The lights are on, but the workers are gone

I didn't think today could be crazier than yesterday, but that shows what little faith I have in ComEd. Yesterday I awoke to grey skies. I didn't think much of this until about a half-hour later, when it was clear it had grown noticeably darker. I went out to the back porch and the wind whipped dust in my face; somewhere I heard a tinkling, as of something glass shattering, and responded by repositioning pots and taking the Old Man's ashtray inside. I stayed out there watching the tops of trees tossing until I felt the first drops.

It began pouring at about 8:10; the thunder didn't strike until a few moments later. At first the cat seemed blasé, but he eventually ended up in the closet again. I resolved to go in late if it was still pouring when I came out of my shower, but by then it had settled down to a sprinkle. The cloudburst had only lasted fifteen to twenty minutes. There were some downed branches on my street, but nothing big; from the shuttle I saw that one tree in Loyola Park had been felled, but other than a car stopped in the northbound lane it was an uneventful commute.

So I was in no way prepared to walk into work and find the lights out. At the urging of some coworkers, I went to the windows to look at the storm damage on the south side of the building; behind the police tape, I could see three large trees were uprooted, one was snapped, and another lost a branch bearing half its foliage. My mind then went to the basement; I grabbed a coworker and went down to look for water in the storage area our departments shared. Amazingly, it was bone dry despite large puddles in the access corridor. We ran into an engineer who explained that the water had come in through the ductwork and poured out of a mechanical closet.

So we were left with nothing to do but kill time until we were sent home. Another coworker took me to where we had some games squirreled away and I brought down Uno, Connect4, and Apples-to-Apples. We tried to break the last of these: at one point, I think we had a dozen people playing at once (including both my bosses). After a couple hours, we had very nearly run through every red card in the deck. (I had a respectable three green cards, but two others ended up with six each.)

Hopes swelled when one of the administrators came by around 11:30, but it was only to tell us that they'd refilled the emergency generators so they'd keep running past noon. It was another forty minutes or so before we were cleared to go home. I might've preferred a nap, but a friend offered me a ride and we ended up having tasty grilled meat at La Choza on Clark.

That was yesterday.

Today I checked the website first thing. After all, something like 800,000 people were without power throughout the are and ComEd had given us an estimate of 72 hours the day before. But everything was normal, so I was even more shocked to arrive at work and find dozens of people milling outside watching a policeman and a couple of fire marshals go inside. I quickly learned that power had been restored yesterday, but not until 3 p.m. And it had stayed up until five minutes before my shift; the fire alarm went off shortly after. After a bit, emergency services gave the all clear for staff to entre. Over the course of the morning I learned that the hilarity we'd overheard the previous morning was public services people playing charades; the current excitement was an office chair race down the administrative corridor.

Finally at 11 a.m., we were dismissed again. But going home didn't make sense for me, since I'm meeting Daddy Bishop for lunch in town at one. So after texting my new hire not to come in, I hung around chatting with work pals--until the lights came back on. Tentatively, we're rescheduled to open at 1:30, but the great part about being in the back office is that once you've been sent home, you're home.

I just know monshu will tease me about getting two days off. But, lemme tell you, coming into work only to be sent home is nothing at all like a vacation.

1-1

Ever since monshu brought that jar of nasty canned alfredo into our house, I've been scheming for a way to avoid eating it. Tonight, as he was decompressing from a horrid day at work, I slyly suggested that he let me make dinner so that I could use up some sage (which is going gangbusters and stealing light from its neighbours); the alfredo could be stowed away for an emergency, some night when we really have no time for prep. He bought it.

Even more surprisingly, I delivered: Only a few minutes after six, we had a tasty al dente pasta with chicken and vegetables. If I could change anything about it, I would've sautéed the zucchini just a few minutes less. I was a bit wound up near the end, but not frantic; everything got cooked properly without me destroying the kitchen.

This is where hubris got the better of me: All afternoon, I'd been thinking of surprising the GWO with a chocolaty dessert. So I sneaked the double boiler onto the stove and melted a few ounces of Callebaut with a little butter while I separated some eggs. The whites went into the fridge to chill while I whisked the chocolate together with the yolks. So far so good.

After he was safely downstairs, I blasted New Order so as to cover the sound of the beaters. The whites whipped up into stiff peaks so effortlessly that I felt disaster was imminent. Sure enough, when I went to fold them in, I found that the chocolate mixture had an awfully fudgy consistency. I tried beating in some of the whites, but that still didn't give me anything I could fold.

I suppose this is the point I should've simply shrugged, said a eulogy for the two ounces of quality chocolate, and tossed it all out. But I'm too bloody-minded for that. Instead, I separated another egg and beat half the yolk with the chocolate. Then I let impatience make me do something completely blockheaded: Instead of folding in the beaten whites and then beating the new white independently, I mixed them together.

It's perfectly predictable what happened: Most of the whites got overbeaten and wouldn't stiffen beyond soft peaks. So in disgust I emptied the bowl, scrubbed everything down, and started over. Again, perfect peaks in moments--but in vain, since I had to beat rather than fold. Adding the whipped cream, I could tell the texture was nothing at all like a good mousse-in-the-making.

So I don't know what I have chilling in the refrigerator right now; I'm hoping monshu will tell me shortly when he comes in search of his chocolate fix. If it all has to be discarded, well, that's why I bought a safety pint of Häagen-Dazs.

What's well-read and bookish?

Daddy Bishop was a no-show. I waited nearly half an hour before heading over to Celtic Knot to seek solace in a pint. Actually, I was hoping for some camaraderie at the bar, but it was that awkward hour after lunch and before the afternoon crowd trickles in. So with only the bartender to talk to, I drank up, gobbled my lunch, and sought out the company of those faithful fellows who lift my spirits when all human companions fail me: books. Herewith the list:

1. Seth, Vikram. A suitable boy. Nothing says "the victory of hope over experience" like the purchase of a thousand-page novel! (Well, except a thousand-page novel in a foreign language.)
2. Cable, George Washington. Old Creole days. I know one of these days I'll be in the mood for some Southern cornpone, and that's when this will come into its own.
3. Unt, Matt. Things in the night. Is there any science fiction like artsy contemporary Estonian science fiction?
4. Merrick, George Byron. Old times on the Upper Mississippi.
5. Curry, Jane. The river's in my blood : riverboat pilots tell their stories. I suspect I should've consulted with my Famous Author Friend before buying this, since Lord knows he read both as research, but it's a leap of faith I don't mind making.
6. Tagore, Rabindrath. Selected short stories. Why am I buying this when I'm sure to go off South Asia any day now? Well, (1) I'm sure to go back on it sometime and (2) how often do I have to put up with references to him from contemporary authors before I finally educate myself?
7. Soyinke, Wole. Ìsarà. See above re: educating myself.
8. The Penguin book of Scottish folktales. How can I not want to own a collection with titles like "Kate Crackernuts" and "The Maraiche Mairneal"?