The Militant (cum Romantic) Epicurean

Yesterday I thawed on the steps inside that close heat, today I attempt the opposite by drawing nearer to the fan…

I am goddamn sunburned and swallowing, just started reading this book about a tiny inn in Savoy — The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth by Roy Andries De Groot. It’s sort of a travelogue with gorgeous recipes for menus that manage to be humble, rustic and profound at once, and are indeed well balanced…

From page thirty-one:

“A menu is the script of a dramatic performance. It builds, step by step, to a climax. Then it quiets down, before rising again to a secondary, smaller climax. Finally it closes in peaceful relaxation. I learned from my mother that harmony is the key to a great meal.”

And, like a proper menu-based cookbook should, they clue you on timing. For hopelessly nervous people like me.

Mme. Ray (of the Auberge) describes the piece de resistance of their fancypants meals which is, of course, a several-foot-tall, flaming, mountainous cake. Duh.

Homemade pistachio ice cream as the rolling soft green foothills, hazelnut ice cream as rock, pillowy whipped cream as snow, all over a base of Genoise doused in booze (local cherry liqueur). Then — uh — the whole thing is bathed in génépi (brandy. again, local — “made from the long yellow roots of the mountain gentian”) and lit on fire. Note to Maureen whom I will vainly assume reads my bullshit: this, or some variation of it, must happen.

Mme. Vivette on using their view of the Savoy mountains as guide for the mountain-cake:

“As I help in sculpturing it, I look out the window… so as to copy exactly the sweeping curves of the grass-covered lower slopes…”

Good gracious. The “sculpting” of it sounds disarmingly sensuous and reminds me of this Weston nude:

I read that the author of L’Auberge is blind. Incredible. Written with all sorts of exquisite sensory titillation…

I’ve also managed to find one of the thickest books in the SFPL Main branch — and I am thankful this time for the leafy newsprint-weight of the paper. It is a veritable culinary bible. The Escoffier — which is Mister Escoffier’s Imer-i-quee version of the Guide Culinaire — has, for example, at LEAST seventy different ways to prepare tournedos, a cut of bouef — Madeleine, Nicoise, MIrabeau… totally overwhelming to say the least.

I will persevere and get through this beast of stocks, aspics, and compounds, and I shall then be thoroughly schooled in the art of French cuisine.

more later…

lately

literally, and…

Trying to discern fake filler from real regrowth in old wounds.

To Do: Nepenthes Terrarium

I adore this post about terrariums on the girly gardening blog whose name I despise: You Grow Girl. I shudder to think. But, its saving grace is nice photography and pleasant design. And of course I’d rather read about some chick gardening than some chick blathering about shoes. Woop! Terrariums!

medovník

Thinking of that café down the back street, with its menu based entirely around honey — honey cake, honey-glazed everything, honey beer. We ate until he felt sick from the sticky sweetness, and I intoxicated by it.

Hey, you know what’s really ’90s?
dis.
Proyecto Uno in da houseee.

I mean, of course everyone loves “Está Pagao” but damn.

When I can, I will live in the middle of nowhere with someone I love, and I will meander all day, picking up neat leaves or feeling bark or touching the surface of the water, and I will be happy.

Too old to be into teen sex?

I’ve discovered something unfortunate. Apparently, some prefer that ultra-camp and uncomfortably thick bible to sexuality “Guide to Getting it On!“. But dude, if I see those horrid illustrations one more time . . . grrr.

I think it’s great to have a resource to trust, and to each his own, but I am personally offended by most attempts at explaining sex and sexuality (including aforementioned material).

I am thoroughly refreshed by the approach that the Midwest Teen Sex Show is taking on the subject. This is far more appropriate for teens than trad. beat around the bush avenues of explanation. It’s perfectly geared towards this generation — it has a sense of humor, but also gives brutally honest info in easy-to-swallow bursts (episodes) — it’s the ultimate packaging for a sensitive subject that seriously should not be sensitive to discuss. It’s pretty real. Forgive the thin line I am walking in even using that word, but it’s the most accurate term I can use.

Get it as a podcast.

VioletBlue wrote about it in this Chronicle article, which I have not read, but thought I’d share anyway!

And yeah, I’m followin’ that shit on Twitter.

math, sexy?

from www.ted.com posted with vodpod

fix

I brought Anaïs Nin to Prague. After washing our clothes in the ultramodern shower, I wrung them, hung them in the windows despite the slight overcast of the sky, and went down to have a glass of wine on the porch with the book. When I was interrupted by the other Michael I thought ceaselessly of my Michael, probably laying on our bed in the scratchy white sheets. He was unwell. I felt perfect, then, before being caught off guard by this Michael. He asked what I was reading. I showed him, he seemed offended, but sat down anyway.

When you finally came down it was like I thought you’d never come, such a relief and a warmth. I came back to the state I had been in. You sat down real close when I introduced you. Had we gotten obscenely drunk the night before on that dark beer? That must be why you felt so badly, and I tried like hell to figure out how to fix you. I honestly wanted to comfort you and cure you and not see you suffer. When I sat on the porch that late afternoon I felt soft and sleepy-eyed, the kind of quiet content that comes from doing or being and not possessing or acquiring. The trip will always mean that to me.

We fought that night in the way you described, though when I read your account of it and its raw selfishness I felt anger the same way as when it happened. It made my pulse hot and fast. You gave me what I wanted, how I wanted? There was real fear and anger and sadness.

I am thinking now about love and being in love, or how confusing it is to give up on, or how impenetrable it seems while you’re in it though you know with every bone it’s not. It is wholly impossible to switch things on or off. I could not imagine being without him but, I can’t imagine.

I want to be a romantic idealist again; It’s difficult when you’re keenly aware of how awfully wrong things can go.

I am getting sick; This ache is kinda filling me up. Goddamn.