Author's Note: Nearly every week I publish an article here about Alzheimer's. And they're all deadly serious. A co-worker once asked me if I ever laugh. And another one asked me if I ever write something just for fun. So I wrote the following in response to those questions. I call it "Two Pork Chopins and Orange Cello."
I don't conduct myself well in the kitchen. And I've never received any standing ovations. But one night I decided to cook some ham and stringed basses for my boyfriend, Clef. (We'd met in a bar.) The basses were so bad that Clef became angry and had a violin reaction. He trumpeted in his fingered bass voice that my cooking didn't measure up. He said it Sonata my forte.
I didn't like the tenor of his voice and I became angry, too. I slammed my drink down on the cadenza and just stared at him. But I was afraid I'd commit a mass-d-minor and maybe even staccato my tuning fork in his face so I sat down Impromptu and tacited myself. I was at a weight loss for words and didn't know how to Handel myself.
Finally I decided to even the score, so I passed the baton to Clef, telling him to conduct the cooking. He said he didn't want to cook, but I took a firm music stand and insisted. He refused to recapitulate. Then he lamented, finally admitting he didn't know how to cook either. He reminded me of a homeless oboe, hungering for an encore to be requested of him.
I felt sorry for him and suddenly had a change of key. I didn't want to harp on the issue anymore. I was still a little angry but tried to composer myself. Then I started making overtures to him, saying perhaps we should tie eating out. I played my Magic Flute to try to drum up his support for the idea. I urged him to Liszt to me and take me up on it.
Soon the dissonance between us resolved. Finale, we ended up eating at the Clarinet Hotel's restaurant. We were given beautiful opera librettos from which to make our selections.
The waitress, an Italian prima donna-type named Tosca Nini (I hope this isn't taken as an ethnic slur), marched to our table and took our orders. She was A Sharp one, with a distinct aria of perfection about her. She seemed like Madam Butterfly as she flitted about. However, at times she seemed a little sad. When we asked about it, Miss Nini told us she'd just broken up with her musician boyfriend, a baritone named William Tell. But Clef had no Symphony for her.
For our Prelude we had a wonderful Introduction, fried chicken tenders. For Act II, I had two pork Chopins accompanied by Cole Porter slaw; Clef considered getting the veal pizzicato but ended up ordering a Trom-Bone steak and orange cello. The food was not D licious. In fact, I'd have to say it was downright rotten.
Incidentally, our plates had been delivered by the concert master chef himself and his wife, Viola. The chef was somewhat arrogant, bowed, introduced himself as Rigoletto and urged us to enjoy our meal. Clef said Rigoletto was a big bassoon. Clef even Wagnered his finger at him.
To drink we had beer, in chilled Bern Steins. Then for our last movement we had flutes and whipped cream, served up on piccolo plates. I had resisted the urge to order the Moz tart Con certo. (According to the libretto, by the way, the latter are prepared in a large Bate-oven)
My vision was so sharp I could immediately C the flutes were going to B a disaster, too. And they were -- no quivers about it. I found myself trebling at the quality of that dessert. I didn't know how such a dish could B Flat, but it was. If it had any flavor at all, it was definitely Haydn.
In fact, the flutes were so bad they seemed more like lutes. On the way Bach home I said to myself cymbalically that this all just goes to show that people who aren't culinary virtuosos shouldn't tie to eat out either. It wouldn't B Natural. It might be upsetting. And you just may find that the food is decomposing.
Marie Marley is the author of the award-winning, uplifting book, "Come Back Early Today: A Memoir of Love, Alzheimer's and Joy. Her website (ComeBackEarlyToday.com) contains a wealth of helpful information for Alzheimer's caregivers.