Rarebit and Ibsen

One of the key parts of an après theater cooking performance is the theater.  Really it doesn’t have to be theater.  It could be the symphony or the opera (but not The Hold Steady, or Avatar).   Something refined to begin with, so the refinement continues into the rarebit portion of the evening.  The ‘theat-ah’ just seems quintessential.  I had checked the various theater schedules for the spring and settled on Ibsen’s A Doll House performed by students at the University.

I do not have a great knowledge of Ibsen, but certainly enjoyed what I had seen.  I had a vague affinity for Ibsen because one always hears Chekhov compared to him.  I admit I like getting to know an acclaimed ‘Classic’ if for no other reason than to use it as Vega around which to build a lyre.

I dutifully checked out a copy of A Doll’s House from the library and read it the other night.  I found the transformation of Nora from a woman who hides macaroons from her husband to a woman willing to leave her home with nothing but a carpet bag in the middle of the night with no prospects to be unbelievable.  But then, I had been reading rather quickly and it can be hard to judge a play by reading it.

Alas, even in performance the abrupt change was a bit hard to accept.  Some of the few early  lines in that showed Nora’s  strength were cut, making her resolve in the final act even less creditable.   The actress did a fine job: she lost some but not all of her girlishness, et cetera.   It just didn’t work for me. 

The whole production seemed a bit heavy handed in holding Torvald up for scorn.  The actor who played him used to be my barista, and I always liked him.  His performance had some wonderful moments.  He played drunk rather well.  But there were a couple of times  when he would hold on to a word just a little too long, gesture a bit too dismissively for me not to think even he held Torvald in contempt.  I suspect the director encouraged him in this.

However it was good fodder for discussion, which is just what I wanted.  I had invited a couple that Matt and I have had over to the house quite a few times.  It turns out the lady of this couple was unable to make it, so the gentleman brought another young woman.  They both enjoyed the play.  He thought the writing was superb, the acting enjoyably bad.   She delighted in the humor while taking exception to the casting. We all agreed that the man who stumbled in late and fell asleep two rows in front of us had uncanny timing:  his snores rang out just as Nora was pleading with her Torvald in the last act.

Neither of our guests had had Welsh rarebit before, nor knew what it was. As I stirred the cheese into the ale, I explained about it being a classic chafing dish specialty.  The cheese melted with a quickness.  I always thought of chafing dish heat as gentle.  Gentle perhaps, but prodigious.  We all had to laugh when our gentleman guest admitted that he’d always thought a chafing dish was a bowl of water you dipped your hands in, getting them wet and then drying them in the wind leading to chafed hands.

This time we used Bass Ale instead of porter and the result was a less overpowering rarebit, but still rich and tangy.  I had been nervous having a new guest over and forgot to put out the sliced apples.  They would have been a nice counterpoint.

Matthew did not dislike it but he steadfastly refused to eat it poured over toast.  Rather he swirled hunks of bread through the rarebit in the chafing dish.  He later regretted not getting out some of the left over ham we have in the refrigerator, which I admit would have been a nice addition.

The best part was that the next morning I was able to clean the chafing dish and have it put away before noon.  No soaking, no scraping, no scrubbing.   Could the chafing dish become my new fondue pot?