in doing something useful, but I love it) when I came across a brochure from a motel/restaurant called “The Gobbler” in Wisconsin. The building itself is shaped like a turkey’s head and the windows are its eyes. The restaurant’s interior was (how can it still exist?) wall-to-wall carpet covered with tiny pastel turkeys. There was a raised bar covered in shag carpeting which revolved slowly, perfectly timed for nausea.
We had traveled for hours looking for the perfect restaurant and finally the four of us, famished, drove in and took a table. I ordered my favorite meal: turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes and stuffing. It arrived cold. I sent it back, receiving a dirty look from the waitress. When I got it back the second time it was still ice cold. I passed it to a male friend who was known to eat anything. He ate it. I took the empty plate back and put it in front of me.
The waitress came back and glared at me, “I know what you did.”
Donna sent me this email in response to my “Gobbler” brochure.
I am delighted to have the memento of The Gobbler. Thank you. Thinking back on that day reminds me of one of my important rules for life: If one is brave enough to go beyond “pretty bad experience” into the territory of “too dreadful for words” one is likely to wind up with a memory worth keeping.
Here’s something sweet from “Female Problems: An Unhelpful Guide.”
I couldn’t agree more.
The first time I saw Martha Stewart, I was idly watching television, as opposed to watching television and reading and eating at the same time, which I feel makes watching television okay. I was clutching the remote, because normally I don’t care about cooking shows. I like them better than cowboy movies, but not much.
I once took a Chinese cooking class, memorable because of the wonderful food our teacher prepared and because we drank bock beer with that lovely food. I was always slightly buzzed after those classes. I had no intention of ever duplicating any of those recipes at home, but everyone was taking notes, so I did too.
A friend of mine, who was somewhat like Martha Stewart (only into sex, not crafts), borrowed my notes once. I explained to her that they were probably unreadable. I can’t imagine why I gave them to her. Maybe I hoped they weren’t as coherent as I thought, or that she, being so perfect, could interpret them. They were covered with spots as well, and my friend was petulant when she returned them. They were pronounced illegible. I knew then that I was doomed to eat other people’s creations and never receive compliments on my own, and somehow I have lived with that.
Anyway, Martha was making a French dessert when I tuned in, and in a matter of minutes her intensity had pinned my against the wall and had loosed the remote from my nerveless fingertips.
This French dessert, this croquenbouche, involved constructing hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny cream puffs, filling each with a chocolate espresso cream – injected into the puffs with a 1/4 –inch pastry tip – then individually dipping each puff into caramel syrup and piling the puffs higher and higher into the towering pyramid and then, using a modified balloon whisk (Martha modified that balloon whisk right in front of me with huge steel clippers…. My hands were shaking. No man could have watched it.), whirling cobwebby strands of caramels around and around the pyramid until the whole creepy edifice would not have been out of place in Great Expectations on Miss Havisham’s nuptial table – the table that’s been right there in her room lo these many years with the food untouched and petrified since she was jilted on her wedding day.
I’ve loved Martha ever since I first saw her. I love Christopher Walken, too. But I don’t need to have dinner with either of them.