Wonder of Wonders, Miraculin of Miraculins...

The mberry pills...

Maybe you've heard of Miracle Fruit. It's been a hit in New York for a few years, and in its native West Africa for many more years. The little African berry contains a substance called miraculin (no, seriously, that's really what they call it), which alters your taste buds' perceptions for up to an hour. While the miracle fruit is at work, sour, bitter and acidic foods are supposed to turn miraculously sweet - and sweet foods become even more decadent.

Miracle Fruit is now available in pill form, from a company called mberry. So naturally, we had to order some. And while they've been having Miracle Fruit Tasting Parties up in trendsetting NYC for the last few years, our part of the world is often behind on such things... and thus I'm proud to announce that we may have just hosted Mississippi's first miraculin soiree.*

First and foremost, a word to any skeptics out there pondering the legality of this. If you're picturing me giving all my guests a tablet, and telling them to let it dissolve on their tongue before the experience can begin -- well, that's exactly what happened. But, one of my guests was an officer of the law. And the product is commercially available on Amazon.com. Plus, my parents were in town for this party.

And while none of the information I shared just now sounds like convincing evidence that the evening's activities were legal, well, as a point of fact, they were.

Now. Let's get to the good part.

We had about 15 people over for our little tasting party, and the tasting part was actually a surprise: we'd invited the cast and crew of the play our theater group just closed to come over for a viewing of the performance DVD, and when they arrived, we sprang the Miracle Fruit news. While a few of the blindsided guests were initially hesitant about popping the little pink pill, everyone wound up on board. We had set up quite a spread of tasting samples. Here's what we had on hand:

Limes and Granny Smith Apples

Blue Cheese, Blueberries, Pineapples,
Sour Cream, Tomatoes...

Lemons, of course

Heavy hitters: hot chili peppers, olives,
dill pickles, and Louisiana Hot Sauce

Insurance Policy. 

 Our spread ran the gamut, because while miraculin is supposed to turn bitter and acidic tastes sweet, it also enhances already-sweet tastes. So strawberries become a decadent dessert, sour cream is supposed to taste like cheesecake, and so on. Since we did have chili peppers and hot sauce in the mix, and since the nice folks at mberry make very clear on their packaging that the pill alters your palette, but not your digestive tract, we also had antacids on hand so if anyone went crazy on the peppers and then their system reacted poorly. we were prepared.

So how'd it go? The biggest breakout hits of the night were the lemons and limes (the lemons really did taste like lemonade, and the limes like key lime pie, but both with the texture of the fruit - surreal), the sour cream (less like cheesecake, more like a sweet vanilla Greek yogurt - delicious), and apples paired with blue cheese (a new kind of nirvana). All in all, enhancing sweets was more popular than changing sours. The sours were altered, but not really enough. The dill pickles tasted more like sweet pickles, but still basically tasted like pickles. Louisiana Hot Sauce tasted like a sweet chipotle sauce, which still had a good bit of bite to it. The hot peppers had a milder, slightly sweeter initial taste, but still set your mouth ablaze - which probably helped to prevent any potentially dire need for antacids.

J says: "Thisimzingflmpf!"
(Translation: ""Ohmigawd
this is amazing!")

Finally, some folks had a small shot of vanilla vodka, and others had honey wheat beer. Drinking liquids did seem to dilute the effects faster, but did enhance whatever one drink with which you chased away the miraculin. I do think that at the next Miracle Fruit gathering, we should have some Guinness on hand, which is rumored to wind up tasting like a chocolate milk shake. Sounds like the perfect dessert, no?

Though the effect of the taste-altering little pink pill was not quite as extreme as we'd hoped and feared, the Miracle Fruit Tasting Party was a success. It was something different, there were a few surprises (those limes! that sour cream!), and the exclamations both of "Ohmigawd that is amazing!" and "Holy crap those peppers still buuuuuurrrrrrrrn!" brought lots of laughter.

A final tally for the miraculin session:
mberry pills = $15 for a ten-pack
Tasting selection = about a $20 grocery bill
Telling some of your most do-goody friends (myself included) and your parents to "just take the pill and enjoy the ride" = priceless.

*If anyone else beat us to it, speak up now or I'm forever claiming this achievement.

Weighty Affairs Will Just Have To Wait...

