Debrief

I suspect I should feel sufficiently cowed this morning to delete the previous post, but that would be censorship of a kind — of my true character. Yesterday, at about 4:00 p.m., we received a phone call from our dinner guest of the previous evening. He had just checked himself out of the emergency room. Yes, taking a cab home at about 1:30 a.m., the pain had become insupportable and he diverted the cab to Mount Sinai Hospital. They informed him, after placing him on a morphine drip and doing a battery of tests, that he had a case of aggravated gallstones that would require surgical attention sometime in near future. Allegedly the doctor said it had nothing to do with my cuisine, but in my mind the connection is irresistible. Was it the pot-roast, the rice-flour soda bread, the gluten-free berry pie — or was it, all together, a recipe for murder?

In other news, to reward Canadians for having to wait months to see delayed broadcasts of the addictive drivel Project Runway, we have been given our very own version, Project Runway Canada — hosted by none other than Iman. After some initial awkwardness (she seemed at first like a second-rate actress playing a supermodel), she settled into what I suspect is her natural tone of ruthless disdain, like a panther recently awoken from a nap. Even her compliments, delivered in a velvety baritone, sound like veiled threats. The locks of hair on one of the final two contestants before elimination were literally trembling under her gaze! I anticipate a trail of tattered mediocre prêt-à-porter, and maybe even a little blood, in her languid wake.