Animal, at Studio Theatre

Ooh nelly, yesterday was one big treat. I had a two hour lunch with a dear friend I've not seen in entirely too long and last night got to get all gussied up and head out for a night at the theatre. 

A woman (now lovely friend) I met when she attended a pickling class I taught years ago invited me to the Studio Theatre's Fall Benefit. It included dinner and drinks, the world premiere of a new play, and a sit-down with the studio's artistic director, playwright and director.

I'd not been to Studio Theatre before and really like the space. Perhaps an aesthetic nod to Studio's emphasis on contemporary theatre that doesn't shy away from edginess, the building casts a modernist look over a corner of 14th and P Streets Northwest, in Logan Circle. Painted in sleek blacks and whites with vibrant splashes of orange, Studio houses four theaters, none of which seats more than 225 people.

Last night's preview was of Animal, a play commissioned by Studio Theatre and written by British playwright, Clare Lizzimore. Studio is committed to doing its part to remedy the fact that currently, fewer than 1 in 4 produced plays are penned by women. Animal is opening now, not accidentally, during DC's Women's Voices Theater Festival, a tremendous joint effort of more than 50 DC-area theaters.

I had no sense of the play before taking my seat last night, a position I often prefer to take with theater, film and museum exhibits because too much information can bias my expectations.

As I learned during the conversation among David Muse, artistic director, Ms. Lizzimore and GT Upchurch, the director, Animal was written to be performed in Studio's black box theatre, an intimate space known as Stage 4 that can hold no more than 120 people. The play, an often-intense drama about mental illness and women, both enhanced and was strengthened by the spare, dark nature of Stage 4: the almost complete lack of set made it hard to do anything but train your eyes entirely on the actors on stage just feet from the audience.

Animal is small, a cast of six, three of whom play important but somewhat secondary characters. The lead is Rachel, incredibly well played by Kate Eastwood Norris, a gifted actress who has worked in prominent theaters in DC and beyond. Animal marks her Studio debut and does so in a big way. She has an enormous number of lines and is rarely offstage, a feat made even more challenging by there being no intermission during the play.

The lack of intermission is critically important to Animal, in my opinion, because the energy and trajectory the actors develop is never interrupted and thus never needs to be brought back up to speed. I wish Hamlet, despite its length, had omitted its intermission; the second half suffered for the break, and even Hamlet's and Gertrude's strong performances couldn't totally resuscitate the energy lost during it.

Norris' real-life husband, Cody Nickell, plays her husband, Tom, on stage in this production. He and the other male lead, Joel David Santner (who plays a doctor), were both very strong and gave us complex performances that seemed authentic and deeply human.

All six actors are American and yet used British accents masterfully. It was really striking actually. How many times have you seen famous movie stars try to carry an accent through a film and succeed? I catch accent breaks and poorly done accents all the time, and it is SO distracting. There was none of that last night, and it was impressive. 

I don't want to say more because the play is suspenseful and there is a reason for that. It's uncomfortable at times, and I like that. It's great to see a work focus in serious, unvarnished fashion on a difficult topic. A spoiler would be a tremendous disservice to an excellent work and a truly enjoyable theatrical experience.

Animal runs through October 25, so get your tickets now. 

Update: Check out this fantastic review by Charles Isherwood of the NY Times. He attended some of the Women's Voices Theater Festival and declares Animal the finest play he saw!

Tomatoes fresh, tomatoes canned, and some pumpkins too

Before waxing rhapsodic about tomatoes and pumpkins, I first want to say thank you to all who wrote here, on Facebook, via email and via text in response to yesterday's post, Time's Determined March. Any writer who feels her words resonate with and impact others is fulfilled, and my heart is full and appreciative today.

Now, food. I was en fuego yesterday, y'all. Pumpkin puree, roasted pumpkin seeds, tomato and white bean soup, roasted tomato jam, chocolate chip banana bread...and scene.

Pumpkins

Let's begin with the pumpkin puree and seeds as those are both shockingly simple, and pumpkins are just showing their happy autumnal selves at area markets.

I like to make pumpkin puree -for cheesecakes, breads, pies, ice cream, muffins; anything you'd otherwise use canned pumpkin for- from sugar pie pumpkins. These are exceedingly round, bright orange squash that are much smaller than those you'd use to carve jack-o-lanterns from. 