I've been very introspective lately. My mind has stayed on weighty matters. I've caught myself, more than once, having drifted off, lost in thought, staring into space while contemplating existential questions. So rather than staring at nothing, tonight I decided to lighten then mood by staring directly at some of the weird objects filling my home. And so I went through the place, taking pictures while humming some relevant Sondheim:

Something aesthetic,
Something frenetic,
Something for everyone:
A comedy tonight!

Nothing with gods, nothing with fate;
Weighty affairs will just have to wait!

Nothing that's formal,
Nothing that's normal,
No recitations to recite;
Open up the curtain:Comedy Tonight!

-A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To the Forum

The desk is guarded by an army of tiny heroes.

The now famously (infamously) eloquent bananas.

Octopus Loofah: "I see naked people"

Clip Art. Get it?

Mixed up movie quotes. Every time we have a creative (or drunk) guest, the fridge gets weirder.

There is a lot of Spidey in the house. A lot.

Good at checkers? Challenge yourself! Try shot glass checkers! Gain some humility!

Okay, so this isn't at my house, it's a restaurant nearby. Their menu.
Am I the only one that thinks it's weird that this dude is welcoming his friends... at gunpoint?

Things That Are Hard to Write About

It's easy to get on a soapbox about something relatively minute. The ridiculously terrible service at the McDonald's on Fortification Street. The wackadoodle roundabout in the middle of the neighborhood. People who constantly confuse their/they're/there and then correct other people's grammatical errors.

It's harder to write about things that really matter. About weighty realities. The issues that genuinely touch your heart - or turn your stomach.

I don't usually shy away from writing about the grim and tragic news we face; sometimes it's even therapeutic to write about something, especially when I can't stop thinking about it. But I've tried and failed three times in the past two weeks to write about the murder of James Craig Anderson. In case you missed the story, Mr. Anderson is the innocent man who was mercilessly beaten by seven white teenagers who drove from Rankin County into Jackson to "f*** with some n******". The teens found and attacked Mr. Anderson, their random victim, and they beat him, screaming racial epithets. After the prolonged beating, they got back into their trucks, and Deryl Dedmon, Jr., the ring leader, ran over Mr. Anderson with his car, killing him.

My own words in response to this kept feeling inadequate. So instead, I want to share the words of my friend Tom Head, which were published in this Jackson Free Press article. He captures not only the brutality, but also the injustice and longstanding systemic issues surrounding this terrible crime. I offer Tom's words to you, along with my prayers for Mr. Anderson and his family.

Catch-22, Anyone?

I have four half-finished blogs saved as drafts. I have languishing scripts, and a novel that I really do believe I can finish writing, and a few truly solid ideas I want to outline before they abandon my poor, overcrowded mind and re-settle in a nice big country home. But I can't get my writing done, because...

I also have work. And pets. And laundry. And dishes. And bills. And friends' crises. And un-returned phone calls. And un-read books. And a crazy-full email inbox of un-read emails. And meetings. And rehearsals (okay, those are now on hiatus). And volunteering gigs. And groceries to buy. And meals to cook. And a house to clean. And Groupons to use. And yoga to do. And I can't focus on getting these things done because...

I have four half-finished blogs saved as drafts. I have languishing scripts, and a novel that I really do believe I can finish writing, and a few truly solid ideas I want to outline before they abandon my poor, overcrowded mind and re-settle in a nice big country home. But I can't get my writing done, because...

Mustache Mania

I am living with a LOT of mustache these days.

No, no, I don't mean *I* suddenly started channeling Groucho Marx. I mean, I am surrounded by mustaches.

The Dov-stache

First of all, there's Dov. My dog. He looks, all at once, like a muppet, an Ewok, and a little old man. He has a little old man mustache and a little old man beard. Dov and his mustache have been part of my life for two years now, and I'm used to this one being around.

Loki-whiskers.

Then there's Loki. D's cat. As with any cat, Loki has a respectable set of whiskers. But interestingly, a pitch-black cat, Loki manages to have one bright-white whisker, giving his 'stache a bit of distinction. Look closely... can you see the paler whisker hair? His whiskers are also pretty droopy, giving him a bit of a Fu Manchu look.

 Normally, these are the only two mustaches in the house. D does not sport a 'stache. But right now, he's playing John Wilkes Booth in a show. And JWB did sport a pretty rockin' mustache. Thus, D has grown facial hair for the role. Onstage, in his full costume, he looks like a respectable Booth. (Well, respectable for the first presidential assassin.) At home, in sleeveless shirts taking the dog out in the morning, he looks more like... well... all of my uncles in the early 1980s.

