The rumors are true, I am become swine. Terrible timing; I had to pull out of a concert and a recording session with this lady, and also miss last night’s Metropolis Ensemble show at LPR and Julie Wolfe’s big piece tonight at Zankel. Thanks to Yale’s very cutting-edge new website, I was able to listen to the live stream of Thursday’s New Music New Haven concert from the comfort of my bed. The highlight was a big chunk of Chris Cerrone’s opera-in-progress, Invisible Cities— a piece I’ve watched grow and develop first hand, accompanying dozens of rehearsals over the past year. It was thrilling to hear it realized with a full orchestra.
The Food Issue of the New Yorker arrived a few days ago, and while my appetite is diminished, my capacity for reading about food (and watching Top Chef) is not. I’ve felt a secret kinship with Calvin Trillin ever since I learned we share the same favorite dish, spaghetti carbonara. This week he writes about poutine, a dish which has always struck me as ostentatiously vile (though I would probably try the foie-gras poutine). What made me smile, though, was the following anecdote:
Cautiously, I tasted the Afghan’s poutine, which was the basic fries-curds-and-gravy dish without embellishments. My response was similar to the response I’d had some years ago when the composer Ezra Laderman, despite knowing full well that few euphonious sounds had ever been coaxed out of a shofar, wrote a fanfare for shofars that I heard played at the dedication of the Joseph Slifka Center for Jewish Life at Yale: “surprisingly inoffensive.”