St. Paul's Catchpole

When my poor cousin Michael came to visit the week after I'd moved into our little mouse house, he had to sleep on a makeshift pallet of blankets atop the hardwood floor, between half-unpacked boxes and piles of books. This past weekend, we had our first houseguests since then-- our dear friends Dane and Debby down from New Haven-- and with an air mattress and a coffee table, we felt a little more civilized. The piles of books, of course, are here to stay. (Michael, you must come back! I'll cook something appealing and serve it on real dishes; no more leftover vegetarian glop out of aluminum tins.)

It was a lovely weekend from start to finish. Our guests arrived bearing gifts-- a box of whimsical, tiny frosted donuts from Tastease in Hartford-- on which we merrily munched before heading to brunch around the corner at the Mission Cafe, a friendly place where you can get a great Mexican-style brunch for just $9.99-- plus $2 for mimosa or sangria. After a week of terrible weather, it was gorgeous outside, and it was nice to sit inside with the breeze coming in through the open doors.

 Connecticut donuts

Next we headed up to the Met; Dane had read a review of the Mourners exhibit we saw last week and was eager to see it. (Great minds think alike!) While we were there we also checked out the Byzantine religious art; giggled our way through the fantastic luxury of the Wrightsman Galleries' period rooms; and made an arduous pilgrimage to the Temple of Dendur, which is on display in a spectacular glass room alongside Central Park. 

  Just like our living room

When everyone was thoroughly exhausted and sore, I led a forced march back through the maze of art and up the elevator to the roof garden where, once again, no overpriced cocktails were purchased.

After a crowded but scenic bus ride back downtown, I threw together a dinner involving spinach pasta, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, roasted asparagus, and feta cheese, and we got to show off our adorable folding table from Ikea. It's advertised as a table for two, but we fit three easily, and might even have been able to squeeze in a fourth if we actually had four chairs. (Ian had to sit on the couch.)

Finding room for four to sleep proved a bit more of a challenge; we moved the coffee table so that it was blocking the front door, and even then the air mattress filled the living room completely, with one edge touching the couch and the other edge touching the endless row of books along the opposite wall. 

Endless Row of Books, abridged

It felt like a grand sleepover for grown-ups. At one point the four of us ended up clustered around the kitchen sink with mouths full of toothpaste, fighting over who would get to spit next. We had all begun brushing our teeth at once, and hadn't considered the consequences.

In the morning, over tea and bagels, Dane mused aloud about what to call a new committee tasked with being friendly to newcomers at the church where he works. He wanted something with more oomph than "welcoming committee," thought anything involving "community" sounded euphemistic and empty, and disliked the connotations of "ambassadors." I searched the thesaurus for "ambassador" synonyms and came up with two delightfully inappropriate solutions:

• plenipotentiary- a person, esp. a diplomatic agent, invested with full power or authority to transact business on behalf of another. 
• catchpole- a petty officer of justice, esp. one arresting persons for debt.

The meaning of "catchpole" is almost the exact opposite of what he's looking for, and yet it has such a great ring to it: "The St. Paul's Catchpole" (always singular, never plural, in my view). I picture a group of jolly, cackling spinsters roaming the church, jingling coin purses, ready to pounce on any hapless visitor has the misfortune to wander in.

They owe us no debt, of course, but I hope we'll get to go visit Dane and Debby in New Haven before the summer is over. Those two are so much fun, and I am eager to have my impressions of New Haven as a blighted post-industrial wasteland dispelled. (For the origins of said impressions, read the first chapter of William Finnegan's Cold New World.) Until then, I pledge to use (and misuse) the word "catchpole" as much as possible.