by Seth Colter Walls

I would up being pretty busy at work this last month, or I would have written a full-length Difficult Listening Hour about the current production of Leonard Bernstein’s opera A Quiet Place — a work that is at times brilliant, and is still sort of dizzyingly entrancing even when it is busy being uneven. The story might make you go “blah,” as it’s a jaundiced tale of suburbia’s morally cramped way — a Revolutionary Road/”Mad Men” arc perceived through the late-alcoholic haze of some gnarly-proof, atonal music that’s speckled with odd bitters of jazz. But do not let your standard-issue requirements for novelty turn you away, here. There is not a better way to spend $12 (standing room) or $25 (fourth ring) in NYC this Sunday at 1:30 pm.

The musical imagination at work in Bernstein’s final stage score is undeniable. Occasionally, a pop-like tune by the Bernstein-you-know breaks out — though it’s as likely to accompany a striptease performed by a young, schizophrenic gay man (and for the benefit of his father, while at the funeral of the mother/wife) as anything so neat and thematically tidy as Jets/Sharks. The politics of the piece are strained, to be sure; everyone’s got an afternoon-talk show mania on their minds. But tired as any one strand of the plot may seem, the overall jumble carries a chaotic jolt of the distinct. And, after the burlesquery of the son’s funereal striptease settles down into a haunting, Messiaen-like flicker of notes, you’ll think: goodness, I’ll never see anything like this again. And Sunday — quite honestly — is your last chance. This problematic piece has never been staged in Lenny-loving NYC before, and likely will not be staged again for some time. This production is also uniquely good, since the scrappy City Opera is again benefiting from Christopher Alden’s morally engaged direction. (His narrative framing of the opera’s song-for-winners, “There’s A Law,” conjures a Brecht-Weill style of humor that’s laced with cunning cruelty.)

But so now here we are: Sunday’s matinee performance at City Opera is the last one in this run, and I just couldn’t let that pass without comment. Awl pal Zachary Woolfe called this production “one of those strange evenings that’s disappointing but unmissable” — which I think is mostly right, except for the proviso that it’s disappointing only if you go in expecting every work to box with the classics. An athletic failure can be a vitalizing thing. Awl pal Alex Ross, in this week’s New Yorker, says “the production makes you squirm while you are in the house but lingers in the mind for days.” Since Ross’s review came out, the cheap $12 seats have sold out. But $25 tickets remain. And I’ll be buying one, because I want to see this thing again before it’s gone.

Seth Colter Walls really has been busy at work.

The American Music Awards are simultaneously the silliest and the most honest music-related gala. Nominees are based on things like Soundscan numbers and online streams instead of trifles like artistic intent or legend status, and the winners are dubbed “favorites,” not “bests.” Yet there’s an air of seriousness about it that you’d never see at, say, MTV’s Video Music Awards, one that will be ever more present this year as the Black Eyed Peas bring us their latest wedding-floor-filler “The Time (Dirty Bit)” live for the first time on TV and Train play That Train Song You Hear Everywhere one more time. Which is to say, come back Sunday at 8 pm eastern for a good old-fashioned liveblog of the show by me! And pray, pray that Kanye shows up.

Maggie’s Oyster Dressing

by KarenUhOh

Oysters are a loogie in the culinary sandbox. An epicure will slurp them, but most folks would rather eat egg salad that’s been clotting on a picnic table for six hours. Consequently, any oyster dish is the ideal game-changer at your Thanksgiving table, and is odds-on to send that cousin-in-law whose name you can’t remember to the punchbowl to bob for the courage to hold his nose and swallow one whole.

My mother was an odd filly to pick up the oyster habit. Her Dust Bowl childhood in the Nebraska Sand Hills (which we only heard about every ten minutes: blizzards more blinding with each White Zin; a trek to school that crossed most of the continent) suggested a palette more attuned to the oysters you carved off Elsie’s husband after he stopped being good for anything else.

That’s why I figure this recipe, which I still have in Maggie’s loopy script on a 3×5 card, must’ve hatched during her tour as a landlubber Navy Bride, docking her at exotic ports-of-call such as Macon or Waco. The sort of scurvy-inducing concoction bored base wives dreamt up during afternoons of euchre, cigarettes, and the next deployment of Creamettes and evaporated milk.

