It's upon me. The end of the Santa Fe Opera season. And while I may not be as exhausted as the orchestra, La boheme was exhausting in its own right. 13 performances, and another 10 or so additional services. 3 months. Here's my wrap up:
Number of times carpooled: 3
Number of speeding tickets narrowly avoided: 1
Number of times the Sicilian was awake upon my return: 4
Number of coffee and cookies purchased on the way up: 20 coffees, 6 cookies
Number of emails addressed to Ladies and Gentlemen of the Boheme Banda: 9
Number of times my phone died on a conversation driving up: 3
Number of dead dogs with rigor mortis that had obviously died falling out of their owner's truck: 1
Number of times called #DWI: 1
Number of times made fun of because of the fat suit: every time
Number of times made fun of because of my giggle: 4
Number of times unable to hold my embouchure because of smiling at guests in audience: 2
Number of amazing sunsets that brought me to tears: 1
Albums most listened to on the drive: Panda Bear's Person Pitch, Of Montreal's Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?
Number of performances that I absolutely loved what I was doing: 13
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Summer breeze...makes me feel hungry
The Sicilian and I were driving aimlessly the other day, and tired with the music selections in the car, decided to listen to the radio for a bit. NPR was broadcasting listener's favorite summer foods and food memories, which naturally led to a discussion of our own.
There was a farm down the road from where I grew up that had seasonal u-pick. In the autumn, it was pumpkins; winter was christmas trees; summer was blueberries. We'd get in the wood paneled minivan with our big Costco buckets and spend an afternoon filling them up with the berries, getting sunburned and predictably eating ourselves silly along the way. I'm quite picky regarding blueberries: they must be raw, they must taste of herbs and earth, they must be sweet and small. Yes, I will cook them if I have to, but I will only take such measures if the blueberries are past their prime. When I do cook them, I usually do a rip on the fantastic blueberry-nectarine pie recipe in Baking With Julia. I don't have specific measurements, as I generally make enough filling for whatever pastry needs I have at the time. I have made personal galettes, I have made deep-dish pies, I have made fancy looking tarts, and on and on. Once, I shared an entire pie with the Sicilian straight out of the oven at 10 o'clock at night.
Pick through blueberries, taking care to pick out the cute little stems that are sometimes still attached. Rinse, popping a few in your mouth along the way.
Split the total amount of blueberries to be used in half.
In a smallish saucepan, combine half of the blueberries with some orange or lemon zest and juice, nutmeg and or clove, a little black pepper, a tablespoon or two of butter, a little more sugar than you think the berries need, and a pinch of salt. Heat over low flame, and stir with a spoon you don't mind staining purple as the blueberries pop and ooze their juice, thickening the sauce to the consistency of a semi-runny compote. This should take about 10 minutes. Take the pan off the heat, and let thicken a bit as it cools. Combine with raw blueberries, add to pastry, and bake until done.
Baking Music: YLT I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One
There was a farm down the road from where I grew up that had seasonal u-pick. In the autumn, it was pumpkins; winter was christmas trees; summer was blueberries. We'd get in the wood paneled minivan with our big Costco buckets and spend an afternoon filling them up with the berries, getting sunburned and predictably eating ourselves silly along the way. I'm quite picky regarding blueberries: they must be raw, they must taste of herbs and earth, they must be sweet and small. Yes, I will cook them if I have to, but I will only take such measures if the blueberries are past their prime. When I do cook them, I usually do a rip on the fantastic blueberry-nectarine pie recipe in Baking With Julia. I don't have specific measurements, as I generally make enough filling for whatever pastry needs I have at the time. I have made personal galettes, I have made deep-dish pies, I have made fancy looking tarts, and on and on. Once, I shared an entire pie with the Sicilian straight out of the oven at 10 o'clock at night.
Pick through blueberries, taking care to pick out the cute little stems that are sometimes still attached. Rinse, popping a few in your mouth along the way.
Split the total amount of blueberries to be used in half.
In a smallish saucepan, combine half of the blueberries with some orange or lemon zest and juice, nutmeg and or clove, a little black pepper, a tablespoon or two of butter, a little more sugar than you think the berries need, and a pinch of salt. Heat over low flame, and stir with a spoon you don't mind staining purple as the blueberries pop and ooze their juice, thickening the sauce to the consistency of a semi-runny compote. This should take about 10 minutes. Take the pan off the heat, and let thicken a bit as it cools. Combine with raw blueberries, add to pastry, and bake until done.
Baking Music: YLT I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Hyperflutephobia
Q: How do you get two piccolo players to play in tune?
A: Shoot one of them.
The National Flute Association's annual convention is in town this week.
Allow me to go on public record and say that I loathe flutists. And with literally thousands of flutists currently in town, my personal dread threshold has reached its breaking point. But how can I, a flutist, hate flutists so much? Easy. I didn't want to play flute. I wanted to play cello, but there was a flute in the family, and my parents thought I was more of a "band person" anyway, so it goes.
