It's snowing. Finally!

Here in the Village (Queen Village, to be precise), we like it when it snows. It gives those of us who live within a two-block radius an excuse to throw an impromptu dinner party, featuring whatever we can scavange at Chef's Market or the SuperFresh on Fifth Street, play board games or watch movies, and postpone the inevitable shoveling. It's very cozy. When my sister Molly lived with me, she had one of those fake light-up logs that sat on top of streamers of red and orange cellophane. You'd turn it on and a little fan hidden under the fake light-up log would blow, causing the streamers to hiss and twist in a very realistic fire-type crackling-log noise. It was quite something.

The snow started at around 10 in the morning. At noon or so, Susan stopped by. "What are we making for dinner, kids?" she asked. We went to the market, buying all kinds of goodies, and a nice bottle of wine. Susan wound up doing a version of the fig-jam-and-roquefort pizza we had at a restaurant last week (it sounds gross, but isn't). I mashed potatoes and baked a cake. Adam roasted a roast. Robert and Lisa made a salad with beets and toasted pecans. Everything was sublime, except my cake developed a major crater in the middle, which I disguised by filling it with frosting (ah, frosting. Spackle of the gods). And then, as soon as the guests arrived and marveled over the cake, I felt compelled to say, "Actually, it probably isn't as good as it looks. There was kind of a sinkhole in the middle, so I filled it with frosting."

Adam said that I was giving out too much information, but I figured, better tell people what the deal is, lest they be confronted with a slice where the cake-to-frosting ratio was something like one to one and have to pretend to be polite about it, rather than wondering, "Um, what exactly happened to this cake?" And seriously, I don't know what happened. I put it in the oven, it was fine. I baked it, it was fine. I took it out of the oven, it was fine. Ten minutes later the whole thing had collapsed faster than Quentin Tarantino's career. It was quite tasty, though ("it" being the cake, not Quentin Tarantino).

Over dinner, the talk turned, as the talk often will, to Minnie Driver's love life. Susan saw enough of one of the supermarket tabloids to tell me that she's allegedly dating Harrison Ford (I, personally, was much more interested in reading about Monica Lewinsky's latest woes. She's on the cover of Star, I think. "LEWINSKY BOTTOMS OUT," reads the headline. "LONELY. FAT. BROKE. SCORNED." Or as I liked to call it, my twenties.)

But back to Minnie. Harrison Ford! I mean, he's old enough to be her...well, in any event, he's old. Hot, but old. Well-preserved, but old. My friends and I can't make heads or tails of it. As best we can figure, Minnie's on some kind of romantic scavenger hunt-type thing, where she has to date (and, eventually, get dumped by) a guy in his twenties, a guy in his thirties, a guy in his forties, and a guy in his fifties. And if you have to date an older man, you could do worse than Harrison Ford.

Over and out....

Jen