Mom's cast albums, parts in childhood plays cement love of theater.
I was a star once.
When I was in the third grade, I had the starring role in the well-received and highly- lauded-by-parents production of “The Reluctant Ghost.” I was, in fact — get ready for it — the reluctant ghost.
To be sure, I don’t really remember much about my turn in the spotlight. I know there was no audition process. Our teacher, the young and lovely Miss Crowell, assigned the roles. Why she gave me the lead remains a mystery all these years later. I certainly was not the kind of kid you imagine seeking the attention of an audience. I was shy and kind of awkward with big, questioning eyes and a short goofy haircut (which my mother insisted on because she said I squirmed and hollered too much when she tried to comb long hair and she would have none of that); I was not — then or ever — comfortable with public speaking, and I was not particularly dramatic. I must have been one of the only girls in that singular third-grade class who the teacher was confident could memorize all the lines. (It was the lead, after all.) I don’t remember the sets or who made them or the costumes, although I’m pretty sure there was a sheet involved.
We performed the show twice: once for other students at Moore Elementary School and a second, late-afternoon (before 3 p.m., anyway) performance for parents — and by parents, I mean mostly mothers. I remember walking home from school with my mother. I don’t remember if my dad even came. He probably didn’t. Parents then had a different relationship with their children than they do now. It was OK. Everybody’s dad was at work, back in the day.
Although my only starring role, “The Reluctant Ghost” wasn’t my only time in the bright, hot spotlight. I also had a role in a Christmas play when I was a member of the Maizeland 4-H Club in, like, fifth or sixth grade. I don’t really remember that play either, but I’m sure it was a terrific piece of theater. My sister, five years ahead of me and at the time all about 4-H and other creative pursuits, wrote (I assume with other like-minded teens) and directed the play.
As I said, I don’t remember the play, but I do remember my sister telling me during one of the rehearsals to speak up. She was the director, you know. “Project,” she said, borrowing a word our grandmother used when she struggled to hear us on the phone. “Pretend you’re on the playground and you have to raise your voice so your friends can hear you.” She didn’t seem to understand that, playing Jacks or Chinese Jump Rope or reading a book during recess did not require me to raise my voice on the playground.
I remember thinking — but not saying, “Don’t tell me what to do.” That attitude may, in fact, be the reason I did not have a future in the theater.
And yet, we were a theater family. Our mother loved musicals. She loved movie musicals, treating us to “Sound of Music,” “South Pacific,” “Scrooge” on the silver screen. She loved musical soundtracks, purchasing cast recordings of “Camelot,” “The King & I” and “Oklahoma” when we first got a “family” stereo with a cassette player.
(My sister will tell you, with considerable amusement, about the first — and only — time that I took knitting as a 4-H project when I was 8. I made a bright orange scarf with brown stripes; it was the ‘70s, you know. And I hated the repetition and the tedium of the rote movements, so I sat in a rocking chair in the living room, listening to “Oklahoma” on repeat and knitting, until the scarf was long enough — but just barely — to wrap around my dad’s neck. My sister will tell you there was defiance and tears. I don’t remember that, but I do remember, to this day, all the words to “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” and “Cain’t Say No.”)
And my mother loved live musical theater.
She took us to see “The Music Man” at an outdoor theater in Pioneer Park in Lincoln, Nebraska. I probably wasn’t even in school yet. Even now, all these years later, I can remember a group of salesmen on a pretend train, swaying and jostling and bumping over the pretend tracks, shouting, “But he doesn’t know the territory!” as the four of us kids, our parents and an array of aunts, uncles and cousins sat in rapt attention on hay bails, the straw poking our legs through our summer clothes barely even noticeable because the show was so exciting. It’s one of my earliest memories.
We also went to see “Sound of Music” at the Country Dinner Playhouse, which staged theater-in-the-round performances. That was exciting, what with dressing up and driving to Denver and getting to choose our own food from the buffet line and getting to order Shirley Temples from the waitresses who later turned up in the show and then recognizing all the songs from the album our mom played in the living room. The Country Dinner Playhouse is closed now, which is kind of sad but there are so many options for live theater now so not that sad.
I think our mother’s love of musical theatre became our family inheritance.
When my sister was a young professional and I was a new reporter barely making $700 a month, she treated my mom and sister-in-law and I to “Camelot” at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. Richard Harris, who played King Arthur in the movie, was starring in the traveling company. It was his voice we heard on our mom’s cast album, so — even though by that time we had assumed the role of slightly jaded young adults — it was thrilling to see the curtain rise and find a young King Arthur perched in a tree, watching Guinevere enter Camelot for the first time.
