Carrot Top

Interesting question to focus on, for I realized that for myself it is not the gorgeosity of prose that draws me in to a book. If bits of stunning beauty appear that are built of words within a story, it always seems to me more like a gift than an expectation or even a hope. There are three things that draw me in as a reader. The author's voice (I must *like* the person I perceive to be speaking through the book or story, their perceived way of thinking of things must appeal to me); the structure of the story (how it feels to me to be "built" - texturally, design-wise almost, and there are many varieties of this sensation . . which can almost be felt as a musical thing); and the characterizations. I really want to know the people that are in the story, to feel that I know them well though I don't know them at all of course. Laura Esquivel's "Like Water for Chocolate" has these aspects of enjoyment for me, to a great degree. The "magical realism" of the emotions of the protagonist actually entering the foods she prepares which then will be eaten and re-lived, but in their own ways, by those that dine upon the food . . . Some of M.F.K. Fisher, too. I can not but think of her as a fiction writer though that's not what she's called. The stories. The stories remain in memory, strong and vibrant as the day they were read, with food as anchor to it all. To me there are not many things in the world as valuable as a good "story". A "story" in the sense of the word that holds fables, tall tales and folkloric tales within the word. Something that speaks of the world and how it is, that speaks of classic truths and the human condition, but not directly. Something painted or hummed, with a knowing smile under it all. Something that brings the unanswerable yet always ponderable questions to mind, rather than shooting out a proposed answer, and that entertains vividly while doing so. That's what works for me. .................................... ( ) Sorry. Got a little excited there.

But I like the idea of "talented and deranged". What startles me most is not that he's chosen to do this (and I think it will be fun for you, too, as he does) but that it was just such a short spark of time ago that it seemed you were writing of him at the table as "average teenage boy" with the usual teenage boy table manners that they seem to like to throw out like bait to fish, making parents tear their hair out in exasperation which probably was the intended plan for you know that you taught them what to do and why are they not doing it. And here he is, a tiny speck of time later, ready to be part of the theatre that demands manners, good manners, knowing manners. And he'll be able to do it, and do it well, I bet. Are you going to give him a few days to settle in at his job, or are you going to visit his table for dinner the very first night he works, instead, I wonder.

And Two Hundred Year Old Coffee. (Which I actually tried to make once )

Plus, of course, we have to eat inbetween.

It's only been quiet in response to your post for the last eight hours because we are having a moment of prayer.

Hundred Year Old Egg

Some of my favorite eggs sing of Spring.

You're right - I did have trouble focusing on reading the story initially just because of the online form. Strangely enough, what helped were the sidebars of text which seemed to help me grab onto where I was. ( ) Came across something interesting today on the topic of digital writing, an online journal that is seeking to address the limitations of the hardness of the computer in terms of reading, by using its strengths to stretch into a new conceptual genre of sorts. I'd rather have a book, but who knows what the next generation of computer-savvy children will prefer?

I'm reminded of a quote from Nora Ephron: "Anyone who wants to write about food would do well to stay away from similes and metaphors, because if you're not careful, expressions like "light as a feather" make their way into your sentences and then where are you?" This image you present of Hemingway "in all his throbbing manly glory". ( ) Um . . .I'm trying to picture an alternate universe with Hemingway as a "foodwriter". I can't quite picture yet whether the image evokes comedy or tragedy. But it sure would be interesting.

I got mine at a local international foods store, but this is the first time I've seen it there. There's some places you can get it online - google "pismaiye halva". Phew. That stuff is dangerous, though. Last night after I ate the first one, I was walking around the house in a daze (from the sugar rush, probably, I don't think I've ever eaten anything so intensely sweet but uncloying in my life) inadvertantly making noises like "whoa" and "woooooof" in an undertone till my daughter asked me what I was doing. I then tried a second one and that was my downfall. It was *before* dinner. Mistake. That sugar rush thing smacked me right upside the head and literally it felt similar to eating a Hardee's Six-Dollar Burger in like . . . three minutes . . .which I do just for the practice of it about twice a year. Had to flop right down on the couch and sit there like an inept lump till I fell over sideways muttering, "I'll make dinner in a minute, kids . . ." Whoa. I hid the box in my closet. It is mine, all mine. I just have to find the right moment to try another one. One, I said. One.

