My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [75]
“That sounds great,” he concurs.
“The whole scene was lovely—lots of tropical birds and big-game fishing.”
Fletch adds, “Think of how tan you’d get if you lived there. Plus, you could drink all the pineapple soda you wanted on the beach.”
“Tell me about it! That stuff’s meant to be consumed with a little sand between the toes. And what if someone served it in an actual pineapple? Ooh, or a coconut? Heaven! By the way, did you know Cuba used to be a huge hot spot for American tourists? It was like Florida Jr.”
“You’re right. Sounds like a terrific place. And perhaps when you move to Havana in search of your precious fruit soda, Fidel will ask you to write his newsletters.”
“Wait, are you mocking me?”
He is the very model of innocence. “Not me.”
“Whatever. My point is the food was delish and there’s a ton left over, so I’m saving it for your dinner.”
“I look forward to it. But hey, do me a favor,” he requests.
I reply, “Sure, what do you need?”
“Try not to become a Communist before I get home, okay? Bye!”
Pfft. Communism is based on egalitarianism and the equal distribution of resources.
And I’m totally going to violate those principles when I eat Fletch’s share of the pastry.
I spend the next week toggling between random cuisines. So far, I’m a huge fan of Mediterranean food. Who knew the humble chickpea was so versatile? And much as I love pork and beef, suddenly I’m all lamb, where’ve you been my whole life?
The one regional cuisine I haven’t enjoyed is Swedish. I figured I’d be all over it, considering how much I adore the meatballs and lingonberry sauce in the IKEA food court. But when we ate at a Swedish joint, they served us a dish that was scary enough to change my opinion of the entire country. Fletch ordered potato sausages, which sound great, right? We imagined thick country pork sausage, nicely seasoned with sage, blended into a chunky patty, studded with red potatoes, and browned to perfection. Maybe they’d even come with gravy!
What we got was a bowl of two-inch-long glistening pink tubes. They were so phallic that we had to cover them with a napkin. Gina remarked that we’d been served a side of castration. Fletch spent the rest of the meal with his legs crossed, and I was so nauseated that I couldn’t eat at all. Do me a favor, Sweden—please just stick to affordable flat-pack furniture and food court meatballs.
(Sidebar: Okay, I ate my cinnamon roll, but that still doesn’t make this an International Donut Taste-Off.)
Between meals, I’ve been watching edifying opera DVDs. Surprisingly, opera appeals to me. I didn’t expect it to be so engrossing! I thought it was going to be a few single people slowly trolling across stage wearing bustiers with Viking horns over their long blond braids. And then I realized my expectations were based on Bugs Bunny’s What’s Opera, Doc? and I had a Shame Rattle reoccurrence.
I really enjoy how many folks can be onstage singing at some points, in all kinds of costumes.149 I really connect with the storytelling element, too, so I’m glad some of the DVDs have subtitles. Because I’ve been able to follow along, I’ve learned that operas are dark, dude. Honest to God, every single one of them’s filled with betrayal and lust, and people are always getting stabbed and dying in one another’s arms. Reality television—or soap operas, for that matter—have nothing on this.
So far Carmen’s my favorite, probably because I know the music best. Seems like every fifteen-year-old figure skater ever has performed to “Habanera,” all painted up with smoky eyes, wearing latticed Gypsy outfits and big flowers in their baby-fine hair. Considering that “Habanera” is about Carmen choosing who she wants to take as her next l-o-v-e-r, the inappropriateness of a child doing a triple axel to it boggles the mind.
I love how opera music is as rich and complex as a