Carrot Top

There are some very tricky and extremely greedy pandas around in the world of human endeavor. But who expects a panda to have any ethics? They are merely cute fuzzy bears. So adorable. Sort of like Ronald Mcdonald.

In response to your post just above this one, SB, I will show you the reasons for my post you quoted and are confused about. My post was in answer to the quote above that was directed at me. It would seem to me, that my posts on this thread did show a presumed level of interest in customs, gestures, and culture. It was fun to write of history in a manner which I hoped would be enjoyed by whomever happened upon it. And it was fun, though time-consuming, to google for things of interest to add to the thread. It would seem from the post above that my entire intent during this thread was mis-read - at least by the forum host that is writing above. The humor was not caught by him. Hopefully it was caught by most people reading. Though I may be a little nutty - and although this nuttiness is something I accentuate for the reason of entertaining others, finally - if it is felt that I am "smug" - well, that is a rather strong word and not a friendly one. Therefore my retreat. I'm not out to prove anything here. Hopefully we will hear more about this idea of Americans and forks and their "self-aware" approach - this idea indeed could be expanded upon for some time it is to be imagined.

Au revoir to discussions of forks and googlings of interest in forks. Apologies to anyone that I have offended. K

Dear me. Maybe I should have added a non-classist gesture in the form of or maybe or perhaps to my post. Of course the ultimate non-smug gesture would have been but I don't do that much. Sorry. Indeed if we *are* speaking culture, seems to me that IHOP deserves a mention. Let us get down to some real smuggery here, shall we?

Mira ici for The World's Largest Knife and Fork. (Clickey on "Grosstes Estbesteck der Welt".) Lotsa good essen and trinkin goin' on.

Sorry. Got confused. Still am confused. I am speaking of course, of that restaurant that represents the Best We Have To Offer that gleams from every highway exit. But it is named The International House of Pancakes. Are they American? Are they International? Are they the bastion of our interest in food as intellectual process? I must look up the word "refinement" in the dictionary. Yes. I am confused.

Why yes. I do believe this is quite apparent in The House of Pancakes.

Don't forget the spoon, Pontormo! Nothing has the delicate taste of egg on fine silver! K Ah. So neglectful of my manners - do allow me to apologize for that short man in 1796. So rude, really! Poor Nappy did not have the common sense God gave a goose. It was his sweet-talk that fooled us all to our final regrets.

His walking pattern has always seemed a bit strange to me, personally. Confusing-like. But at least in the organic farming business he seems to be able to see the path for the trees.

Pontormo, It was a mere yet so telling! slip of the tongue, my use of the word "bannock". Many years ago I had a consort who loved to sing as he ate. We dined upon blini and caviar (of course at that time caviar was *not* de rigeur for our classes. It was a mere lowly dab of food yet at that time rising in cost and popularity by each day that passed). Nevertheless we enjoyed it while slumming as we hid together in our rented garret. He would throw a bit of blini through the air towards my eagerly open mouth, singing: You say a blini, I say a bannock You say le caviar, I say le fish roe Blini! Bannock! Caviar! Fish roe! Let's call the whole thing offfffff. Jean-Baptiste (Marie and I used to guffaw behind closed doors at that man - "Baptiste" indeed!!! with his roving eye and insatiable hunger for fish eggs) had started making a bundle in the French caviar business, which never existed before his public relations campaigns, so indeed the rented garret was neccesary - a cheap yet desirable economy so that more and more caviar could be afforded. *We* watch our sous, too, in manners of love and food! I daresay you have heard the tune in these modern times sung with the words "tomato" and "potato" in place of the lovely tastes we ate. Ah! How low we have fallen, my dear Jacobo. My ancestry is vague, as so many of these things are. Now, and then. Suffice it to say that I was merely a twinkling in my fathers eye when my conception occurred on an unlaid! table. No forks. No spoons. No fish plates. You might deduce from this that I was born "on the wrong side of the tablecloth", my charming correspondent, and indeed you would be entirely correct! But the tablecloth was fine linen, so society naturally decided to ignore this small confusion of desire and birthright!!! We name ourselves to best suit our complicated lives (as you so well know, Carrucci.) Time to break fast! Let me raise my glass of lager to you, Pontormo/Carrucci! Please forgive the idea of beer for breakfast but yes indeedy those brute English did endow me with some strange ideas!!!! To the regime! Katerina

It might help if you think of the pleasure that someone else could possibly find in the books that you do not *really* love or use, as they go to their new home(s). I often go through the bookshelves and take loads of books either to the library or to the thrift store as donation. Books are meant to be loved. If they are simply sitting on the shelf, not being opened for years, truly they deserve better. Someone out there *will* love them.

No, no, Rebecca. It is only something to do inbetween *searching* for where the children have hidden their Halloween candy from me, knowing that I will eat it. It is unfortunate that they will not leave the house for then I could search their rooms.

Update! Update! More on this vital subject in this latest news from Stanford

Two shots of good brandy followed by a box of Sugar Daddies.

