Carrot Top

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.

That's a good menu, Deborah. Let me extend a sprig of thyme in hopes that we can sit at the same table. I promise I'll only bite the food.

There *is* something about the food at these sorts of functions where the focus is *not* supposed to be on the food but on the social occurence that often leads to one of two things happening: Either the food is hyper-overblown in name and fuss and pompous preparation and presentation that it is extremely difficult to carry off the real taste within it, or The food has got to be somewhat self-deprecatory, at least in name, and following on from this thought even in presentation and hoopla. I prefer the second sort of menu. You can place a fancy name on any old thing and it can still be a piece of sh**, but it also happens that something quiet and unostentatious can hold depths of unexpected finesse and flavor. I am sure there is a wonderful Southern saying that would express the thoughts held in that last sentence much better than I said it, but I've left the rolling hills of West Virginia behind now for more than two years and my language skills have surely dulled in their punguency.

Sounds good. Might be time for you to write a cookbook, Busboy.

Now real folksy presidential eating is the cottage cheese and ketchup of Nixon. Bubble and Squeak and things like that, Brit food for Brits (or Chinese for the Chinese etc) would be nice - it seems to hint at friendship, doesn't it. But protocol directive is often written "against" this sort of feeding their national food to the national visitors. The idea behind this is that: 1) It might be considered insulting in some way, i.e. "we can do this better than you"; and 2) The concept that lies behind the sorts of meals that are demonstrative of culture in a formal extended sense (whether in the businessplace or in the political arena) is to show who "we" are that is serving the meal. To show who we are and hopefully be understood and appreciated for it.

I have heard of this happening in the eighteenth and nineteenth century but am not aware as to when it has happened in the twenty-first century. Can you give us some examples, please, for reference? Of course I did know about the hot dogs and FDR. That's sort of what we do here in America. Hot dogs everywhere for everyone.

Hey. You guys are giving me an idea.

At least she didn't serve risotto.

I wonder what the President and the First Lady would say to this claim.

Don't forget the Coors Lite. You know how fat their butts are from sitting on them day and night.

Yeah there you go. Real American home cookin'.

That they are not there for the food is certain. But that the food that is served at the White House has to be perhaps better than other places that may serve the usual political banquet in DC may also be close to a certainty, I would think. When I spoke of ascertaining tastes and fitting them in terms of defining menu, I meant the top guns (it sounded like there were a lot of top guns there, I do not read of style nor of politics on a daily basis so was uninformed as to the specific breakdown of VIP's vs. IP's). Generally when the top guns come to dinner the chef is provided with a list of likes/dislikes/allergies etc. To not do this would be to risk political or business amicability over perhaps a piece of toast or a certain vegetable and that is not to be desired. Certainly there are many wonderful options for food that could make a great display in this instance. All I can say is again, that I think her menu was good - it pleases me. To hear other ideas (and most particularly from those people who may not think her menu good - it would give them a chance to show their own stuff) would of course be fun.

I should add that my reasoning behind saying that there is protocol involved in the planning of these dinners is that the previous Executive Chef at the White House told me this fact himself during a visit to the kitchens where I spent the afternoon discussing the operations there. It is my assumption that this has not changed.