It is the perfect whitebread oyster dish, in that you can loathe oysters, but love this, for the simple reason it tastes nothing like oysters. The gourmands among you will still locate their slithery, salty seductiveness within the folds of cream, until you find yourself explaining to your 7-year-old nephew what “they literally came in my mouth” means while your sister glares at you.

Which, since we’re on the subject: oysters? Aphrodisiacs? Though I can’t testify, because I’m usually passed out somewhere after meals involving them, my scholarly research indicates:

1. Oysters are an aphrodisiac because they resemble testes.

2. Oysters are an aphrodisiac because they resemble the female parts of a female.

3. Oysters are definitely not, studies show, an aphrodisiac, although they promote zinc development, which makes the menfolk’s something something.

4. Oysters are maybe possibly, studies show, an aphrodisiac, because somebody did lab work and got tingly.

I guess I haven’t fondled enough oysters — or other people’s personal effects — to get onboard with either the testicular tactility or yoohoo tingle theory. To me, oysters feel like what you’ve been carrying around in your throat for several days of a really bad cold.

Let’s eat!

Maggie’s Oyster Dressing

What’s best about this recipe is that it’s dirt simple. The hardest part will be shelling out (ha-ha) the $10/can you have to pay for oysters these days. The other ingredients are white trash staples you can lift from any pantry in the nearest trailer park. [Ed. Note: you mean “are also white trash staples, but carry on.]

You will need:

• 2 containers oysters (They’re, what? 8 oz. each? C’mon, you’re standing at the fish case. Get two.) (Also: if the top of the container bulges to where it rolls off the counter, pick another one.)

• 2 sleeves Saltine crackers (Please buy real Saltines. It’s a goddamn holiday.) (Although if you’re an Astor, use Ritz. They’ll make it even butterier.)

• 2 tubs oleo (You heard right.)

• 3 hot dog or hamburger buns, slightly stale, FROZEN.

• 2 pints half & half. (All right, a quart. Although you may not need all of it.)

Still there? Get a baking dish. I use Mom’s 9” Corningware casserole. That diameter works best. But it needs depth. I measured mine last night and it’s about four inches (careful, buster). You’re going to be pouring a lot of glop into the thing.

Turn the oven to 350º. Although you can do this at 325º if you have more than an hour. What? You’ve got a turkey in there? Get rid of it. This is better.

Put a gob of oleo on a piece of towel paper and grease up your baking dish. If you want to lick off the towel when you’re done, knock yourself out. Check the towel for cat hair first, if you want.

Take a rolling pin — or a bottle — or a ball-peen hammer — to each package of crackers. This is for therapy. Imagine your ex-, or your boss, whoever gets your inner Carrie-at-the-Prom off. When the crackers turn into what you’d like the skunk who made your life a Living Hell to look like, they’re ready for the casserole.

Get your frozen buns out and break them up. These don’t have to look like your Ron Paul ’04 neighbors after you’ve run them through a composter. Just get some decent crumbs to toss in the dish when I say so.

Clean the oysters. Don’t worry that your hands will smell like the dumpster behind McCormick & Schmicks. Buy some Dawn. Save a penguin.

One thing they don’t do when packing oysters is delouse them. Your raw oyster has flavor chips, like big toenails, glued to them, and while they’re likely scrumptious, they’re also iffy, texturally, so lop them off. Rinse each gooey sexpart under cold running water. DON’T put them back with the other oysters you’ve not deglopped. (And don’t throw away the stinky juice.)

Here comes the complicated part. Although probably the complicated part is making sure you have enough wine in reach to get you through the next five minutes. You’ll be layering.

Start with those headbasher Saltines. First, put the contents of both oleo tubs in the microwave and melt them (micro-safe dish, please. Be sensible, people, albeit loaded-sensible). Put the melt in a yet another dish (you’re cooking, one of your lame-o relatives can do dishes) with the Saltines you beat to hell and mix it up until it’s Saltine stew. Line the bottom of the baking dish with the mess. Use a little less than half, maybe 1/3 or so, because you’ll need two more layers.

Now. Toss some frozen bun crumbs in there. Go on. More.

Get one container’s worth of cleaned oysters. Line the layer of your cracker and bun mix with oysters. Spread them apart with your fingertips until you tingle.

