Carrot Top

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.

Yeah, that would be my hesitation too, Tim. I've had friends that were private chefs and the situations were never quite as comfortable as one might wish, whether they lived in or not (depending on the season and the house, NY or Palm Beach). And I know several people who could well afford to have a private chef who simply wouldn't have one of any sort (part-time, full-time, as cook or as chef) not because they like to cook so much but because they don't like the idea of having "servants", at all. Though somehow housecleaners or nannies go around or under this radar for some reason . . . Miligai's post was interesting to think of, as the "someone to help cook" in the way she describes her mother having is (or was) a much more common thing in other cultures than the North American one.

Sounds like something from a science fiction story . . . Oof. And whoever made those for you had patience, too, believe me. Mmm. He may not remember it exactly, but I'm sure he remembers it in his heart. Your story made me sigh with pleasure, too. What a wonderful memory. Perfect cooking method, SheenaGreena! There's something about using what's available when fishing or crabbing that makes it that much more satisfying. Funny thing about crabs, though. Sometimes when you're trying to catch fish, all you can catch is the darn crabs and then you have to decide whether you're going to aggrevated at the things for "stealing your bait" or whether you're going to give in and just go crabbing which of course will make a fine meal too. Oooooh! Yeah! Mahi-mahi? I am so jealous. I can imagine that was super, really super. You reminded me of another fish story which I'll try to find time to post later . . . a big fish it was, but not one as delicious as a mahi-mahi. ............................................................................ P.S. heidih - What a beautiful "first post"! Welcome, and here's to many more.

Whoa! Now that's a fun neighborhood! Do you remember the first fish you ever caught and cooked? I remember the first fish I ever caught. It was in a canoe on a lake in Maine. Two of my three boy cousins had decided I needed to learn how to fish. I was seven years old. It was so much fun going into the muddy area near the boathouse to dig for worms, I remember. That was probably the best part of all. It didn't take long for us to catch a little fish of some sort. Then it got scary. The thing flopped around in the bottom of the canoe and I didn't know what to do. I got really nervous and scared and my older cousin took the fish in his hand and laughed deprecatingly and said "This is what you do", and he smacked the thing on the canoe seat so it passed out just flopping a tiny bit. I was appalled. Fishing was supposed to be *fun* I thought. Blech. Horrors. The poor fish. It got worse after that. My younger cousin hooked my bellybutton with his hook while he was trying to cast off. My bellybutton! I was bloodier than the little fish I'd caught, and I really wanted to go back to shore. Finally they took me in, and the worst was yet to come. My aunt refused to cook the fish. Why, I could not imagine. (Now, being a bit older and maybe not wiser but perhaps a bit more tireder, I can imagine. ) The die had been set. Why fish, except to have something good to eat? I was very upset. And determined, as I stood there with mud in my lanky messy red hair, blood dripping from my little bellybutton exposed in my somewhat odd-looking bright-colored bikini, almost-dead gasping fish in the bucket my cousin held, that someday there would be more. More fish. More.

I don't think it's all that astonishing that things *should* taste better when someone else cooks, if that person cooking (and, when applicable, add the person serving too, as a delicious dish summarily or uncaringly served can be ruinous to its enjoyment) has even an average level of skill. If we are talking about a creative art or craft when speaking of cookery, then we can compare it to other creative arts or crafts. Writers like to read other writers. Dancers enjoy watching other dancers . . .choreographers the same. Musicians surely do not only wish to listen mostly to themselves. And so on and so forth. So whether it is an emotional thing felt from the offering of friendship implicit in the food when eating something someone else has prepared . . .or whether it is simply a curiosity as to "how did this person do this and what is it all about", it surely is not off-base to feel this way at all. (Though for some reason there is a lurking hint laying in wait in our culture that there *is* something wrong with not feeling completely self-interested and self-sufficient unto oneself, but then of course there are lurking hints laying in wait in our culture about so very many things we have to sense are completely wrong anyway, that have no real basis in reality but are merely useful whimsies of the Marketing Age or what I like to think of as our Age of Impossible Self Perfection . . . Pah. ) ......................................... Gosh it's good to have gone through this exercise of thought. Now I just have to find someone to cook for me.

I know what you mean. When I was a chef, I often did not like to eat. Still don't, a lot. Partly it is the taking in of aroma(s) while cooking that fills one up, partly it is the work of it all, but moreso it is that the cooking becomes an intellectual or creative outlet that separates it from something to eat for oneself. A quick answer would be no, of course it doesn't taste better when someone else cooks, because I can make things taste exactly the way I like. Plus (meow) I actually know how to cook, which it seems is a dying skill in general. Fearsome, the things some people cook, really. A more in-depth answer would be that food carries other things than direct taste. Even the finest food can taste like sandpaper if the mood surrounding it is not right. And it is *us* (the ones who eat and the ones who cook) who carry the surrounds to eating that make things taste, emotionally, certain ways. The simplest (yes and even the most poorly-cooked) dish can taste like manna itself when offered with simple hospitality. It's a free-flowing thing, this hospitality - it's something in the air that some are better at accessing than others. In the *best* restaurants, the act of vocational hospitality is a precise dance, and it is to a great extent what people pay for. To be made simply and easily welcome, without fuss, with a sandwich. A mere sandwich. That can taste pretty damn good. There are sandwiches or simple meals I'll never forget and never be able to replicate. .......................................................................... But this is one of those trick questions one should ask job applicants, is it not? To discover their style of personality and psychological traits?