D's 'stache reminds us all to stop and smell the roses.

So that takes us up to three mustaches. But wait... there's more! Right now, we have a girl-dog temporarily residing with us, and even she has a full-on mustache:

She is VERY happy to have a 'stache.

So, I finally decided: if you can't beat 'em... join 'em.

Me-stache

Writing Without Fear. On Bananas.

I'm late in starting it, but this is my week of taking literary risks. Writing without fear. And I kicked it off by writing on some bananas.

See, I read recently that if you take a toothpick and gently trace words on a banana, they will initially be invisible. But as the banana ripens, the words gradually appear. It's like nature's magic trick! I saw several blogs and articles where folks got creative with this information. Over at Neato Bambino, they suggested writing sweet messages to your kids and other loved ones (awwww). Meanwhile, the Bloggess left messages threatening bodily harm and fostering paranoia (hahaha).

I decided to empower the bananas to speak their little banana minds.

Thus, all of my messages were banana themed. I traced them with a toothpick, and carefully placed the bananas back in their little fruit-basket home. The great thing is, the bananas are pretty much D's bananas, because he uses them for the shakes he's drinking these days. So I was pretty excited for him to find the messages.

This is what awaited him:

In case you need some captions, from bottom to top:

• But I have NEVER been on a boat. (Speaking out against sunscreen slander. Admittedly, random.)
• ... RAMA! (Sort of like Marco! ...Polo! But BANANA!... RAMA!)
• Where is my monkey? (The obvious banana question. Haven't you always wanted a monkey?)
• This shit is just... (Not a good song. But an excellent banana exclamation.) *

A full 24 hours went by. I photographed the bananagrams. I waited. Nothing. Then I came home this evening and found only three bananas! One of the messages had been seen! I waited for D to get home. Upon his arrival, we had the following exchange:

Me (overly excited): I see you had a banana!
D: Um. Yes. I had a banana.
Me: Did the banana have anything to say for itself?
D: (--staring at me as though I am crazy--)** Um...
Me: Did you LOOK at the banana?
D: (--repeating the look--)

But then, being both sweet and knowing something was up, he barreled towards the garbage can to dig out the peel. I stopped him and just showed him the remaining bananagrams. 'Cause I'm nice like that. He got quite a kick out of the remaining nanners. And who wouldn't? They had so much a-peel! ***

P.S. BANANAS OF THE WORLD... UNITE!!

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* First official profanity on my blog! Technically appears twice - once in plain text, once on a banana! The insanity!!
**Which is to say, giving me a pretty standard look.
*** I would like to apologize. I tried to stop myself. I couldn't.

If The Glass Slipper Fits

On top of everything else, I'm also now in tech week for a show. So I haven't had much time to write. Thus, I'm sharing one from "the archives," if you will. My friend KMD asked me to contribute an essay on theater for his blog a year or two ago. Sadly, his blog is currently on hiatus. (But will be added to my bog roll when it is revived!) I managed to find the essay, which is about my first theatrical experience, at age 6, and figured it would make an appropriate piece for this week. Enjoy, and in all your pursuits this week, break legs! 

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IF THE GLASS SLIPPER FITS…

(Or, I Believe in Theater Magic)

Barefoot children, dirty tear-stained faces, and a girl marrying her own brother.

A sordid new soap opera? “Days of our Over-Stereotyped Incestuous Young Hillbilly Lives”?

Nope. My first play.

The year: 1987. At the ripe old age of six, I was the eldest actor in the show. The director/narrator/costume designer was my mother;  the assistant director/seamstress/harried producer was our neighbor; my co-stars were my two little brothers and the neighbor’s two kids; the show was “Cinderella,” and because someone up there has it in for me… yes, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my parents’ archives, there is video footage.

I was playing the title role, cast not due to any particular talent, nor really due to nepotism, but simply because: 

a) I was one of only two girls in the gaggle of neighborhood ruffians, and 

b) none of the other kids could read yet. Public service announcement: literacy pays off, kids.

My mother had the brilliant idea that our two families should have their kids rehearse a play, then videotape the final performance and send it off to our various scattered relatives as a truly meaningful and original holiday gift. She scouted a location – we would rehearse, perform, and film the performance in the neighbor’s mother’s country home. M & M’s were purchased to bribe any resistant children into becoming thespians. My mother then rented a video camcorder approximately the size and weight of Texas, and we were good to go.