There are things I love about playing the flute and its bastard sibling, piccolo: using one's breath to create sound to form experience and art is the most fulfilling feeling in my existence; playing high and loud ("peeling the paint") is exhilarating to me in ways that have yet to be matched; shiny things are nice, etc. But people that play the flute are another story altogether. There are a few sane, funny, intelligent and engaging flutists out there, and I've been lucky enough to meet them.
I've made my own name tag to wear around the convention center. Or maybe I'll just wear it around town. Or maybe I'll just wear it around the office.
A: Shoot one of them.
The National Flute Association's annual convention is in town this week.
Allow me to go on public record and say that I loathe flutists. And with literally thousands of flutists currently in town, my personal dread threshold has reached its breaking point. But how can I, a flutist, hate flutists so much? Easy. I didn't want to play flute. I wanted to play cello, but there was a flute in the family, and my parents thought I was more of a "band person" anyway, so it goes.
There are things I love about playing the flute and its bastard sibling, piccolo: using one's breath to create sound to form experience and art is the most fulfilling feeling in my existence; playing high and loud ("peeling the paint") is exhilarating to me in ways that have yet to be matched; shiny things are nice, etc. But people that play the flute are another story altogether. There are a few sane, funny, intelligent and engaging flutists out there, and I've been lucky enough to meet them.
I've made my own name tag to wear around the convention center. Or maybe I'll just wear it around town. Or maybe I'll just wear it around the office.
Monday, August 06, 2007
An Open Letter
Dear Holiday Inn Express in Santa Fe, and more specifically, the asshole good old boy who precipitated all of this,
Santa Fe is overrun with tourists in the summer. Santa Fe is the #2 art market in the country, and when tourists aren't buying overpriced pastel sketches of wolves or Kokopelli, they're attending performances at the Opera or the Symphony. Both of which I played in this weekend.
It was 3 in the afternoon. I was playing flute- for maybe 10 minutes- when I heard the knock at the door. It was you, you sweaty, sunburned good old boy, and in your nasty drawl, menaced, "Awr yew goin' to be doin' that much lawnger?" Well, yes, asshole, I was. I needed an hour with my instruments to ensure that the performances I was going to be giving for the throngs of you tourists would sound good. "Well then, you'll be gettin' a complaint," was your response, and sure enough, Holiday Inn Express, in placating one customer, you endangered the life of another.
You put me in what amounted to a cleaning storage room, filled with broken custodial carts, bashed in walls, piles of sawdust, and unbeknownst to me, a door that locked automatically from the outside. So once I'd worked though my anger with being displaced by playing piccolo at top volume and was ready to join my parents- who were in town for only a couple of days- for a lovely dinner before the Symphony, I tried to get out of the asbestos ridden room you'd been so generous to provide, and couldn't. The door was locked. After kicking it for some time- as there was no phone in the storeroom for me to alert anyone to the situation- your manager tried to get me out, but didn't have the key with them, so they had to go back to the front desk to get the key. It appears the hotel staff weren't even aware the door locked from the outside. This is a serious fire hazard. I'm sure many people would be ecstatic to have one less piccolo player on the planet, but I value my life.
I do realize that musicians are not always welcome guests in a hotel, but we are paying guests nevertheless, and it was 3 in the afternoon, after all. I do much traveling around the country, auditioning- business traveling, and I stay at a variety of hotels. I had never stayed at a Holiday Inn before, I can promise that Holiday Inn Express will never receive any further business from me.
Santa Fe is overrun with tourists in the summer. Santa Fe is the #2 art market in the country, and when tourists aren't buying overpriced pastel sketches of wolves or Kokopelli, they're attending performances at the Opera or the Symphony. Both of which I played in this weekend.
It was 3 in the afternoon. I was playing flute- for maybe 10 minutes- when I heard the knock at the door. It was you, you sweaty, sunburned good old boy, and in your nasty drawl, menaced, "Awr yew goin' to be doin' that much lawnger?" Well, yes, asshole, I was. I needed an hour with my instruments to ensure that the performances I was going to be giving for the throngs of you tourists would sound good. "Well then, you'll be gettin' a complaint," was your response, and sure enough, Holiday Inn Express, in placating one customer, you endangered the life of another.
You put me in what amounted to a cleaning storage room, filled with broken custodial carts, bashed in walls, piles of sawdust, and unbeknownst to me, a door that locked automatically from the outside. So once I'd worked though my anger with being displaced by playing piccolo at top volume and was ready to join my parents- who were in town for only a couple of days- for a lovely dinner before the Symphony, I tried to get out of the asbestos ridden room you'd been so generous to provide, and couldn't. The door was locked. After kicking it for some time- as there was no phone in the storeroom for me to alert anyone to the situation- your manager tried to get me out, but didn't have the key with them, so they had to go back to the front desk to get the key. It appears the hotel staff weren't even aware the door locked from the outside. This is a serious fire hazard. I'm sure many people would be ecstatic to have one less piccolo player on the planet, but I value my life.
I do realize that musicians are not always welcome guests in a hotel, but we are paying guests nevertheless, and it was 3 in the afternoon, after all. I do much traveling around the country, auditioning- business traveling, and I stay at a variety of hotels. I had never stayed at a Holiday Inn before, I can promise that Holiday Inn Express will never receive any further business from me.
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