I know this is way too early to write about the sort of celebration we will have next Tuesday night and, ahem, the price we’ll pay the following day: a post-celebration that many of us will suffer as the MOTHER of all HANGOVERS! I spell it EXCESS! When Blake wrote “The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom”, he wasn’t wrong!
Yes, excessive it will be, and we have earned it after enduring 8 years of conveyor-belt propelled BS, false promises, stupid wars, the raping of the constitution, economic downgrading and a lot more. Of course eating right is elitist and since this election is the most important one this century (and possibly the last one) I’m going to throw caution to the wind and celebrate properly by purchasing, bartering, demanding, begging for the primo stuff to be on hand during the long hours of the election results. Here’s to the future!
Cooking is a primordial art, and to a lesser extent, assembling ingredients and assorted titbits is just as essential. In my mind anyway.
Here is the timeline or if you wish, a blow by blow account, of the AAF household next Tuesday night, as seen through my futuristic, clairvoyant magic wand:
6pm: (1pm EDT) AAF pours the first drink: it’s a Bombay gin & tonic, a stiff one, followed by a slice of smoked salmon in which a little home made cream of goat cheese flavored with elitist basil oil has been filled with. Make that two of them. Woof! The cable news blabber on, early signs of GOTV are on the ticker, Focked News is not happy, CNN, well, they’re pandering to the ghost of Reagan, as usual. The kids are getting excited, they feel that something is up and are making a beeline to the snack table. The ginger bread figurines are rapidly disappearing.
6.30: Time for a refill. That elitist Bombay gin goes down like a slippery slope! A small array of terribly elitist tapas comes into play: thin slices of chorizo wrapped around Zamorano sheep cheese from Spain; mushroom tops filled with artichoke pesto; crab cakes flavored with pastis; vine leaves stuffed with spicy lamb mince & risotto; roasted peppers, asparagus & shrimp salad….to name a few. So far so good. Somewhere deep in the Focked news studios Hannity is sobbing like a teenage girl, mumbling all is lost, all is lost….
7 pm: the first bottle of sparkling elitist chardonnay gets popped. A crab cake finds its way to my stomach. Sarah Palin is on the box yelling and winking simultanously everything is all right, not to worry, she can see clearly now…I’m wondering if I should start a food fight with the kids, for added fun. we’ll see. Must get more fuel.
7.30: freshly baked brioche elitist bread make its way to the table, with a batch of scallops kebabs; how elitist can we be? The first bottle of Rioja Crianza gets opened up for a little breather and now rests next to the Pichon-Longueville which needs at least 4 elitist hours to breathe properly. O’Reilly is spotted eating his hat, the result of a badly gone wrong bet.
8.00: Joe LIEberman is on Focked News, yabbering about leaving the democratic party. Good riddance! Go boil your head, Senator turncoat. A glass of Rioja is poured and gone, as is LIEberman. My hands are steady. But my mind wanders. I’m worried that I’m not being elitist enough. I should wear a satin shirt on top of my Obama t-shirt, and give myself airs of superior, stiffer upper lip kind of stuff…but we’re not there yet. I want to hear that our guy is doing well so goes down another glass of Rioja. Smooth as a baby bum! Juicy scallops dripping from my lips, I graze the telly looking for classy punditry but all we get is that Bennett toe sucker blathering about how unsexy this election is! Unsexy! Yes, losing is unsexy all right!
9pm: I’m beside myself, unable to contain the excitement of this historic day! A glass of Pichon makes an early entry into my gullet. The kids are running around like maniacs, having eaten a fair share of elitist eclairs (filled with hazelnut cream). The CNN crew is announcing a huge Democratic turnout! Right wing pundits fart about, looking for an escape hatch. That Pichon is doing wonders to my health. It’s from 1997, I’m such an elitist that I’m drinking bottled sun from the year of my first daughter’s birth. Onwards! And upwards! The tapas table is being decimated. Somewhere in a back street alley in Washington Tony Blankley curses his God, clutching an open bottle of white rum.
10.00: “things” are hotting up! One of my kids tells me my face is getting redder. I take it as a good omen. We’ll win, I yell, majority in both houses! They ask me which house would that be: 68 Senators for us and at least another 34 seats in the House, I explain, as I quaff a glass of Rioja, the Pichon having died an early death. Another bottle of elitist claret makes its way to the table. Ms AAF presents us with a roast duck, some pancakes and a thick plum sauce. We’re on it, listening to the silver haired man on the telly telling us it’s a disaster! Not for us.
At this point I fall asleep on the couch, a half-eaten duck pancake hanging out of my mouth. It’s going to be a long night, rest must be taken as more beverages are awaiting. I bought a bottle of vintaged Pol Roger Champagne, just to make sure that we’re good elitists. It must be drunk! As soon as we hear the great news.
12.00 midnight to 2am: I’m up and about. I had to change my shirt as accidents do happen. Never mind, we’re winning. Pundits are now saying that they were right all along. By their reckoning Obama is/will be the next president. I wait till we hear confirmation. Kids have flaked out. I pour myself a shot of Jameson…which is weird ’cause I don’t drink hard liquor (except G&T) but, hey, what the hell, we’re seeing history being made! I decide to wear my Indian hat. I want to feel like McCain as Custer on receipt of the seventh arrow! Kristol, we hear, has fallen off his pundit chair and hit his nose hard. He’s bleeding profusely and blaming the elitists of this world. Good. It feels like victory. If only Fred Barnes would perform the same stunt, I’d be ecstatic. Ok, now it’s getting serious. Right wings pundits are now falling off like flies and elitist Marrons glacés are appearing on the table. It’s time to open up the Pol Roger and toast.
2am (9 EDT): We’re told it’s going to be a landslide. Both houses are ours. I’m not surprised. Mc Weather Vane has run out of wind (rumor has it that he cut a deal with Pixar for a new Toy Story in which he will be the voice of Squeaky….my friends), Palin is packing her oversized lipstick stick and heads for the Big Cold, and LIEberman is looking like the simpering fool he really is. Pol tastes good. Better days ahead, I’m thinking. It’s going to be a long night. I will be up till at least 5 or 6 in the morning. Life is good. Hic!