I feel I should give an enthralling account of my trip to Geneva and my weekend in the company of three Celestial Goddesses, but somehow the sweet memories of those precious, fleeting moments are too valuable to share with my grubby little readers. I will just say that, apart from all the inevitable FUN!, cocktails and good food I enjoyed with Ms. Mac
and Vivi Dispatches
, I also managed to expose to them my sordid underbelly, and subsequently bathed in the comforting, cloying caramel of their understanding, and wise womanly words. Also, if I don’t sing their praises and give them some world-wide exposure to my kajillion readers, they will bitch and whine until my ears bleed.
Ms. Mac picked me up at her local railway station in THE NEW CAR!, and drove me back to her palatial home in The Village of the Damned. Hint: If any of you are ever lucky enough to be taken for a ride by The Lovely Ms. Mac, just be warned that she likes to switch on the heated seats gizmo without telling you first! As I was chatting away nineteen to the dozen, and unburdening my crappy day onto her sisterly shoulders, I became aware of a strange, if extremely pleasant, sensation of warmth in my buttock region, and foolishly attributed it to the strong emotions engendered by our passionate reunion. I naturally reflected aloud to that effect. You can imagine Ms. Mac, that paragon of kindliness and civility, having a good old rollicking, sniggering laugh at my expense. Still, what are friends for, if not to be a laughing stock? I hope I am not too mean-spirited to deprive Stella of her simple pleasures.
I had been swindled out of a good lunch by my workaholic colleagues in Geneva, so by evening I was ravishing
. Darling Ms. Mac arranged an elegant tray of delishimo antipasti and good Swiss bread, then woined and doined me with a rich and heavy Chilean red wine. I relaxed for the first time in days: relief and utter joy oozed from my every pore. (This is not a pretty sight, so please don’t try it at home. Luckily Ms. Mac’s maid was on hand with silken cloths, to mop up the mess).
Kisses and French sweeties were bestowed upon her adorably handsome and alarmingly tall offspring, before we locked them back up in their dank cellar and went out for a night on the town for a Swiss-Chinese dinner. Sweet and sour duck with pineapple and a Tsing-Tao beer were a balm for my wounded psyche and angst-ridden existential crisis.
The night flew by in a blur of refined conversation and witty discourse. Or it might have been raunch, sleaze and belly laughs, I forget which. By the wee small hours I had to force myself to stumble to bed, in order to get enough beauty sleep to enable me admittance to The Lovely Doc’s Hallowed Inner Sanctum the next day. Only beautiful people are allowed to Doc’s hoolies.
Parting from Ms. Mac was such sweet sorrow. I had to peel her off me like a worn-out Band Aid, or I would have missed the train altogether. She clung to me like a limpet until Zürich, where I finally talked some sense into her, and sent her back to her (temporarily in Canada) husband and poor, starving children. But I first allowed her to gaze sentimentally with me upon the monumental glittery magnificence of the Swaroski Christmas tree gracing the centre of Zürich’s Hauptbahnhof
. Never mind that the electricity consumed by its fairy lights would power an entire village of starving third-world children. Fuck ’em! We Westerners must have our fairy lights!
My arrival in the picturesque French agricultural hinterland The Lovely Doc now calls home was heralded by her manly hub Bailey, hub’s best friend, and her eldest monkey Matthieu, who came to pick me up from the station wearing his flashing Spiderman sneakers. I knew I was among friends.
I had planned to fling myself into Doc’s tender, welcoming arms, but I was severely punished for having failed to kidnap Ms. Mac from her domestic duties and bring her with me. Doc put me to work in the kitchen, arranging steamed carrots stuffed with horseradish purée
artfully onto a plate. I’ll tell ya, it was more than just artful getting the horses and radishes into those tiny carrots. It was nothing short of a culinary miracle! The Lovely Vivi Dispatches joined us in Doc’s kitchen for joyful squeals and group hugs, then we packed up towering monuments of food for the invading army and drove it up to the Big House for my very first Thanksgiving Dinner ever.
After two drinks I was tipsy enough to tell my world famous Southern Ladies joke (again. So what? People expect
it of me. An elegant soirée
just wouldn’t be the same without it). Doc is no slouch in the filthy jokes department however, and she had me blushing a mere forty-two times. Vivi and I had to impolitely run away and hide in the kitchen from a supremely annoying and hatchet-faced French woman who wanted to practice her English with us. We left it to Doc to diplomatically explain we don’t see each other very often, and needed some intimate, private time. Vivi quoted Eddie Izzard at me and I turned her on to Russell Brand, until we were both blue in the face. We even found time to shout drunkenly and loudly down the phone at poor Sam de Bretagne
who missed all the fun, due to a tragic train débâcle
. Ok, Vivi wasn't drunk and I had only had two drinks, but - as she so kindly pointed out - I am a very cheap date indeed.
Oh my dears the FOOD
! Doc had cooked up a storm – she claims it only took her two days, but she must be a dirty liar! There were trays and trays of finger food (crudités and American ranch dressing – be still my beating heart!) and dishes of baked crab spread. The main course was herbed turkey breast, slices of roast pork, mashed potatoes so creamy and unctuous, I believed they were a sauce! There was a massive casserole dish of herb & onion stuffing called, because it is cooked outside of the turkey, “Dressing” which is a misnomer to me: I very much wanted to get UNdressed and roll my nekkid body around in an entire bathful of the stuff. There was gravy! My favourite had to be the genuine Green Bean Casserole, with mushroom soup sauce and crunchy onion topping. Help me out here Doc, what have I missed?
She dragged me outside in the freezing dark, over piles of builders’ rubble, in high heels, to “help” her carry the four desserts
from her secret hiding place. If you ever make me reveal the secret hiding place, I will have to kill you. Amazingly, we, and the desserts, arrived intact back in the house, and they elicited a GASP of pleasure and amazement from the throng. Pecan pie with maple syrup, sweet potato pie bursting with spices, the most humungous chocolate cake with attractively drizzled frosting and pretty sprinkles I have ever seen, and a GInormous apple crumble, all served with a vat of whipped cream.
The sky was frosty clear and a gigantic full moon beamed down on all of us as we thought of things to be thankful for. Mainly I was thankful that my trousers hadn’t burst open from excessive overconsumption of Doc’s masterpieces.
Oh, and thankful for my cosy house and cherubic children, but mainly my excellent friends and family.