Queen of, Queen of all the tarts. . . .

January 9, 2011


The last Sunday before the official end of the holiday break.

So depressing.

Really.

I know, I know, you're thinking I've had an additional week off from the rest of the world, so I have no right to complain.

You're right.

I don't.

But that has never stopped me before.





Mer and I went to THE worst movie I've seen in a quite a while.

Our saving grace was at least we didn't have to pay for it, compliments of Mer's exploited labour to the theater.

Season of the Witch.

What is most unfortunate is that the story itself had potential. . .demon inhabiting the body of a young girl, the Middle Ages so they automatically assume she was a witch, long pilgrimage to a monastery where she will be tried by monks who possess the last copy of a book of demon-ridding Latin incantations.

Okay, so the story could use some tweaking, but there was potential.

And that potential was in no way realized in the film.

In spite of the presence of Ron Perlman.

At least he made the film somewhat amusing.

Nicolas Cage did not.

He's usually hit or miss lately.

Mostly miss.

Nonetheless any trip to the theater, even for a bad movie, is better than not going to the movies at all.

At least for me.

In spite of having to endure the aromas of freshly popped popcorn, hear the sounds of soda and ice mingling in the upsized cup, the look and smell of nachos surrounded by two, yes, two container of hot processed nacho cheese dip, and the crackle of chocolate bars opening, the "mmmmmm" at that first bite.

I feel like I should wear a sign everywhere I go that says, "I am engaged in a major lifestyle change. Please do not eat anything sweet or salty, or drink any carbonated drinks in my presence. Thank you."

That or the standard, "Do not feed the animals."






At least with the holidays over, the temptations to gorge on all things heretofore identified as ungorgeable will end.

And I will return to a state of normal.

Meaning I'll just have to deal with all the standard ungorgeables.

However, there was one last temptation put in front of me on Friday.

At the Community Kitchen of all places.

A quartet of well meaning church ladies brought in a box of 50, yes that is 5-0, fifty, homemade-including-pastry-mincemeat tarts.

Anything but mincemeat and I would have probably been okay.

I.

Love.

Mincemeat.

Every Christmas, my mother would go to the local butcher and get two containers of his homemade mincemeat.

Presumably for mincemeat pies.

Presumably being the operative word.

As soon as I saw those two containers of gloriousness, the spoon came out.

At first, just a couple of spoonfuls.

And then a couple more.

Finally, when my mother was ready to make those pies her I-put-them-at-the-front-of-the-fridge-and-they-were-full containers of mincemeat were transformed into the almost-empty-save-for-perhaps-one-raisin-at-the-back-of-the-fridge-and-now-there-was-nothing-left-for-pies-until-my-mother-drove-back-to-the-butcher mincemeat.

So, 50 mincemeat tarts were a little more than I had bargained for.

My defenses were down.

Shields operating at less-than-minimum capacity.

It had been a rough day. . .all sorts of things going on that I couldn't control.

It was definitely a let's-throw-caution-and-reason-to-the-wind-and-satiate-our-shattered-nerves-and-wounded-pride-with-these-fifty-mincemeat-tarts kind of day.

They were glorious.

Huge.

Evil temptresses masquerading as flaky homemade pastry gently caressing the mound of moist mincemeat, a small, carefully cut piece of pastry gently nestled on top.

Demon treats baiting and beguiling me, artfully disguised by the careful craftiness of blue-haired church ladies.

Oh.

My.

I had one.

I simply did not possess the intestinal fortitude to prevent succumbing to such enticing pastry delights.

And then. . . .

I had another.

I did.

But after two, my shield kicked in, common sense flooded my being and a tsunami size wave of guilt flooded my inner self.

Needless to say I've been beating myself up all weekend about those two, tempting little tarts.

Tempting me when I was weak.

Shameless little hussies.






This morning I took some "me" time.

"Me" time translates into being in the kitchen, headphones snug in my ears, ipod singing in my ears.

Me singing in the kitchen at the top of my lungs to songs I may, or may not as the case may be, not know.

Quality be damned I sing lustily to whatever happens to pop up on my ipod at the time. 

Everything from Maroon 5 to Mariana's Trench, Rhianna to KC and the Sunshine Band, Glee favourites to Usher, Pink to Katy Perry and any other dance music that happens to be on there.

I sing it all.

Loudly.

Heartily.

Not caring at all how anyone who hears me.

If it makes me happy, dance around the kitchen making the dogs question my sanity, and have my children request, at the end of a performance, "please let's not see that again", then do it I shall.

And while parading around the kitchen singing and dancing like I was auditioning for American Idol, I even made a beef stew.

Because all that performing and me time should result in something other than aching ears, annoyed family members and traumatized pets.

Dinner is just the gravy.








Title Lyric: Queen of All the Tarts by David Bowie