Carrot Top

Right here is something rather wonderful.

I think there are many "manifestos" on food, depending on what you wish to include in the term "manifesto". Looking at the term as meaning "a public declaration of purpose" by a person or a group, the inclusions could be quite extensive. Beyond the ones one might initially think of that come from restauranteurs(/chefs) there might be manifestos found in the philosophers, manifestos found among those who practice medicine, from religions, and I wonder if there are any that could be extracted from various nationalistic political manifestos. Even in initially thinking of this, I can see trends of manifestos through the ages. ( ) The Kellogg consortium was not the first to espouse the particular views they espoused. I can vaguely think of others espousing the same views (perhaps shaded slightly differently but not a whole lot) from as far back as Ancient Rome all the way up to well . . .now. But don't ask me for particulars for I have not eaten my Wheaties today and therefore I am sub-par, both mentally and morally. It sounds like a really fun project, though. Good luck with it. P.S. Was just about to log out and remembered Peg Bracken's "I Hate to Cook Book". That might be considered a manifesto of sorts, and certainly representive of its time. Here's a quote:

Here's some more: Here's one that surprises me, but still I refer to it often enough to keep it, and I *am* an irrepressible book-weeder: The New York Times International Cookbook by Craig Claiborne, 1971 And one a bit more current but which still has aged with grace - Cooking with the New American Chefs by Ellen Brown, 1985 ................ (Edited to remove some titles, because apparently I am old enough now to have become one of those people that keep repeating things they've said before )

More info on Branston pickle (for those of us just learning the course ): Wiki on Branston One of the things that fascinates me is the inclusion of "swede" or rutabaga in the recipe. Goodness knows that rutabagas are rarely in short supply. A good use of rutabaga is a hard thing to find. Here's a recipe for the pickle: Branston Pickle Recipe (Important not to include the root or hard top of the rutabaga when chopping. Somehow I think I got a chunk of one in that last jar. Nothing like a rutabaga root to make one wonder what that *is* in one's mouth . . .texture-wise ) A rather gorgeous-looking Ploughman's Lunch: Ploughman's Lunch Info from the experts at Crosse and Blackwell: Pickles and Chutneys and Such Oh My With a guide to translation of key terms: Branston's pickle really does take the biscuit, doesn't it.

Delicious, andiesenji. But somehow the image of that children's story where the guy goes to sleep under a tree only to awaken years and years later rises to mind when I think of chowing down upon this. Comfort food, indeed. Perfect for eating then taking a lovely nap. Actually that sounds right up my alley. It is the Life to Work Towards, in my opinion Please don't set the Messrs upon me for my unguarded remarks on *some* corned beefs. They sound large, the Messrs, and I am sure their corned beef is everything it should be. Roast pork. From a roast made *with the ribs left on* (a thing becoming more and more difficult to find, here ). On one of those rolls you made. With some nice meltable cheese layered in. With some Better than Branston pickle. Heated in the oven. (I wonder if Branston goes in potato salad as we use the simpler sweet pickle relishes here in "Southern Potato Salad". Might need some additonal spices to balance. "Curry powder" and/or fresh cilantro maybe.)

Sounds like a good potential brand name: "Better than Branston". When I make corned beef, after the initial cooking it gets put into the oven with a chutney glaze to bake for an additional half hour to forty-five minutes. The Branston pickle would be excellent for this. Corned beef is very good this way - it removes the sort of floppish tame-ness that can make too much corned beef rather dull. Leftovers disappear very very quickly with this recipe.

P.S. I imagine that's where the saying "rude health" came from.

I can't remember too very many sick people being in-your-face obnoxious in their sicknesses in restaurants. I can remember very many very healthy people being in-your-face obnoxious in the surety of their presumptive rights in restaurants.

