![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Maestro... please!
Nov. 6th, 2025 09:51 amThis laptop is now running solely on prayer; it crashed again this morning and, against all the odds, rebooted, but I shall be enormously relieved when the new one arrives (which should, with reasonable luck, be very soon, as it was flagged as "out for delivery" when I got up this morning). This afternoon the new laptop and I will be travelling up to see my ancient mother. I've already been warned not to be too shocked when I see the state she's in, so that's not good. So I'm stressed; but I am bringing knitting. And calligraphy.
So I thought I'd tell the story of a concert in Ghent that happened... I'm not sure exactly when now, but maybe around 15 years ago, give or take a few. I used to go to a lot of concerts, especially if d'Artagnan was singing in them (which, of course, he was in this case), and it was quite often cheaper to go to one in continental Europe than in London. And I was in the habit of baking for these concerts. It started with bringing a little something for d'Artagnan, but, being who he is, he shared it around, so the obvious solution was to bake more.
On this particular occasion I had decided to make this very frou-frou meringue creation. I'd already tested it on my work colleagues and got an enthusiastic thumbs up. Now, obviously, I couldn't schlep that on the Eurostar in its finished form; so I decided I'd pack the meringue layers and the filling separately and assemble them at the venue. However, for that I'd need somewhere to do it, so I e-mailed the Very Famous Ensemble to ask if there was a convenient space I could use.
Much to my surprise, I got a reply from the Very Famous Maestro himself... and he was in a panic. He begged me not to do it. The problem, it turned out, was that he was terrified that his musicians would make such a mess that the venue staff would be annoyed and they would never be asked back.
I felt he had an uncommonly low view of his musicians - after all, they weren't a bunch of toddlers; and I was sorely tempted to tell him to keep his hair on, but diplomacy won out and I did not. I said, "Fine. I'll just bring a cake, then." And that was what I did; it was an extremely rich chocolate cake, made with ground almonds instead of flour, and it went down just as well as the meringue thing.
Fast forward to February 2024, when I had d'Artagnan over here for a concert, along with the lutenist Liz Kenny. I told Liz the entire story, and afterwards d'Artagnan beamed seraphically and said: "I have forgotten everything about that concert. But I do remember the cake!"
And I thought to myself: my work here is done.
So I thought I'd tell the story of a concert in Ghent that happened... I'm not sure exactly when now, but maybe around 15 years ago, give or take a few. I used to go to a lot of concerts, especially if d'Artagnan was singing in them (which, of course, he was in this case), and it was quite often cheaper to go to one in continental Europe than in London. And I was in the habit of baking for these concerts. It started with bringing a little something for d'Artagnan, but, being who he is, he shared it around, so the obvious solution was to bake more.
On this particular occasion I had decided to make this very frou-frou meringue creation. I'd already tested it on my work colleagues and got an enthusiastic thumbs up. Now, obviously, I couldn't schlep that on the Eurostar in its finished form; so I decided I'd pack the meringue layers and the filling separately and assemble them at the venue. However, for that I'd need somewhere to do it, so I e-mailed the Very Famous Ensemble to ask if there was a convenient space I could use.
Much to my surprise, I got a reply from the Very Famous Maestro himself... and he was in a panic. He begged me not to do it. The problem, it turned out, was that he was terrified that his musicians would make such a mess that the venue staff would be annoyed and they would never be asked back.
I felt he had an uncommonly low view of his musicians - after all, they weren't a bunch of toddlers; and I was sorely tempted to tell him to keep his hair on, but diplomacy won out and I did not. I said, "Fine. I'll just bring a cake, then." And that was what I did; it was an extremely rich chocolate cake, made with ground almonds instead of flour, and it went down just as well as the meringue thing.
Fast forward to February 2024, when I had d'Artagnan over here for a concert, along with the lutenist Liz Kenny. I told Liz the entire story, and afterwards d'Artagnan beamed seraphically and said: "I have forgotten everything about that concert. But I do remember the cake!"
And I thought to myself: my work here is done.
