Of Belts and Bards

My wife had the utter audacity to ask me to fix dinner last night. So I BELTed her. It turns out that wasn't enough, so I had to BELT her again. I was just about to BELT the kids too, but Stacy pleaded with me (in between my BELTing her) not to. Her maternal pleas touched my soul and I relented -- if the kids didn't want egg on their bacon, egg, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, they could eat their BLTs plain.

After it was all over, I BELTed myself a couple of times too.

A good BELT is all about fresh tomatoes. My tomato plants are looking a little stunted this year, but they've nevertheless produced a decent first crop of 'matos. I think, however, I'm going to be getting pretty much this one single harvest, so it is important to not waste the opportunity and inadvertently miss out on the whole point of fresh tomatoes in the first place -- BELTs.

But while tomatoes are the foundation and anchor of a good BELT, they don't stand alone on the stage. The BELT is definitely an ensemble production. All the actors must appear, well costumed and seasoned in their roles. First, the bread - a nice white bread; none of those whole wheat abominations - must be lightly and delicately toasted, a nice golden blush on a fair maiden's cheek. The lettuce must be as fresh as a springtime meadow, and preferably a more consummate actor than iceberg. The bacon must straddle that fine line between crispy and tenacious, asserting itself with salty poignancy, but never occluding the performances of its cast members. The egg must draw strength from the performance of the bacon, being seasoned to perfection in the very renderings of the fair meat. All must be staged carefully and dutifully with a gentle spread of mayonnaise, or, to lend an exotic mystique, with a cameo of horseradish sauce. Together, and only together, does the company achieve greatness. A weak showing on any part, and the entire production suffers in toto.

This evening's BELTs were a worthy undertaking, but in the end some slight flaws dimmed the brilliance of the entire spectacle. The bacon I used was Costo's maple bacon. Prior to opening it I imagined something cured with a microscopic amount of maple syrup, just enough to legally allow the advertising reference. But on opening it I found that the bacon was not "perfumed" with a hint of maple, but more or less reeked of it. Upon throwing it into the pan it immediately gave up a lot of juice and left a sticky residue on the bottom of the pan. It was also a very think cut, which at the end of the day cooked up more like thin slices of sugary ham than salty bacon. The cascading failure of it all was that the eggs, cooked in the syrup goo that should have been nothing more than the pure southern sacrament of bacon grease, seized to the bottom of the fry-pan and refused to be unseated save but by the most violent of scrapings. But frustrating though it was (culinary domestic abuse!), the show did go on and the audience seemed to applaud the presentation.

After dinner we piled into the car for yet another thesbian offering:  Shakespeare by the Sea, or in our case Shakespeare-in-a-Torrance-park-which-is-relatively-by-the-sea.  We've been meaning to attend one of the troup's free performances for several years, and finally the planets aligned so that we, like star-crossed lovers, could take in an open-air production of Twelfth Night.

Observation:  Shakespeare in Wilson park draws a significantly different crowd than the fireworks in Wilson Park do.

The kids were duded up in their PJs and we had sleeping bags and blankets in tow.  We got there 45 minutes before "curtain" time, and there was already a pretty big crowd.  We plopped ourselves down on the grass off in right field and settled in as the sun set, the temperatures dropped, and the eucalyptus trees waved gently overhead.  We weren't quite sure how the kids would handle it, but hey - it was outdoors, and if things got ugly there was a swing set a hundred yards away!  Actually, once the show started they did quite well.  L sat transfixed, focused on the stage laughing obediently whenever the crowd laughed; booing as society dictated.  She snickered that all the boys were wearing ballet pants just like hers.  N was similarly focused and from time to time he would turn around to us and quote back an entire line an actor had just spoken.  It was a little spooky, like he was channeling some long dead Elizabethan.

Everything went swimmingly the first act.  At the end of the act there was an intermission during which I took the kids and stood in line for hot chocolates while Mommy kept the blankets from blowing away.  I gladly paid for my four packets of hot chocolate powder and four Styrofoam cups and then stood in the line for the hot water.  When it came my turn I saddled the first cup up to the hot water dispenser and ... drip, drip, drip. The thermos went dry.  The attendant was all apologetic and offered my money back.  Together, through tipping the thermos, I was able to get one of the four cups full, and two of the remaining ones I was able to fill with hot coffee.  (Mocha turned out to be a much better idea anyway!)  I redistributed the left over fourth chocolate powder pack to the three filled cups (Mmmmm, rich!), then split the true chocolate cup into two half-servings and we were set.  The family in line behind us didn't seem to have the same make-do attitude and as we headed on back to our seats I heard them giving the woeful attendant an earful.

The next act started up and not 30 seconds into it there was a crack and the sound system went dead.  The actors didn't miss a beat, but plowed along steadily, projecting for all they were worth.  I was worried at first, but after a minute or two the crowd settled down to a lower level of ambient noise and your ears grew more attentive and you could hear it all well enough.  The sound never came back on, but all in all it was a fun production, warts and all, and we had a fresh and fun time of it.

By the time the play wrapped up L was sacked out and N was awake but whiny.  I flipped L, sleeping bag and all, over my shoulder, grabbed a blanket or two and headed back to the car, Stacy and N hauling the rest of our belongings.  I could hear N's litany of long-suffering complaints the whole walk back.  Once they were stowed soundly in the car we hit the road and headed home, our sights set on our beds.  To sleep; perchance to dream.