The question of whether we allow those with illnesses that may disturb us to be "around us" in restaurants goes back to the question (or so I think) of how compassionate we are going to decide (and I use the word *decide* advisedly, because true compassion can be both bothersome to summon at times and challenging to the smoothness of daily life our culture seeks to arrange for us) to be. How compassionate will we decide to be today? Will we challenge ourselves to be compassionate, or will we merely be disgusted and angry at that that which does not make us comfortable? Then wishing it to go away so that *we* can have a good meal. (Addendum: To be completely clear, I try to err on the side of compassion when I can. If I am healthier than the one that is bothering me, then I am very lucky in this way and truly can afford the compassion. If a child requires my compassion due to their bad behavior, then god bless them. Sooner or later they will have to grow up and sit nicely. This will happen. In the meantime, I know that *nobody* yet has attained perfection as a parent or as a child. Or at least I haven't heard of it yet. The child will grow, my life will go on with a memory of just how imperfect we all are. And I might even be glad that *this* time, it was not my own imperfection glaring out at others. And I'll be slightly relieved, for a moment or so. Till the next time I do something *wrong*. )

With all these excellent suggestions, it looks like I may have to go buy at least several more jars of Branston pickle. Yesterday, the place where I live was touched by horror, by the darkness that can suddenly appear without warning from the human soul. I live in the small town "nestled in the hills of the Blue Ridge mountains" as the television folks are saying where a student went on a rampage in the university in a building two blocks from where I live, that I gaze upon from my window. 33 dead amd 28 injured. At times like these one is not hungry, really. But if anything can counter, in way of warm assurance, that the opposite of this darkness does exist in the human soul when one wonders what does, what *can* be counted on - It *is* actually Branston pickle. And many other pickles, and many other things we cook and eat and offer each other to eat. They are real, and they are good. To log in yesterday and read your posts, posts from people I do not really "know" in person, posts from people far across wide ocean, and separated by many other things in the ways that we are people, meant a lot to me, yesterday. And does today, too. These offerings typed out on the virtual page show the opposite of darkness, in all ways. Thank you. And soon, I *will* try each and every recipe above. Maybe even the foams.

Actually, Fresser, it always used to give me pause when going to eat at Chock Full O' Nuts. The chain has closed but I do believe the coffee is still available.

Dear Diane (and Wilson of course), You are astonishingly sweet and you are right, of course, given this circumstance. A bunny stew without bunny in it *is* the way to go, to "take the high road", so to speak, as we sit here in our home where eating the bunny is not a necessity nor really a cultural tradition either. It would be a pose of some sort, for us to really eat this bunny. It still is fascinating to me how one animal can be, outside the window as I look in my backyard, considered fair game for hunters and eaters . . . while the same animal inside my house, is considered something to love and cuddle and bond with, something tabu, really, as far as hunting or eating goes. Same thing. Different mindset dependent on luck of circumstance, on chance. Fascinating, and touching, deeply touching. This happens with people, too, I think. They might be separated, sometimes, by virtue of our human nature, into categories that hint of similar attitude. I'm not sure where the dividing line should be between what we hold dear and what we scorn or consider fodder for survival, or if there should even be one, except that of course, it is a eat or be eaten world and always has been so. But in this place, this house, that we try to make a home in large and small ways, this bunny will not be eaten. Sometimes it's hard to stop and think about what we eat, and why we do so. Do we eat from real hunger? From habit? From neccesity? Sometimes from simply wanting to "eat" in a metaphoric sense, to consume? Sometimes, to prove something to someone else or to oneself? This adorable little white bunny, who will have cost me around five hundred dollars all in all by the end of the week (yes, of course pain killers) . . . this pain in the butt adorable difficult little bunny who makes me wonder at what we choose for pets and what we choose to eat and why . . . is perhaps worth more than five hundred dollars in terms of what he or she might "teach" us, just by being itself. I'm not sure there's a really good "answer" to the musings bunny will bring, but we're going to listen and watch, and not bite and chew, this time round. Heh. If Bunny finally becomes "perfect", then perhaps I might have a chance to, also. Each to our own ideas of perfection, of course. Off to wrap more cords, Karen

That's what I thought, too. But I'm still hoping to get a secret recipe passed down from generation to generation for Branston pickle souffle or something like that though. One can always dream.