Later, when I was more financially secure, I bought my parents season tickets to the dinner theater in our town (now also sadly shuttered) where we saw a whole list of traditional shows ( “My Fair Lady” and “West Side Story” and “White Christmas”), as well as more ambitious productions (“Les Miserables” and “Ragtime” and “Evita”) and fresh, new-at-the-time stories (“Fun Home” and “In the Heights”). And we made an effort to continue the inheritance by taking my brothers’ children to special productions, reveling in their silly, over-the-top renditions of “Go Go Go Joseph” after watching “Joseph & the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat” and encouraging the conversation about “racicism” following a surprising adaptation of “Paint Your Wagon.”
I remain grateful to my parents for the nights I spent absorbed in “The Phantom of the Opera” and “Rent” and “Hamilton” and “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee.” Not because they encouraged our parts in silly school productions or bought tickets or sat on the phone in virtual ticket lines or funded our trip to Broadway (yes, that Broadway and no, they didn't do that). But because they taught us to love the theatre.
Recently, I went to see a new production of “1776” that boasted a cast of “female-identifying non-binary trans people” playing the all-white, all-male Continental Congress. It was provocative and interesting; and, of course, because the music was great and the history forever fascinating, it ultimately didn’t even matter what type of bodies were on the stage.
Because ultimately being immersed and transported by a story and a song is why we wait, bated and breathless, for the curtain to rise again.
The Pie: Revolutionary Plum
Even though Little Jack Horner pulled a plum from his Christmas Pie, I never really thought of plums as a pie fruit. I love plums: the dark purple, almost black skin, the sweet yellow flesh, the small burst of tartness when you get too close to the pit. (The green ones are good too.) But use it in a pie? Whoever heard of such a thing?
Then I found this recipe from the South China Morning Post, calling for delicious plump raspberries (always a good addition to a pie) and the nursery rhyme plums. I was intrigued.
And ultimately delighted. It’s a really good pie.
The original recipe had a boring name: Plum-Raspberry Pie. However, in honor of tonight’s Tony Awards and the phenomenal “Les Miserable,” I chose to rename it “Revolutionary Plum Pie.” You know, after the song “Red and Black,” which brings to mind the fruit in this fantastic dessert. (Or not. Maybe it actually reminds you of foolish young men dying for causes they don’t fully comprehend, which makes more sense really but isn’t as much fun.)
So just imagine this song -- and the rest of an amazing score -- playing while you eat this pie:
Red, the blood of angry men!
Black the dark of ages past!
Red, a world about to dawn!
Black, the night that ends at last!
The Recipe
1 ½ to 2 pounds (26 ½ ounces) pitted plums
¼ cup and 2 tablespoons granulated sugar (Use as much as 2/3 cups if you want a sweeter pie)
½ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon lemon juice
7 ounces fresh raspberries
3 ½ tablespoons cornstarch
Make crust for a double crust pie. (Recipe below for Buttery All-Purpose Pie
Dough.) Divide crust into two discs. Roll out one and put in a 9-inch pie plate. Refrigerate the second disc until needed.
To make filling: Slice pitted plums into bite-sized pieces and place in a bowl with sugar, salt and lemon juice. Mix well; then leave at room temperature for about 30 minutes. Stir occasionally.
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
Gently stir raspberries into the plums. Add the corn starch and mix thoroughly. Tip the filling into the crust-lined pie plate, mounding slightly in the center.
For the top crust: Roll out the second disc. If you are using shapes, cut out as many as possible or as many as needed to cover the pie. Place on a flat cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Place the tray in the refrigerator to chill. If you need to use scraps for more shapes, gather into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes before rerolling.
Flute the edges of the pie, trimming off excess dough. Lay shapes over fruit mix, leaving gaps for steam vents and so you can see filling.
Or roll out a top crust and place over the filing. Trim and crimp. Cut slits in the crust to vent.
If desired, mix 1 egg with about 1 tablespoon water. Brush over top crust and edges. Sprinkle with sparkling sugar.
Bake pie at 450 degrees for 15 minutes.
Reduce heat to 390 degrees. Bake for 10 minutes; rotate pie in oven and reduce heat to 350 degrees. Bake for another 25 minutes or until juice starts to bubble out of the crust.
If the pie begins to brown too quickly, loosely cover with foil.
Cool for about 45 minutes before serving.
Buttery all-purpose Pie crust
2½ cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
¼ cup (4 tablespoons) cold vegetable shortening
¼ cup (4 tablespoons) cold vodka
6 tablespoons cold water, plus extra as needed
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt and sugar until thoroughly combined. Add the butter and shortening and cut together with a pastry cutter until the mixture forms small pea-sized crumbs.
Pour the vodka over the mixture, a tablespoon at a time, using a rubber spatula. Add the water and press the dough together to form two large balls. If the dough seems dry or does not hold together, add extra water a tablespoon at a time until all the ingredients come together. (Be careful not to work the dough too much to prevent the crust from being tough.)
Press each ball into a 1-inch disk, wrap each in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour — or up to two days — before rolling out.
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