Let Us Eat Cake

On Friday, Peter and I watched Marie Antoinette. I had told him about it when we were walking through the Tuilleries in Paris a couple weeks ago. "We should definitely watch it when we get back!"  I alluded that it would be able to provide an accurate historical representation of 18th century Paris and would be fun for us to learn from together.

Honestly, this was mostly a selfish act as I had seen it countless times before and knew it was Sofia Coppola's artsy adaptation of the youthful, beautiful, party-going queen. I also knew it was in Peter's terms, "a girl movie." I first saw the film when it came out in theaters in 2006 - a year when the theme and, as Peter put it, "plotless story line," seemed to hit home. When I felt like I was more or less in Marie Antoinette's pointy-toed, courtly shoes leading a life of shopping, dining, and drinking in fancy long gloves (yes, I wore gloves on a couple occasions) with no real goals in sight. As MA said, "it's fun!" And that was the sole explanation I was looking for.

This time around, on Peter's first viewing and my 10th perhaps, I had a different sentiment. I still loved the costumes and the modern music and Jason Schwartzman's awkward portrayal of Louis Auguste and the Swedish captain with the dark eyes who fought valiantly in America. But instead of opening up my own closet after the film, getting dressed, calling my ladies in waiting and Mini Coopering over to SOBA for French martinis a la Rob Hirst, I had a bedtime of 9:30 and alarm clock set to 5:30 to look forward to.

There were no French fetes to attend this weekend, and I found myself more or less among the common masses, incredulously ogling the behavior at Versailles, dismissing any desire to be a part of it, but simultaneously disappointed that we weren't invited. I became one of the people who was supposed to eat cake while Marie Antoinette and the Contesse and the Dukes and Duchesses were partying.

So I did.

The next morning I made and ate old fashioned sour cream cake donuts - recipe courtesy of the one and only and totally amazing Jess Thompson who just published her first cookbook about what else, mmmmmmm, doughnuts. (Rolling pin made by her equally amazing husband Jim.)

And I made some petites madeleines - perfect little French sponge cakes.

And in an effort to make sure no one in this house went hungry and revolted against Naperville's own revelers, the cougars at Jilly's, I went all out last night and made an entire stuffed, roasted chicken, which we will be eating tonight as well.

At which point my mind was really off going to court, because I wouldn't have been able to fit into any of my ruffly dresses.

It was the first weekend in a long time when Peter and I had nothing planned and no parties to attend, and I've got to say, it felt weird at first. So I spent a significant amount of time making a scrap book about all the places we'd been over the past year, all the people we had partied with, and all the times we had said, because it's fun!  

And then I realized something while showing off my weekend's worth of work to Peter last night, I had a lot of pages left to fill. My scrap book was far from finished.

Sometimes though, you need a time out and a whole weekend when it's just you and me (and Roscoe), to reflect on where you've been, to confirm that the future of your life in your little ranch house is far rosier than that of those living at Versailles, and to make sure that life together will always be happy and the kind of private party that everyone wants to emulate. And that's really fun. 

Now, I'm off for a morning jog with my new running partner.

Lo.

Visiting Day

As I swayed back and forth to "Lean On Me" in my pew, arm in arm with my cabin mates, becoming an integral part of the serpentine system winding its way through the Chapel, I took my eyes off the Lake Erie sunscape and stole a glimpse of the back of the room. Nope. Not here yet. It was just the regulars - those PTA parents that were always the first to arrive to their kids' events. I was okay with it though. My parents said they would be there and I was guessing they had lingered at Lake Donuts. It was just about time to go up for communion anyway, and I didn't want them to scrutinize why their Catholic children were doing it the Episcopalian way.

I couldn't wait to see them though. A week away from them and from home - a week living in a 500 square foot cabin with ten other people seemed like an eternity. And SO much had happened. I couldn't wait to tell them about it.