Simply wash each pumpkin, cut it in half and remove the seeds. Rinse the seeds and remove any chunks of pumpkin flesh. Set them aside if you want to roast them, or discard/compost. Place the pumpkin halves cut-side down on a rimmed baking sheet and roasted in a 385° or 400° Fahrenheit oven until the flesh is soft and easily pierced with a knife; there should be NO resistance. 

Once cooked, let the pumpkin cool before scooping out the flesh and putting it through a food mill. This will remove any seeds you didn't remove before as well as any overly fibrous flesh. I then portion out and freeze the puree in one-cup increments. 

Later, I roasted the seeds I'd cleaned and reserved but learned something new as I prepped. Boil the seeds in salted water before roasting them in the oven. This ensures that the salt seasons both the interior seed as well as the exterior shell. Thank you, Elise Bauer, for sharing your  mother's wisdom.

Tomatoes fresh, tomatoes canned

Before tomato season calls it quits, I wanted to make one last batch of roasted tomato jam, so I bought three pounds of beefsteaks and got busy. This recipe, from Amanda Hesser, is really spectacular. I love the slight pepper kick and the cinnamon and fennel seed undertones, all of which deliciously buttress the sweet tomato base.

roasted tomato jam

Meanwhile, I was in the mood for tomato soup and so used some wonderful canned tomatoes that I put up over the summer to make the tomato-white bean soup that my whole family loves. It's a recipe I've developed over time, and I think it's now pretty perfect. Saffron, basil, peperoncino, shallots, garlic, lemon zest and an all-important Pecorino (or Parmesan) rind stew together magically with tomatoes and white beans. The recipe is now posted in Soups.

a pumpkin pot for tomato soup

It's a one-pot vegetarian meal that won't take more than forty-five minutes. Make some grilled cheese sandwiches or toast some bread for the side, and you'll be in heaven. 

tomato and white bean soup

Time's determined march

Leaves are changing color and falling, but the high temperatures and humidity persist. My habanero plant is flowering again; it is confused. Summer and fall are duking it out in the final battle for seasonal primacy.

I step from my bath, dripping and thoughtful. Epsom salts and heat help my achy back, the scar on which hasn’t faded over the years as much as I’d have liked. I am prone to all manner of irregular freckles and moles; some need to be removed, while others are simply physical manifestations of my idiosyncrasies and can stay and remind me of such. 

I study my face and its newer wrinkles, my belly and hips. My eyes look tired. Things everywhere are both taut and soft, as aging bodies are wont. Thinner here, fuller there.

It occurs to me that the seasons aren’t the only things fighting for supremacy.

I used to know everyone in the school pick-up line. But during the past two years, waves of new families have reached the shore, and now, I sometimes feel slightly meek and anonymous. Friendships are being forged, over children and similarities I may never know. 

I haven’t felt that way in a long time, and I’m not sure if I like it or don’t.  

My big boy will graduate this year and move to the older campus. I think I like that but nostalgia grabs my heart and makes me unsure. I glean comfort from the fact that even if I’m then just part of the crowd, my younger one will tether me to the special place for a couple years more.

A friend writes with disbelief, “I can’t believe you volunteer at school so often.” I reply, “I love it because not only can I give back but also I can see my children as their best selves.” I had never thought about that before and am again struck by the power of writing without thinking, of responding without editing myself immediately and repeatedly.

There is a lesson there.

I awoke this morning as might a furious storm, swirling and messy and vexed. My agitation could have been for so many reasons, or none at all. I cried, and cooked. I talked to a dearest friend and kept cooking. I poured my soul into my friend and my food. And, later, into my boys.

They were both darling and not, thankful and spoiled, perfect and ugly. My mind told me to run, my heart urged me to stay. Both were right. I am no longer interested in the not-rare arguments about, for example, how much of a body one will willingly bathe. But I am inordinately grateful to be the one asked for advice and trusted with deep secrets.

Finally, the pregnant skies have opened, releasing their watery savings with an unapologetic gush. The parched earth yawns, gratefully lapping up what is shared. Mud splatters, newly sown seeds are unmoored. Wild animals take cover, my domesticated ones snooze obliviously, comfortable and secure on blankets and in beds.

Time marches inexorably on, battling towards the future and against the past. I see it in the seasons, and on my body. In the wave of new faces and the six years that have flown by, a blip in a vast sea, since my family joined the school community we hold so dear. In my dog’s gray whiskers, and in my husband’s too. In the rain that pours down and my sons as they mature.

In the belief in tomorrow and the fresh start it holds.