Remember the days when I used to be made cranky by advertising, or mean people in the subway, and I would come home and write encyclopedic rants about them? Me, neither. Dear friends, I’ll get this new writing schedule figured out somehow. I’m sorry.
Last night in my culinary history survey class at the New School, the instructor asked if I would be interested in doing a trial run of my lecture for our last class. Sure!, I said merrily, not remembering until later that our last class is on March 16. Gulp.
My evil plan is to bring food with me, namely the things I plan to make at the demo class, such as brioche and/or brioche-based desserts like bienenstich and russenzopf, maybe a Sally Lunn or two, a pot of lemon curd, maybe a nice big flan, or maybe the odd souffle for 20, and just feed everyone into an egg-based coma, at which point I can lull them to sleep in my own squeaky-voiced, hypnotic way, and no one will care about the historical lecture part of the evening. It’s worth a try.