Alas, indeed, dear Deborah. For yet another good use of forks is in unbuttoning the ever-so-tight corset. The glove and boot buttoner was originally just an old fork, you know! Alternately, yet another use of the tool is done by hooking the fork prongs underneath the corset strings and carrying the intended prey off as if they were merely yet another shopping bag from Bendel's. Chop chop! (That saying came from using forks, too.)(Of course I was there, also. But that is a story for another day. The sun is shining here and the silverware section at the department store is gleamingly beckoning to me to hurry hurry and shop for more forks!) Dear me. I seem to have gotten off the topic of "food". Therefore here is a tip: Forks are good things to tease live lobsters with before throwing them in the pot. Gives an added savor of fighting spirit to the feast!

Mais Rachel Madame la D - Surely BritLit *has* swayed your manners towards napkins tucked into neckline. Woman to woman, though, indeed, I feel quite compelled to entreat you! Do! Remove the napkin. Do! My dear, allow the pea to fall where it will! For I must with all seriousness say: the fork following pea tumbling down towards tummy is one of the greater pleasures of life. I would be so bold at this moment to say that really, that is what a fork *should* have been designed for. The Maker works in mysterious ways, my dear. S/he may have intended the fork for just this purpose and as it is our human intent to consistently fail to understand, we just plain got it wrong - using the tool instead to stick food into our mouths. With my finest regards to GRITS and the antebellum way, I remain, Yours in fine forkery, Mlle. Katerina la Vermintz

Another Way to Use your Fork

I bet your brothers also used the odd fork whenever they could sneak it out of the kitchen to dig in the backyard with or to pry some piece of something off of something (this something obviously being strong enough to twist the tines of the fork into irremediably strange shapes). I know my son does this.

I actually was looking for a picture of this windchime thingie that is made out of forks and spoons that people collect from yard sales then string up to make a mobile but that fork popped up instead on only the third hit. Meaningful? Heh. Everything is.

I love to make chili for a crowd. And the weather is getting perfect, too. Strange writing about chili at this moment. From my house, I can actually hear the crowds cheering over whatever is happening at the Virginia Tech/Miami football game tonight. Strange sound, like waves at the ocean. Lots of tailgaters out there, too. Hey. I should have made chili and peddled it up and down the street. Could have made a bundle.

And the answer, of course, must be something like this.

Almost forgot to post the results of the last two days of the "week". Slight menu changes. The baked potatoes which were supposed to have been stuffed and baked for dinner instead became homefries with eggs and bacon and pancakes and blueberry sauce for dinner -"Breakfast for Dinner" as someone had mentioned. The last day we did make pizza and had the escarole soup which was very quick and easy to put together. All in all, the hour and a half was extremely well spent on Sunday, prepping stuff ahead that could then be put together quickly. We ate less junk food and we ate less packaged stuff. Will try it again this week. Off to the races.

Ah, youth in these days of such wild freedoms and heavily laden education! Your thoughts fly with the ease of a hummingbird on crack directly to the true meanings of whatever simple utterances flee my henna'ed lips. The family of my manservant is a large one. He has many nephews. All well-versed in service. Russian-style, naturally, from the left - and spooned out with some generosity, too. And by this time, several centuries later, they know how to use their forks well. In whatever sort of service pleases you. Just let me know. Ah! Must run! Tea is served!! Whatever piece of cutlery *shall* I eat this bannock with do you think?

That looks good, Melissa. But for a moment I thought the raisins were bacon. It looked good that way, too. Your photography skills are excellent. But I must ask: Should you really be using these skills to help people *like* these bits of floordropping of devils hair? Sigh.

With such eager enterprise had I entered upon the confession of Marie and the well-known saying you spoke of that indeed it was my terrible failing to neglect to advise you about the means of eating a cake. I have discarded my corsets now so can only remain sitting here for one brief fragile moment in time to explain this issue of manners, fork, and cake. (For you know, without the corsets I can not even stand up but need to be carried here and there by the butler's son - and a fine study beast he is, too - well suited to the task and with the hidden advantage of the Italianate chest of furry down. But we shall not speak of that here. Let us return to the fork and the cake.) Nobody was ever permitted to eat the cake. Careme (or Bony Tony as we called him in our gentle jests, for he was always using bits of discarded bones from the hens that went in the stockpot in the glorified odyssey he had set out upon to create the ultimate piece montee) had undertaken to educate us in the ways of sugar and architecture to his great excitement. The table would totter under the weight of sugar and cake structures lovingly created as if little mice would live in them - rich little mice - but we could only feast with our eyes and slaver with our lips. He never had a bit of cake left over for our own desserts till finally (in a rather brilliantly inspired theatrical moment that all the ladies whispered about for weeks to follow!) Jeannie (Madame Recamier of course) fainted onto the table with her beautiful chestnut locks draped over the fish plate, while letting out gentle pained uttereances of "Pudding. Pudding. My throat - please pudding." And pudding is what we finally were given as sweet. Rochefoucauld did knock down the Altar to the Temple of Venutia Minutiea (that Careme had stuck on the table) during one of his ongoing neverending monologues as he stood up to wave his hands around to catch our attention (dreadful long dirty fingernails Rocky had - but his silly way of giggling inbetween those endlessly amusing prounouncements bade us ignore this one fault) but nevertheless we did not dine upon it that night. Too many bits of hen-bones laid about in the ruins. Spoons again, my dear little sister. Spoons and puddings. Spoons and puddings. And it was a very good thing, too. For most of us had no real teeth left to eat with anyway.