I've been reading far too many mystery novels where the protagonists travel from British pub to British pub, drinking and eating instead of getting on with solving their cases. When I saw a jar of Branston pickle relish staring at me from the grocery store shelf, I had an intolerable urge to buy it. I am full of cheese and pickle sandwiches now, and there is still lots of relish left. What can one do with Branston pickle besides cuddling it up alongside cheese in a sandwich? Anything?

Here's two more - one on pastry and one on wild foods. Lenotre's Desserts and Pastries, 1975. Perfect recipes for Paris-Brest; Concord Cake; Yule Logs; St. Honore Chiboust; a strawberry cake that looks like a gift (bagatelle aux fraises); Pithiviers; and too too much more. Irreplaceable. And Euell Gibbon's Stalking the Wild Asparagus, 1962. Classic. Lots of bang for your (free foraging or not) buck.

While I am glad of the carrying forward of the language, I worry about how it has taken on an aspect of cuteness with the "ie" sound at the end. It begins to take on the aura of "bunny" vs. "rabbit" and goodness knows I have big problems with how that whole thing has affected my life. Who knows. Next we might take on having pet lobsters here. I only caught a lobster once. And ate him too, of course. Will have to try to tell that story a bit later. . . .

I'm not sure that for true book-lovers the list is ever long enough, Max. I'll have to take a gander at the first two. I remember Julie Sahni from when she was teaching independently in New York. People loved her. I fall back upon Madhur Jaffrey's Illustrated Indian Cookery when the occasion arises. . . certainly I think Julie made Indian cooking seem more accessible to some people. Madhur Jaffrey herself (and the tone of her books) seems to have become younger over the years, which is rather nice, I think. All the Chez Panisse books are worthwhile in their own ways. Standouts in a crowd. For what they have to say as well as what they list as recipes. As far as German goes, gosh that is a lost cuisine here. Can't even find it on the bookshelves of many bookstores. The old Time-Life series is fairly decent, and is even more useful if you combine the German with the Russian and Vienna's Empire and A Quintet of Cuisines because of the historic influences. It all becomes more cogent. I've never found a better Linzertorte recipe than the one in Vienna's Empire. (Strangled noise)(Oh but for some Sauerbraten with Potato Dumplings and Red Cabbage right now . . . Sigh.) I have another list to add but will do so a bit later.

Louis de Gouy is indeed one of the most prolific and entertaining cookbook writers I've ever read. Not to mention that he was also a professional chef who could walk the walk as well as talk the talk, too. I loved the sandwich book - what a collection! And his commentary . . . direct, brusque and humorous in his own way, is simply marvellous. Almost Thurber-esque if Thurber decided not to plot and structure but simply to stick in a paragraph here and there. Classic, simple, non-fluffy but well-based Italian-American food put together with no simpering or hesitations, no frills or furbelows. Excellent. I always found DeGouy's Gold Cook Book easier to stomach for referencing details of classic recipes than Escoffier. Much preferred it, along with a 1970 edition of Larousse. Great choices. And the Age of Mayonnaise. Yes.

At just about the same time you refer to, there were *lots* of meals I never ate. That, of course, was my job, to plan and produce meals so someone else could eat them. Not my money being spent of course, corporate bucks (just as yours was) but of course in a way it felt like my money because as the executive chef who also eventually had full charge of the dining rooms overall, FOH and BOH, op and mgmt (I swear it was the cookie recipe that allowed me to manage to pull that off ) I had to answer not only for the happiness of those eating but also for how well the money was being spent, as the money belonged, really, to the partners that were eating. If that makes sense. And of course, indirectly my bonus was dependent on how well they thought they were getting their money's worth. Average dinner charge at that time was somewhere around one hundred ten to one hundred forty dollars per person. That never bothered me. What did bother me was when I'd ordered fine expensive wines. It is very difficult to smell an excellent vintage three or four hundred dollar bottle of wine and know that likely, they would drink it all up to the last drop, leaving none for me. If only I could just get there before the service staff clearing the tables did and find a nice small glass left. Didn't happen often enough. Pah. *That* was aggrevating. ................................................................. I bet there have been some last-minute cancelled weddings that were the most expensive meal someone never ate, though . Those would make good stories.