Yes, the books overlap between the forums. "Auberge" even does have recipes in it but somehow the focal point is not exactly the recipes. I hesitated to answer Multiwagon's question at first, for what we each individually consider to be "non-cookbook cookbooks" could vary so widely. That's wonderful, really, for books should not be cut from cookie cutters, should they . . . My sense was that Multiwagon's interest was in cooking as future vocation - that there was an urge there to hear the songs of the professional kitchen. To see the brigade, to smell the aromas, to hear the noises. A longing to be immersed in the milieu. My own interest is not in the milieu, having lived the milieu quite long enough. My interest is in the ineffable about cookery - the parts that science can not pin down. That which goes further than the stomach, that which is somewhat mystic even. From reading you in bits and pieces in the past, Max, I would guess that your interest is an expansive one, based on the "literary" as core focus, though I can't quite guess at what the time frame of interest is. Whatever the time frame, the encyclopedic knowledge you offer is impressive. Of the books you listed, this one: is my favorite. I remember reading it when I was just about the same age as Multiwagon, and loving it then. Whereas I attemped Brillat-Savarin at the same age and sort of got very mired and very tired. I hope there will be more additions to this thread as memories of readings flit into people's minds. What wonderful books these are, about "cooking" but not about "recipes".

Whether one considers it a fun activity, a practical neccesity, or even maybe a lazy waste of a perfectly good afternoon, the catching of a fish and all that follows along after is a rare experience that can offer "just a regular guy" (guy here being non-gendered, of course, as those who fish will understand) a direct connection from the natural world which our food springs from, to follow all the way to the table that fish will be placed upon in some hopefully delightful concoction to excite the tastebuds of those who wait upon it. You don't need property with a hayfield to catch a fish, as you do for livestock to yield beef or lamb or pork. You don't need soil and seeds and shovels and paraphernalia and worries about damaging bugs and willful weather attacking your dinner, as you do with produce from a garden. You don't need to catch the cackling chicken to cut off its head and then pluck all the feathers off it for your chicken dinner. And so on and so forth. What you need is simple. A rod and reel and line and hook. A worm or a piece of something that shines and glitters. A net, if you are so inclined. Maybe a spear if that's your style. A good sharp knife to gut and scale. A pan or a pot and a heat source. And a body of water, large or small, where fish live. A boat of some sort can bring more possibilities to the table. The two other requirements are a bit more if'fy and difficult to summon at times. Patience, and a willingness to get dirty. Put these things together and you have the makings of a fine kettle of fish, to be cooked in endless myriad manners, each final delicious bite filled with a sense of reality and knowingness that simply does not come in a plastic package, a cardboard box, or an aluminum can. Do you have a fish story? How did you catch it, how did you clean it, how did you cook it, how did it taste? And as the table was cleared, the dishes washed, the day done, how did you feel, about your day and your meal, which held that essence of earth in it? P.S. If you have any annual traditions of fish dinners or fish frys where you *yourself* did not catch the fish but still got to eat it, those stories would be fun to hear, too.

Has anyone here ever eaten one and lived to tell the tale?

White vans used to mean "out of state serial killers". Now it's white SUV's that mean "out of state lobsterhuggers". .................................... How long does it take for a missing lobster claw to grow back, Johnny? I've become slightly worried about those one-armed babes capacity for survival over there by the B&M factory.

The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth by Roy Andries de Groot.

Can't say I've ever heard of Downeasters being so impractical. Something is seriously wrong. Maybe these kids got a hold of some of that Santa Claus Beer the state worked so hard to protect them from. Over the border, of course. That might do it.

Set aside all considerations of cost, or size of your kitchen, or the state of your pots and pans. If you could hire someone to cook for you on a daily basis, would you? Why or why not?

Nice flavor to those one-armed babies. Be sure to charge a premium, Johnny. Molasses, bilge, and bean.

Okay, I thought of another one. One night we went out to dinner, myself and the children (they were 11 and 12 then). We sat in a booth, my daughter and I on one side, son facing us. A woman was seated in the next booth, facing myself and daughter. She was waiting for someone. She took out her compact mirror and fixed her lipstick and hair (her hair was big, so it involved moving the mirror various ways with arms extended). Then I guess with all the exercise involved with fixing her hair, something went wrong with her breasts. After putting the compact away, she wiggled her shoulders funny and started pulling on her bra straps. Apparently that did not help. They must have been itchy or something (goodness knows her top was low-cut, maybe some of her fluffed hair fell down there) so she took her right hand and scratched the left one. That must not have accomplished what she wanted, for she then reached directly, all the way into her bra and shifted the thing inside. No, there was no attempt to do this without anyone seeing. She was oblivious. Too much hairspray in her lifetime, perhaps. Then she took both her hands, cupped them under both breasts, and readjusted to suit. This involved sort of pushing them up and forward and laying them rather shelf-like upon the table in front of her (she was not a small woman). She then went on to peruse the menu. I must say my appetite was not what it was before her performance. My daughter was stunned. Thank goodness, though, that it wasn't my son that had been facing her. He probably would have screamed "Eeeeeeewwwww" and made gross noises with his head turned sideways to express his disapproval and then we would have been "the bad guys". Probably this is all my fault though, for dining in a chain restaurant. A family restaurant, you know. Goodness knows what can be found in families. Nice. Very nice. I'm wondering if they make paintball guns in small sizes, myself. Paintball pistols.