I had received two Green Eights this year and helped dozens of mediocre athletes receive theirs. I had actually helped capture the flag. I won the back stroke event at the Swim Meet and dominated water polo during Morning Competition. I had gone sailing. I weaved a rope necklace in Arts and Crafts. I had made really good friends in Liz and Jess - we had been staying up past devotions every night laughing and laughing. And I had high hopes that I was actually going to nab one of my dozen or so Camp crushes this year. (Alas, it didn't happen though - they ended up pairing off with the same girls that always got dates to the Banquet.)

I finally felt like I had reached the ranks of a cool camper. I think it had something to do with the Birkenstocks that I had bought for Camp this year. They put me in a league above those in Tevas. I had also lost weight, and continued to do so from a week living off Life cereal that I had strategically stowed at the bottom of my big blue trunk from Ralph's Army Surplus. It was an excellent meal replacement for the thick cuts of ham, meatloaf, and roast beef that primarily ended up in the slop buckets at the end of each Dining Hall table. The weight loss allowed the hippie chic wardrobe I had invested in prior to packing for Camp hang just right and it made me feel more confident walking all the way from Cabin 18 to the KYBO every morning in just a towel.

I had also come out of my shell a bit - I had provided the idea and the impetus for the skit that our cabin in conjunction with Cabin 8 had just performed in Chapel. It was a mock-up of the CK One ads circa 1995 where Kate Moss and her anorexic friends posed with sour expressions, said random things, and then concluded at the end that CK One was a fragrance for a man or a woman.



My idea was to implement the same concept with GOD as the hot scent. "GOD - a feeling for a man or a woman." It was a big hit. Everyone did the slow clap, speeding up to a fast clap like ten times. Matt Pascal was impressed, and told me. It was better than the Cabin 10 / Cabin 20 equation. And I felt very Calvary cool.

I felt like I was invisible, and I couldn't wait to show off my summer glow to my parents on Visiting Day.

When Chapel was over, I found my cousin Meghan (who a week later would be named 'Outstanding Camper - Session II'), my brother, and my cousin Ryan (they were good campers too, but never Outstanding.) And then they arrived - pulling up in the Transport Van. My Mom and Dad in the front seat, waved. Do do dodododo do do - the automatic door slid open and Erin (a Calvary Alumna) my Aunt Dee Dee and Evan emerged, Lake Donuts in hand. We were all hugged and told to immediately eat one of the fried prides of Linesville because we all looked skinny. Adam and Ryan dove in.

We signed out for the day, and we took off - relieved and excited to be crossing over the Camp boundaries that Gary had so clearly laid out for us Campers on the first night. My Dad had researched the only eating establishment in the C-O-Double N-E-A-U-T spells Conneaut area that was written up in the Fodor's Guide Book. So we made the drive to the historic restaurant while the rest of the campers with visitors formed a long line to get a Brazier meal and Blizzard at Dairy Queen.

My parents listened to and laughed at our camp escapades, proud of how we had all made it past our first Visiting Days when we cried and lamented how rough Cabin 2 or Cabin 11 was, and how we just wanted to go back home with them. It was a great day - the perfect mid-point to my favorite session at Calvary Camp.


As I do every summer around this time of the year, I start to reminisce about those good old Calvary Camping days - even those when I was a forlorn 17-year old camper (social suicide - all the Birkenstock coolness I had accumulated, rapidly relinquished.) Today would have been Visiting Day. In fact it's the (holy crap) 14th anniversary of the particular one I described.

With fond memories of visits past, I decided that I needed to give Peter a glimpse of them, so today, we're having our own Visiting Day. Except this time, we are the visitors. We are driving up to Camp Kinnickinnic, which is right on Lake Michigan, to visit a very young camper. It's her first session, her first week outside of her comfortable surroundings, and I'm thinking she might be a little sad here and there. But that's what Visiting Day is for. To give her confidence in the next week, and the next year, so ultimately she becomes a cool camper. Lyla, here we come - Donuts, DQ, Don and Nora, and all.  

Lo.