If you are not a fan of Broadway smash hit A Chorus Line, forgive me the title.
If you are a fan, why don’t you take a moment and let loose with song. I know you know the lyrics, so go ahead. I’ll be here when you’re done. But heed this warning; I may be singing when you get back.
And there is something about me belting out show tunes that makes those with ears want to turn a deaf one. Go ahead and turn that blind eye too, because what with my legwarmers scrunched down around my ragged ballet shoes as I gracefully flounce over piles of laundry and plié to the gurgles of Mr. Coffee I am indeed a sight to behold.
Do you want to know why the melancholic show tunes have set up shop in my heart?
It’s because yet another one of my favorite things is leaving me. Gourmet magazine is packing it in.
I know, I know, I shouldn’t even admit to reading a print magazine. I should be more responsible to my leaf-bearing friends. After all, I live with some of the greenest police on earth. Even so, green feels blue as I bid farewell to my monthly fix of provocatively posed food and witty, wonderful wordsmiths.
Et tu Gourmet?
Why is it that when I decide something is good, it is in fact over? Some people know immediately and intrinsically what’s hot. They jump on the latest trends; they wear the cool jeans. They know when to stop wearing scrunchies.
There must be a word for the exact opposite of trendy…
Oh yes, its me.
I am habitually late to the trend party, and when I do arrive I come armed with the kiss of death. Two thumbs up from me is the gesture equivalent of a horse-head on the pillow. It’s a crazy power I wield. Just ask Northern Exposure. Or Arrested Development. Or leg warmers.
So yes, it is with a heavy heart that I kiss Gourmet good-bye. Especially given my recent resounding success with sweet potato gnocchi. It was a beautiful thing; a complex recipe with unexpected twists that resulted in fluffy pillows of goodness that melted on the tongues of my darling family.
No longer will my mailbox harbor pages laden with treats for my kitchen and my writer’s heart. That river has dried up, and I need to look elsewhere.
Perhaps a more mundane source of happiness would serve me well. Joy-bearing items with staying power. Ones that won’t disappear from my life like The Hooters from my tenth grade soul.
I’m hearing good things about raindrops on roses. And whiskers on kittens.