The farmers of Kentucky are growing a new sort of crop - shrimp. I love this idea. More shrimp for everyone. It's great to see this happening - the difficulties of growing shrimp are higher than growing fish.

Two new additions on the life of Julia, just released: Backstage with Julia by Nancy Verde Barr Julia Child by Laura Shapiro I look forward to perusing these two books.

You got off pretty easy, considering the amount of people you fed, SB. Cost per head very fair. And really (as the TV commercial says): Cost of not having to spend the whole night shmoozing for business purposes? Priceless. I do think you should have treated yourself to a hot dog and a slurpy on the way home at the Seven-Eleven though.

That sounds delicious and healthy, too. It also sounds as if it were good for "something" medicinal (to heat or to cool). Do you know if it might be, SheenaGreena? Yes. But along with the thought went the taste, too. Nice story, Ellen. Lucky guy, you are. Is that fellow a "yabbie"? What does it stand for (if anything )? He looks as if he were about to tell a fish tale, too, while being quite sure you would listen with those claws extended in that way. Gorgeous blog too, Adam. Did you cook him?

Up North, we have shad coming up the rivers and streams in the Spring. Just about now, actually. Your mention of mosquitos made me remember a story about that which I've dredged up from the non-watery depths of my computer . . . We approached the small stream in the sun-dappled woods with trepidation, the four of us, that Spring day some years ago. Often we played there, running around trees and swinging on the "Tarzan vine" that dangled over the stream, following small well-worn paths that ran alongside the grassy, muddy hills above where the water moved, always alert for something unimaginable that only the woods could hold. We were eleven years old that spring, most of us, but the world still seemed full of unknown possibilities. A man walking his dog through the woods would gain his own strange background of mystery after we ran to hide as he passed. . . the cows in the far field at the other end of the woods became bulls, ready to attack, wound and kill if any of us happened to be wearing red. . .so we had to look through the fence quickly then dash away shrieking as they approached. This time our trepidation was based on something none of us had ever seen before in this small suburban stream, so narrow that we each could jump right over it. It was teeming with fish, silver fish, each one half as long as our arms. A solid stream of silver tumbled through the water, without stopping for a beat. One of the boys ran to get his father. "Shad!" he pronounced, as he got down on his knees to peer into the water. "Get down here and get some!" He started pulling fish out of the water with his bare hands, and then, so did we. They were slippery and a little scary, but after a little practice, we were throwing them onto the grassy slope behind us too, laughing with hilarity, all soaking wet. That day, I brought 22 shad home to my mother. She was not too thrilled, and I could not understand why, for I was quite proud. "Bony", she said. "Nobody eats these. Trash fish." But she cleaned some and froze the rest whole (where they eventually disappeared to is a mystery - we didn't eat them, that I know). There was roe in two of them - a soft pink mass of eggs that she designated "good to eat, it's gourmet." The roe was delectable, briefly fried in butter with a squeeze of lemon on top. The shad was. . .well. . .bony. Shad, however, has a long history in the United States and still is eaten in the spring at collective community "Shad Bakes". . .over a wood fire, baked with bacon on top.

Almost a month since my dilemma. *This* specific dilemma, anyway. Following the general trend of advice given, I decided to not eat the bunny. He/she/it has been somewhat better behaved, and has forced us into making a generous space of the house available for it to be comfortable in without destroying everything we own. It is better at doing its business where it should, but still is not perfect. I've learned that in order to have it be perfect, it must be spayed. I called the vet today to find out how much it would cost to spay the little bunny. The delicate, delicious, Springtime Feast of a little bunny oh no I mean my son's pet. Two hundred dollars *without* pain medication. More, if I want pain medication for it during the process. This is the most expensive meal I have *not* decided to partake of. Yet. Two hundred dollars. I could eat the bunny *and* fly to NYC and have a decent lunch at a good restaurant, too. There's got to be a saying about this. If there isn't, one should be made up.