No, I'm not swearing. I just had my first mouthful (and believe me, you should have a mouthful of this stuff, not a nibble, though a nibble would be better than nothing) of "Pismaniye" - traditional floss halva from Turkey. I almost fainted. They come in little rounds that look like soft tiny delicate balls of light silky pure ivory string. The texture, is as if cotton candy were a number squared by itself, but with nothing numerical about it. The thing explodes in your mouth in an ecstatic sort of way. Yes, it really does. I would love to see this stuff being made. Wiki has more information on halvah, including floss halva, than I expected. Interesting, very.

Mmm. I'm not sure if those instances are the fault of the metaphoric device or rather, perhaps, the fault of the hungry or lazy writer. The urge to make a point too simply so that it can be clearly understood yet interesting seems to often lurk as words hit paper . . and of course, to write well, really well, is not something gained quickly or easily. And of course that chocolate and sex thing or the equivalent is a quick attention-getter. Readers eyes snap right to, looking for some sort of answer or advice. Interesting. I can see that, yes. I was never personally that sort of chef, but I do know many who are. It brings the question to my mind as to whether the female chef has this trait as much as the male chef does . . .not to stereotype, but just to wonder, you know. The one word you use in the quote above that does not "feel" right to me, is the "forcing" and "enforcing". The kitchen (professional kitchen) to me was a wonderful place to have order, pleasure, a place to have good work done, with operational systems that would support doing good work, excellent work. Of course, the sort of exec chef I was (private dining rooms, Goldman Sachs) has a different sort of required atmosphere to create than the usual fine restaurant chef. No rodeos allowed, rather the opposite. As the installments continue, I can see this happening more and more clearly, and that is really what does entice me to want to read more. Personally I lean towards mysteries more than thrillers (Josephine Tey, Dorothy Sayers, Martha Grimes, Michael Innes, P.D. James, and lately a funny writer who turns regular people into vampires who are human-like and appealing with a female protagonist who keeps on having rather interesting sexual involvements with all these guys who are around her . . .but no food in these books - Charlaine Harris). Most "thrillers" I've tried do not mesh with my own sensibilities. So I look forward to seeing what's going on here, with the book. And I do hope that someone else besides me decides to chime in here, so my reputation as chatterbox will not stand sole and alone.

But actually let me prattle on here, as nobody else is. I can't figure out why that is, unless it is the loftiness of your editorial postition or perhaps the fact that (as someone stated before) "what does this story have to do with *food*? And that has to do with "audience", doesn't it. The transition of thinking of food as something to eat . . . to food as something metaphorically or ambiguously connected to other things in the world is not a thing willingly done by many, I've noticed. Politics will bring them in to read if connected - whether those politics are large or small, worldly or personal, sometimes history will (but not as often), and the connection of a celebrity is like a beacon of intense light beckoning, to many. Recipes and pictures, recipes and pictures - the cry is heard. That's okay, too. Personally, as a chef who left the *business* (as it is to many chefs, a thing they love but actually a way to make money ) I am not so interested in recipes and pictures. I am very interested in stories that use food metaphorically, ambiguously - as food is not a science to me, or even mostly something to eat to me. It is something to think about. *Why* does that person like that food - *what* does this other food represent to that group of people - *how* was it in this time or that time when people ate this thing or the other . . .what were the social conventions that went along with a . . . say. . .kulibiac of salmon served in a 1960's American home? And stories tell me that best. Stories with a knowledge behind them, stories that inform and persuade not by the form of "journalism" but by the use of good fiction writing. I am thrilled to read stories of food that are not "recipes and pictures". I do hope that others will feel tolerance for this way of being, though often enough they seem both impatient and intolerant of the idea of food writing that is not "recipes and pictures". I like the fact that in your story, Mr. Andrews, who based his life on the fork, on honoring the fork, ended up being forked by the fork itself. The instrument of his destruction. Or we'll see, anyway - the fork certainly has been used against him . . . as so often he used it to provide pleasure through service of food to others. As some carry swords to represent valour . . . or as some from Wales hold up the leek, I've heard Mr. Andrews carried his fork. My habit is to speak when others are quiet. Unless, of course, a moment of silence has been requested. So, up I speak again, and say "I love these stories". I do hope that others feel the same. And yes, I say thank you to Maggie and Dave for creating this space for this sort of writing that includes thoughts of food but is not "recipes and pictures." ......................... The Moon enters Aries in approximately half an hour. I intend to blame my outburst on that fact.

