Recovery/Re-Entry

I'm making an excruciatingly slow re-entry into a world that does not revolve around wrapping paper, large quantities of overly-rich foodstuffs, and basically running around in—when you boil it all down—circles. Despite the late nights and general feeling of exhaustion, it was a lovely holiday spent in constant and pleasant culinary interaction with friends and family (one cousuncle just e-mailed to chide me—me, of all bloggers!—for not updating here since the 22nd, but never mind).

The SU and I spent the bulk of yesterday alone (the girls being in the tireless hands of their sitter who, unlike me, is not adverse to leading them triumphantly through craft projects that require acrylic paint) and leisurely enjoying things that I now imagine only the child-less can leisurely enjoy: eating out, shopping, going to the movies, wandering through a bookstore. Our movie of choice was "Dreamgirls," the theatrical version of which I saw onstage when I was very young. I had specific memories about the original version, certain moments that I loved. And so I waited the entire film for CC (he being the songwriter brother who basically turned his back on his super-talented chanteuse of a sister for several years, only to return once he realized that success wasn't all it was, you know, cracked up to be) to sing Effie I have a song, and only you can sing it the way it should be and for Effie to wail back I've waited sooooooooo long to hear you say that to me. Say it again, say it aggggaiiiiiinnnnnn.... and for CC, of course, to answer Effie sing my song the way it should beeeeeeee. I waited because it's my favorite scene. In the whole story, it's my favorite scene. And the scene happened, but the song didn't. I almost jumped out of my seat to demand...something. Instead, I just sat there, crumpled up in disappointment and asked the SU to pass the popcorn. I curse the person(s) who edited the scene! I curse them with spiders and evil monkeys and colicky infants, and dreams about falling off the edge of a cliff! Fie on them, I say. But besides that, I enjoyed it. Our audience clapped every time Jennifer Hudson sang, and then again when her name appeared in the credits. I felt somehow bad for Beyonce and her enormous wigs. It's a strange thing, indeed, to feel sad for such a beautiful and talented (even if her specific talents don't appeal to you, I don't think anyone could successfully argue against the adjective) person.

We cooked an 8-lb. beef tenderloin on Christmas Day, and this morning I shredded up the leftovers and tossed them into a pot with a head of sliced up garlic, half an onion, crushed tomatoes, chili powder, cumin, salt and pepper. It's been simmering for almost 5 hours, and if you were to take a bite it would literally melt in your mouth. There's something a little off about turning filet mignon into something to put in a flour tortilla, but so be it. Pass the shredded cheese, please.