The last Sunday in ordinary time

It was a busy weekend for me, which is to say a dull and relaxing one for most people on my Friends list. Saturday I had the opera (review to follow) and monshu had a reception in River North, so we arranged to have dinner at Lloyd's on South Wacker. But I went down early so we could visit Mr Cleveland at home. He was gratifyingly spry for someone who only last week had a heart valve replaced. His only real complaints were a lack of sleep (he's only recently been allowed to sleep supine again and his body hasn't readjusted yet) and itchiness (he's a hairy man and it's all growing back in now).

Poor Nuphy was pretty out-of-sorts, too, having just that day returned from a week in Florida. Of course, it's his damn fault for having agreed to let Nemuci and her husband frog march him around DisneyWorld for six straight days. He was curious to hear how our weekend in St Louis went, so I revealed to the GWO that everyone had been "on their best behaviour". "I thought they were acting how they normally would." "No, that was as good as my family ever gets, so adjust your expectations accordingly."

Lloyd's, by the way, was a bit off its game. Its chief virtues are proximity and reliability, and it stumbled badly on the second. I had to cancel dessert because it arrived twenty-five minutes before curtain. (I know the opera house is across the street but (a) Nuphy had to be walked over slowly on his bloody stumps and (b) I don't like to be rushed.) "I've already taken it off the bill," pleaded our waiter, as if that had anything to do with it. The crabcake was terrible, but that's my fault, since I knew it would be but I couldn't stop fixating on it. At least it was paired with a filet mignonette which I ordered rare and came that way.

As if to prove what I'd said about my family, I got messaged the next morning by my sister regarding a row she'd had on Facebook with our aunt. I'd blissfully missed it and initially had no idea what she meant. It might actually merit a post of its own, highlighting a generational split when it comes to social media that even divides me partly from my sister only two years younger. (In a nutshell, my sister posted to get some feedback from friends on a change in our family Christmas party to pay-your-own-way. My aunt was livid to see she'd posted before "calling someone in the family"--though of course she herself didn't see fit to communicate the change even though it's been in the works for at least six months.)

But I had to call her about it later since I was already on my way to brunch at Act One with my little gay coterie. It was a bit too quiet (one of the reasons you brunch, after all, is to be seen) and the cider they had on draught was really terrible. (It looked and tasted like cheap sweet cider I'd left in the back of the fridge to go hard, so if you're local, avoid Red Streak.) The birthday boy was disappointed in the portion size, so we went to The Common Cup a couple blocks west and we both had pie. I also bought a stroopwafel for my chai ("extra groot", because this is America after all).

After that, we all scattered. The GWO was away at yet another conference-related encountre, so I had the house to myself as I started laundry and attacked the pumpkin in our window. Somehow I'd never gotten around to jack-o'-lanterning it so I decided to have a try at making my own pie filling. One thing I learned is that trimming the shell before roasting gives you more carmelisation, but that shell-on pieces end up juicier. I felt like I was discarding flavour as I was cutting off all the burnt surfaces, but I really hate to risk the bitterness that comes with carbonisation. I simmered the purée for a time afterwards to concentrate it. Even then I was left with over a gallon, of which I only need 4 cups for a pie, so we'll be making savoury pumpkin soup this weekend once we have the turkey carcass to play with.

Somehow in the midst of all this, I found time to attack the garden with a pair of clippers like I've been wanting to for weeks. One huge section of clematis is now in the composter and another has been severed for later removal. Scooter mentioned that he wouldn't take it amiss if I did some pruning on the lilacs; I hope he won't think I got too enthusiastic, but they're doing well so I feel it's safe to be a little aggressive.

After that, I roasted the seeds and discovered that the missing ingredient in all my previous attempts was oil. (Thanks, Mr Bittman!) Smoked sea salt doesn't hurt either. By then monshu was back (in a remarkably good mood, all things considered) and we could shove Middle Eastern Bakery meat and cheese pies into the oven for dinner while we made a grocery list for mincemeat. Let the holiday fugue commence!