In regards to the camcorder, before I continue, let me underscore the hard truth for you: yes, this is all caught on film. No, you will probably never get to see it. Not unless I get REALLY famous and "E" or Entertainment Tonight fork over six-figure-blood-money to my folks. Although, my parents do threaten that when I finally bring home a fiancé, they will break out this VHS, and if he can watch our “Cinderella” and still want to join the family/hold my hand, he will be officially vetted.

The cast was as follows:

·         Cinderella – little me, age 6

·         Evil Stepmother – voice of my mother (offscreen)

·         Evil Stepsisters – my little brother A (age 2) and the neighbor’s son L (age 3)

·         Evil Stepsister’s Feet (for camera close-ups of the epic shoe “shoe doesn’t fit” scene) – my mom and the neighbor

·         Fairy Godmother – neighbor’s daughter, N (age 4)

·         Horses – A and L, in horse costumes instead of dresses

·         The Prince – my little brother J (age 4)

The play kicked off with me sweeping the hearth, learning of the ball, being told by my sobbing evil stepsisters (some bitter dispute between the neighbor boy and my brother over M & M’s led to them bawling throughout every scene they were in) that I was not allowed to go to the ball. When they exited, I sat on a chair and cried “Now I shall never go to the ball!” with appropriate melodrama – completely upstaged by my underwear flashing the audience.*

But then of course came the fairy godmother. Usually, we picture the Disney fairy godmother, right? Pudgy, sweet, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, and here's a cookie. In our production, however, the benevolent spirit was a petulant little girl who screamed each line at the top of her lungs. As in: 

“I AM YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER! I HAVE COME TO GET YOU READY FOR THE BALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOW!!!!”

Then, in a really nifty little edit sequence, Tiny Little Beth goes from being in a dress made from a frumpy pile of rags into POOF! a pink princess dress, in one swift, choppy cut of the camera. And so, completely deaf but in a beautiful dress, I went out to my carriage – a Radio Flyer wagon with puffy-paint and glitter-glue decorated cardboard cut-outs enhancing its “carriage” look. The carriage was drawn by two horses – my brother and the neighbor kid in sweatsuits, with yarn-manes and yarn-tails stapled to them, howling over some M & M injustice. Arriving at the ball, the prince (a.k.a. my other little brother, very bitter about having to be involved in this production) grabbed my hand and began yelling at me. This provided me with very little motivation to look sad when the bells began to toll and I told him, flatly, “Oh no. I must go.”

Kicking my foot furiously to make sure I left a shoe behind, I raced off. My prince/brother shouted, “Wait!” and went to pick up the shoe, then decided it hadn’t been dramatic enough, so put down the shoe, backed up, yelled “Wait!” again, and picked up the shoe for a second time as the horses wailed in the background.

In one of my all-time favorite “This American Life” episodes, Ira Glass dissects the meaning of “fiasco” – and, appropriately, uses the story of a community theater production of “Peter Pan” gone horribly wrong to illustrate just what a “fiasco” entails. My “Cinderella story” truly is more aptly dubbed a “Cinderella fiasco” – but more than two decades later, it’s interesting to note where that cast and production staff has landed. (Oooh... btw... insert "Ira Glass-Slipper" joke here...)

What is theater magic? This is theater magic. My mother, the strung-out young director chasing young children around a makeshift set, now has a Ph.D. in theater. No joke – with four kids grown and living on their own (one of whom was not even born at the time of the now legendary ’87 off-off-off-off-off-off-off-Broadway Cinderella revival) she went and got herself a doctorate in directing. My sobbing horse/step-sister brother, A, is pursuing an acting career in Chicago. I’m still a theater junkie, usually involved in some production and constantly trying to write the next great American play. 

We all start somewhere. My first play might have been a fiasco, and could have been a one-shot-deal, a good childhood story that never led to anything… but that’s not how this tale ended. Because for some of us, theater never becomes a pumpkin – it’s always that magic carriage (or Radio Flyer wagon decorated with glittering cardboard). It’s what keeps taking us to the ball, the prince, the next happily-ever-after we share with the next audience. Even before we have real resources or experience or lighting, somehow, a show comes together.

That's theater magic: everything comes together in the end, and WE get to be the fairy tale. What’s better than that?

ALL RIGHT, READERS… I SHARED MINE, YOU SHARE YOURS: What was your first play? When did the theater bug first “bite,” and was it a fantasy or a fiasco? Or both?

*True. Stop laughing, future fiance.