I'm not so sure we are "culturally undereducated". Though it would be good if more of us could speak second or third languages. . .then it would be possible to hear and understand the French, the Italians, or the Whomevers being rude when they travel to other places rather than merely understanding it in our own language then being appalled. The cultural components of the ways we act can distort understandings of things and of us. This is as true of cultures that have different components of behavior that visit the United States. The more we all learn about each other, the more we can learn about the ways that we "are", hopefully will bring more understanding and acceptance of other ways of being to the table - some alteration of behaviors among those cultures visiting others, some acceptance of differences coming from those being visited, wherever it is in the world. Labelling and specific name-calling has never brought anyone closer at any table. ............................................... Though I do agree that picky eaters should all be moved to some faraway island together. (P.S. . . .where they would all be required to take turns cooking for each other. )

Here is an interesting piece on the "Ugly American". Although it is merely published on the internet, the basis of the information included can be confirmed by current academic studies in Communications and Sociology.

I was actually looking forward to my Saturday night assignation with The Oyster House Siege by the time Saturday afternoon arrived. (Pitiful in ways, yes. ) The only problem is that I want to read *this* now, and not the other books that are strewn all over the place boring me. So I ordered it. I need to know what happened to dear Mr. Andrews and I so thoroughly detest Trevor, picturing his beady mad little eyes and his sour breath, after that neck scene, that I need to find out what happens to him. Though I'm not sure I'll ever be able to look at a fork in the same way again. Fretfully yours, Karen P.S. In re-reading this, I realized there have been *two* neck scenes so far. I meant the one with the girl, in this note. I wonder if there will be more neck scenes. I like necks, myself. So I do hope so.

From "The Cambridge World History of Food": [. . .] [. . .] (The mystical Shadhili Sufi had been using the beans during nighttime chanting rituals). There is an incredible amount of interesting and important social history that goes along with the coffee bean as it is used as social, economic, and religious tool. ................................................... My best hazarded guess would be that the beans were first boiled raw as one does when finding something new that has a hard surface. Who knew . . maybe they would make a nice soup. More from Cambridge: Probably at some point someone tried smoking coffee and discovered it just was not that great that way? (I once worked in a place where coffee was traded from the green bean. It never smelled particularly attractive to me when roasting. It would not make me want to smoke it. ) (On the other hand, I once lived near a tobacco field and wanted to inhale, to dive, into the aroma of those leaves as they cooled from the hot sun in the evening. Luscious.)

Why do you ask, Beef Cheeks? Have you read it, and do you have thoughts about it and whether it affected how you think of MKF and/or her writing? It certainly is the elephant in the room, along with the bio her sister wrote, whenever MFK's writings are mentioned . . . (Seems to me) (But then, it's real, and what can one do.)

This can happen in any culture or even within any social structure. To some people, hamburgers are disgusting, whether they are fast food or not. To some people, pork is disgusting. To others, vegetables are gross. An American buffet, loaded with the usual excess of "things" can be an anethema to some. The idea of "fancy French restaurants" in "New York City" is enough to bring others to professing their disgust. The difference is not the food, it is the people. Not the culture, but the individuals and how they choose to project (or not project) their personal feelings onto the others around them. In every culture there are people who are "loyal" to the foods they know. Very loyal. In most cultures you will find class differences in terms of the foods they are "loyal" to, and regional differences. Fear of other's foods is rampant. Thank goodness, sometimes, that there are other things we can share with certain of our friends. And thank goodness that the world is a big place with lots of people to meet that *can* share an open outlook. And, as I get older and older, I thank goodness for that, for age gives me fearlessness to use my tongue to give lashings to those I think deserve it for being so limited. Bless their hearts.

