So, in honor of my theatre "career" and my baking "career" and the rare occasion when the two intersect, I give you a short exchange from a play by David Mamet called "Boston Marriage". Not the best play I've ever read, but worth the read (for me anyway) if only for this vignette.
ANNA: Yes, this shall be our party. And we must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.
CLAIRE: A pie.
ANNA: It casts out stress as the heat of the hand repels quicksilver. Faugh I say. Faugh. Keep you your precious vapors, your fantods, your anxiety. Give me a pie. Give me a pie anyday.
CLAIRE: Give me a pie, too. But...
ANNA: For there is that of the bucolic in it. Is there not? The pie, the cottage, the...
CLAIRE: The hearth, finally.
ANNA: Little Nell. Nell or Molly.
CLAIRE: Young...
ANNA: That's right.
CLAIRE: Young Susan. Her brown arms shapely from the work of the fields. One wisp of her...
ANNA: Dark blond hair.
CLAIRE: If you will, come down on her eyes. Brushed back with the flour-covered forearm. As she kneads the dough we may see the tendons now assemble now disperse beneath the nut-brown skin. She looks up. "I'm making a pie." (Pause.)
ANNA: Do you mock me?
CLAIRE: I am concocting a seduction. I do not require a pâttissière. (Pause.)
On that last note, I have to say, I differ. One does sometimes require a pâttissière when one is concocting a seduction.
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