Now grab one of the oyster containers that you’ve removed oysters from. Do NOT tell me you poured out the gross-smelling juice. I told you NO!! If you did, you’re going into the drain after it.

You want to empty one container’s worth of oyster syrup on Layer #1. If there’s any solids left in the juice that look like they might not flush, you can remove them.

Time for Layer #2: more soggy crackers mix, more crumbly freezer buns. Until no one would ever suspect you’ve got the Red Tide of the Umatilla swimming beneath.

Come on. You know what’s next: the second can of oysters. And, Right, pour oyster juice all over it! There, see? You’re Rachael Ray, with smaller hands!!

Finish it off with the last of the Saltine mix and whatever buns are left. If you’ve run out, then tell your Sweetie to get his/her rank ass off the couch and over to the 7/11 for more. Because you’ve simply got to have that top layer of fake-buttery crumbs, and everyone knew six weeks ago the Lions were going to lose.

Then, the velvet glove: that quart of Half & Half. This is what sells the dish, so don’t blow it. Pour in as much as possible. Let the faux cream rise right to the rim as it oozes in. When it starts dribbling over onto your socks, put the casserole in the oven.

As I said, bake at three-something (but never ever over 75). Covered, at first, but later take your top off so it tans. Maggie said on her card bake for 45 minutes, but the crust doesn’t brown or set right unless you smoke it for close to an hour. Maybe even more. You’ve got to keep an eye on it, and keep pouring in half & half periodically (not every five minutes. Go watch hovering cartoon balloons, or stuff your celery with Portwine Velveeta) to keep it moist.

When the crust is golden (and it will be, if you’ve done this right. Otherwise, don’t ever cook for me, okay?), take it out, let it rest, then FORCE YOUR GUESTS TO EAT SUCCULENT OYSTERS. It’s a Holiday, see, and you’re Sophisticates. So let’s behave like it. Serve a good Chardonnay with the casserole, something Santa Ynez-ey that’ll lean into the butter, but not something so expensive you’ll get pissed when your no-account relatives put ice cubes in a tumbler of Kistler and use it for Lavoris.

Your party will cheer you for this something-something-in-your-mouth delicacy from the Noncom Barracks of Bossier City. Someone might even get randy enough to bite someone else’s neck. Hopefully, they won’t be too closely related.

Ladies and gentlemen, the magic, the majesty that is KarenUhOh.

Suck it, Jackie Brenston: “’That’s All Right Mama’ by Arthur ‘Big Boy’ Crudup is the world’s oldest rock and roll song, according to Southeastern Louisiana University rock historian Joseph Burns, who also thinks this song could contain the first ever guitar solo break.”

Everything’s gone green: “US authorities are on the hunt for a radioactive mouse living in the grounds of a historic nuclear weapon production plant. Radioactive mouse droppings were discovered in the grounds of the Hanford nuclear plant in Washington state. It comes two weeks after a radioactive rabbit was captured on the same site, reports the Tri-City Herald.”

by Jasmine Moy

Even on Thanksgiving, I’ve always thought turkey was a bit boring. I eat chicken year-round and they’re basically the same thing, right? I show up mostly for the sides. I get more excited about cranberry sauce from a can than is natural for any person who eats good, non-processed food on a regular basis.

After my mother moved to California and my brother moved to Houston, I was the only one who still went back to Chicago for the holidays. Since it was just me and my grandparents, we started to switch things up. One year we had filet mignon with lobster tails. Another year we had Niman Ranch pork chops with applesauce. Last year I asked for pot pie.

I’m not sure where this recipe comes from but my grandmother was raised in Ohio (Dayton, to be exact) and it was a family recipe for her as a little girl. This has no chicken and it’s not baked. It’s not really a stew or totally a pot roast, but it’s a bunch of things, all of them delicous. My grandmother served this at least once a month during my childhood and also during my mother’s. A cursory google says that this dish is of Dutch origin and is actually called bott boi, but has been bastardized by Americans (what’s new?) and is now sometimes referred to as “slippery noodle pot pie” to distinguish it from the baked actual pie-looking thing, but I digress.

