Aubergine Libertine in limousine with Ice Cream

No, wait, RantWoman's dining buddies the Weed Whackin Wenches
found it better! the Aubergine poem .

Well, except RantWoman thinks after Saturday's festival of vitamins and laughter, she may have come home with the star aubergine. The one Curmudgeon clipped on her garden tour between opportunities to sniff herbs, visits to pole beans and pepper plants and tomatoes climbing the side of the house, explanations of flower formation and transformation to seed pods, is a handsome number perfect for one person and it looks to RantWoman at least suspiciously like the one in the picture. But then RantWoman's eyes are decidedly not to be relied on, and the snipped aubergine would be only part of the story anyway.

First, a short moment about RantWoman's gardening aspirations. RantWoman aspires to have tomatoes. She has a lot of tomato plants on her balcony but blossoms remain unseen. RantWoman is happily munching chives, parsley, basil, oregano. She considers this a good start, but it is late enough in the season that she is very glad to visit real gardens yielding actual abundance.

Next, Curmudgeon and WingNut have a new kitchen implement. They have an electric ICE CREAM MAKER, and they invited RantWoman to help break it in. RantWoman is seldom shy about either food or gizmos. In this case, she offered to bring something but never specified what. In the event, the what was the most wonderful fudgy cookies from Borrachini's Bakery and, since Italian bread was 2 loaves for the price of one, a loaf on a whim of Italian bread.

RantWoman is serious when she says the Italian bread was a whim. RantWoman loves many things at Borrachini's Bakery . She loves the amaretti, the fruit bars, the sweet potato pie, the fudgy cookies, the large selection of different olive oils, the fun selection of things that can be painted on cakes, the 24 flavors of softserve in cones. Except for bagels or something from the dayold shelf to make French toast from though, RantWoman would by default buy bread somewhere else; when she succumbs to whims, she is usually reminded why. The Italian bread was crispy on the outside but definitely not long on substance inside. But never mind, slices went great with the rest of an ad-hoc menu and anyone displeased to have some left can slice it thick, toast under the broiler and brush with olive oil suffused with garlic, either that or toast, break into chunks, and toss into a strata. But RantWoman is getting ahead of herself.

Dinner invites to the Wenches' generally come with approximate times due to bus vagaries, and RantWoman's arrival was earlyish. Diva Dog always has to make a great show of alertness and alarm when RantWoman shows up, all the more so if RantWoman manages to creep down the Wenches' driveway to their door without Diva Dog noticing until she knocks at the door. RantWoman generally does not think of herself as good at creeping silently, but she manages it surprisingly often on the way to the Wenches'.

Diva Dog has an excuse for missing RantWoman's arrival this time even though there was only a screen between home and RantWoman. Diva Dog had to go to the vet yesterday because of a big ugly white thing on one eyelid. The big ugly white thing turned out to be a local tick, something RantWoman would not have known and neither did the Wenches. RantWoman well imagines that having a monstrous pest picked off one eyelid would take it out of man or beast, and this on top of another small but annoying remedy RantWoman will leave further unspecified.

After RantWoman paid proper tribute to Diva Dog and was amitted through the door, the Wenches were all apologetic: first they had worn themselves out gardening the day before and did not feel like cooking. They had an abundance of beans of several kinds from their garden, yellow, something like purple royalty that was yellow with purple spots at least before cooking, some purple ones that also alas turn green when cooked, and some of the conventional green ones. They had excellent corn on the cob from their favorite market. They sounded thrilled with the bread RantWoman feared would be inadequate. And they suggested roasted chicken from the supermarket. RantWoman always has such fun dining with the Wenches, she can hardly imagine something she would turn down, especially if there was Homemade Ice Cream!

RantWoman like WingNut remembers a time or two in childhood where homemade ice cream involved much rock salt and ice and hours of cranking by all the children available for miles followed by a few minutes of serious cranks from uncles or farm hands. Cranking children and uncles are in short supply in these parts; luckily thanks to the wonders of modern technology, homemade ice cream can be had merely by mixing the ingredients, pouring them into the pre-chilled freezer bowl, plugging the thing in, setting the timer for 30 minutes, and digressing to other themes.

Last night's recipe involved real cream, whole milk, vanilla, sugar and White Socks the cat watching either worriedly or worshipfully we are not sure which while the motor whined away. Finally, White Socks decided she could in fact turn away to crunch something in her food dish and they she returned to her perch in the living room.

Snuggle Bug, the Wenches' other kitty was another story. She took no notice of the ice cream maker at all. Snuggle Bug, as long as RantWoman has known her has always been kind of a furry black neck scarf of a kitty. Lately, the Wenches are pretty sure she, quite advanced in years, is almost completely deaf, but she is adamant in her enthusiasm for any human able and willing to be cat furniture for extended periods of time. RantWoman thoroughly enjoyed a couple quite extended rounds of extravagant purring while Snuggle Bug rested on RantWoman's arms, but RantWoman did rudely insist on putting the kitty down to dine.

Diva Dog's vet, The Aurora Ave. Veterinary Hospital is quite near where RantWoman used to live so Diva Dog's reward for putting up with necessary veterinary torments was a good walk around to look at gardens and greenery. Well, looking would be the idea, but that neighborhood is slowly being devoured by townhomes. Townhome ownerss on average are much less garden-oriented than, say, the Wenches and RantWoman is sorry to hear the Wenches' report that things on the gardening front are even more stunted than she remembers. Alas, unlike a couple other neighborhoods mentioned, the townhomes are not even interesting rainbow colors. Sigh.

The Wenches promise more ice cream adventures. So far the roadmaps are a couple ice cream books from the library. Kumquat fennel sorbet anyone? Or perhaps cardomom almond ice cream.

Meanwhile, no dancing queens puffing nicotine. No Charlie Sheen time machine with a nectarine, just RantWoman at home with a tasty aubergine.