It's just like lunch in the school cafeteria, except that everyone is older. Many are not that much appreciably more "grown up" in terms of their own food choices and/or how they react to other's choices, though. Food is an emotional thing. An aroma arises and feelings arise, the brain reacts. It's much stronger than so many other things we do differently from each other. I have a theory that in every group of twenty four adults (about the same size of a classroom) you will find the same amount of bullies, jokers, teacher's pets, goody-goodys, snobs and other recognizable personality types from kindergarten, even though they are "grown up" now. There will always be a loud-mouthed bully who has to be offensive. (Usually he has a "second" who follows and helps, too . . . ) Once you know this, things take on a different shape. For bullies, are meaningless people, aren't they? If we make them so, in our minds. Of course a banana peel left on the floor outside any bully's usual place of hiding is a good thought, too.

Scaped Goat - 1. Goat roasted with garlic scapes. 2. Goat that escaped from the slaughter house. Which you could serve with: Spinach au Gritten - Spinach au gratin made with spinach that you forgot to wash while chasing the goat or preparing the scapes.

"Apple Poolisher" - someone who stays late, after their shift, without pay, at the bakery . . . to make the poolish for the bread . . to get in the boss's good graces. My daughter calls that ice cream place named "The Marble Slab" . . ."The Marble Flab". As in "Can we go to The Marble Flab, Mom?" (You can guess what my answer invariably is . . )

I'm reminded, in reading your thoughts and then remembering the stories, how very visual her writing was - and reminded as someone mentioned above, how she had been a screenwriter for some time. I can picture things she wrote with clear detail in my mind, years later, as if it *were* a film (and a good one, too ). I liked "How to Cook a Wolf" very much at various times in my life. Once was when I was living on a boat, and once was when I was living in a small odd apartment in Paris. I'm reading a book now that shows what some of the other writers of the time were doing in terms of offering wartime rationing/food advice, and naturally, much of what MFK tells us is the same as what they say. It is only the style of narrative that differs, really. And years later, we remember the poetry of "How to Cook a Wolf" where we do not remember the others' fine, but non-poetic factual advice. Knowing this makes me happy.

Ahhh, yes. Startling, some of the recipes from that book. I read recently that the device she used in writing the book is called "magical realism". The foods she cooked took on her emotions - they *were* her emotions . . and those that swallowed the foods ate the emotions - they overcame those that ate them. Interesting to consider, too, the symbolism of each ingredient. Thanks for reminding me of that book - I'll have to re-read it, yet again. source ← A lot of fantastic recipes there, Melissa. Many many excellent ideas! (Swoon) It depends on the balance of the dish, for me. It can go awry easily. I think the Western palate is unaccustomed to this sort of flavor - there's a density of sorts that startles the palate. I've heard of rose hips jam, but rose petal sounds lovely. A useful hint, about the white pith! I'm sure there is somewhere online that one can buy edible (unsprayed) roses, lacking a garden or the right kind of thumb.

Yes, that was very kind of you to post pictures of the process. My MIL (who I learned the recipe for what she called "ricotta" from) often used Americanized terms for things that were not *exactly* as she had learned to make them as a young girl in Italy. Times were different then - in Italy they lived on a farm and used the products of the land, directly as they came from the earth or from the animals. Nothing was wasted. . .then in America, she lived in a town, where things came from the grocery stores (though of course she always had a garden and picked wild things, too, to eat ). And of course store products are rather "standard". Pasteurized milk by the gallon is what she bought. . .and with six children to feed and a husband who supported the family (also emigrated as a young boy) who was a barber. . . there was not extra money to obtain specialty items of any sort. I was reminded by your comment on "ricotta" that we also have something called "pizza" here in the US, too. I daresay *that* is the larger crime. Ah. To get back on topic, I love pasta with a light tomato sauce served with a big bowl of whipped ricotta in the center of the table to ladle on top of it, to taste the creaminess of the ricotta as it blends into the hot sauce, the coolness of the taste opposed to the spice of the tomato sauce, the bite of the pasta on tongue. Luscious.