The next day I get an e-mail from my mother:

I talked to Grandma. She doesn’t seem to remember what pot pie is. I told her I’d give her the recipe and walk her through it, but she seemed to think she could serve it with the pork chops you sent, but I told her it has to be with pot roast. She seems to be struggling a little. She sent Aunt Debby 2 cards on the same day and spelled her name wrong on one of them. She couldn’t remember Ken’s middle name either. Grandpa doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem. He laughs it off and says she’s a gem. Just wanted to give you a head’s up.

Those were the first signs of what was to become my grandmother’s full-fledged Alzheimer’s diagnosis. My grandfather was in denial until my grandma got in the car, drove it a mile to the next town over and stopped because she had no idea where she was going, or where she’d been. She got out of the car and started wandering. A good samaritan called the police who helped her home.

She no longer cooks and is quietly, fraily, confused. My grandfather has been full of impatience and frustration, toughness that masks his fear. All she prepares now is frozen food that can be microwaved. He doesn’t cook. From either coast my mother and I need to remind him to remind her that she needs to take a bath at least every other day.

She may not remember how she used to pull a chair up to the stove for me to stand on, and let me add the noodles to the pot. Taking the diamond-shaped chips one by one and dropping them gingerly into the broth point first, like little divers, to avoid any splash. In fact, she may not remember this dish at all. But this season I’m taking the reins. What was an old standard that everyone took for granted is now a recipe to be passed on and treasured.

Start by making a pot roast. Preheat the oven to 350. Two to four pounds of chuck roast serves 4–8 people. Brown the meat in a skillet with a touch of oil, a few minutes on each side. Put it in a roasting pan, season with salt and pepper and a few bay leaves if you have them. Toss in a couple quartered white onions (carrots too, if you want). Fill the roaster about half way up with water (I add a few beef bouillon cubes for flavor), then cover tightly and bake in the oven for 3–4 hours until tender. Keep an eye on the liquid level and if it looks like it’s evaporating, add more water to the pan. When done, the meat should fall apart when poked with a fork. Let it rest for 30 minutes before serving.

The juice left in the pan (if there is any) can be made into a gravy with small additions of a flour and milk, mixed until you reach your desired thickness.

While the roast is in the oven, make the noodles. You’ll need:

2 tablespoons Crisco
3 egg yolks (save the whites and make meringue cookies!)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
4 tablespoons milk
2 cups flour

Mix the milk and yolks together. Next, mix the dry ingredients. Then combine the two. On a floured board, start kneading. The dough should be fairly gummy, if it feels too dry and isn’t coming together, add a little more milk. Roll the dough out until you’ve reached the thickness of a Kraft Single and slice into two-inch-long diamonds. Let the noodles dry for at least 30 minutes on a piece of waxed paper.

Bring a stock pot 1/2 full of beef broth (or water with bouillon cubes) to a boil. Add 4 tablespoons of butter and drop the noodles in a few at a time to keep them separated. Cook for 20 minutes.

To serve, spoon out some noodles and enough broth to cover the plate. Top with some pot roast and a scoop of mashed potatoes.

Jasmine Moy is ready to roll.

“The good news is that there is a cure for Facebook-induced asthma attacks — staying off the site.”

Also: “’It actually made me more uncomfortable,’ Chris McMahon said.”

“IF Sir Michael Caine was writing this article, he might start it by saying, ‘the döner kebab was invented in Berlin. Not many people know that.’ (By the way, did you know that Sir Michael once published a book called ‘Not Many People Know That’? He followed it up with a second book with an even better title:’ Not Many People Know This Either!’ I wonder how many people know either of those things? Also, did you hear Sir Michael on Desert Island Discs last year? It was a fantastic show, interesting because it turns out he is into chill out music — breezy, Ibiza-y stuff by people like Chicane and Bent — but also encouraging, with Sir Michael talking about why its best to be an optimist in life. ‘I think everything is going to be all right,’ he said, in his cheerful, reassuring voice).

Anyway, the döner really is quite something in Berlin compared to other places….”
 — I enjoyed this piece about döner kebabs from (new to me) Manzine

.

If you owned Tumblr, what would you do with the $25 to $30 million you just got pumped into your company (on top of the first $10 million)? (Or thereabouts — numbers are reportedly fuzzy.) I have a real soft spot for Tumblr, I think it’s adorable and effective and groovy and small. What do you do to keep those charms while making it robust and, oh right, revenue-ey?