Not long into author Robert Harling's ensemble dramedy Steel Magnolias, the Louisiana beautician Truvy asks local socialite Clairee Belcher about the recipe for a delicacy called "cuppa cuppa cuppa," the ingredients for which are a cup of flour, a cup of sugar, and a cup of fruit cocktail. Truvy says it sounds awfully rich, and Clairee replies that it is, "so I serve it over ice cream to cut the sweetness."

That line gets a laugh, and it should, and after attending the Clinton Area Showboat Theatre's new production of Steel Magnolias, it dawned on me that Clairee's dessert makes a fine analogy for the play itself. In effect, Harling's beloved, female-driven theatrical mainstay is a cup of wisecracking sitcom, a cup of unvarnished sentimentality, and a cup (perhaps a teaspoon or two less) of genuine feeling, all blended together and served over ice cream. Some may find this tale of six Southern friends and beauty-parlor regulars too sweet. But it'd be hard to deny the tastiness of the Showboat's presentation, and if the collective response during Thursday's curtain call was to be trusted, the standing, clapping, happily tearful crowd would've gratefully asked for seconds.

During Thursday's performance of the Timber Lake Playhouse's Greater Tuna, I enjoyed comparing and contrasting the comedic styles of cast members Matt Webb and Cody Jolly. Each comical in their own rights, Webb and Jolly are distinctly different in their portrayals of the residents of Tuna, Texas, in playwrights Jaston Williams', Ed Howard's, and Joe Sears' two-person, 20-character play about a day spent in this small town.

Two of the things I miss most about reviewing theatre with greater frequency are raving about area artists whose talents I'm quite familiar with, and raving about area artists whose talents are brand-spanking-new to me. Happily, regarding the Playcrafters Barn Theatre's The Red Velvet Cake War, I get to do both. And that's especially gratifying because one of the things I absolutely do not miss is explaining why certain well-meaning, lighthearted endeavors designed solely to entertain simply don't work for me, and it looks like I have to do that, too.

The opening scene in the Richmond Hill Barn Theatre's The Robin Hood Caper is one you've likely sat through, in different iterations, in numerous stage comedies over the years. It introduces us to the young, flummoxed journalist Richard Collins, who, as his conversation reveals, is dealing with all manner of personal crises: shaky finances; an underhanded mayor with plans to shutter Richard's newspaper; a fiancée demanding a wedding date. Richard's Aunt Flora, meanwhile, takes this all in with a sympathetic ear and an occasional, dotty reminiscence of her own, and routinely shifts her focus back to her needlepoint.