Carrot Top

There you go. Deconstructed figgy pudding. Place pile of raisins on plate. Place pile of almonds next to them. Whip some butter with confectioners sugar, pipe out into pretty rosette. Pour fig essence over. Carry to table, pour brandy over and light. Enjoy! (Sorry, it must be the effect of the song which is STILL running through my head. )

I hope you will have a soccer ball or two just casually laying around the yard for them to play with the kids as they just happen to see it by chance. . .

Kulebiac or coulibiac is so darn traditional that it leaps immediately to mind. Not a bad thing, either. Served with a clear borscht and some good vodka, I'd be happy.

I have been reading but not commenting because every time you mention six meals a day and show such lovely food, I have to go search the refrigerator. Good stuff, Mooshmouse!

Now why did you have to go and do that? I do believe that this is the way that the British Empire was managed for so many years. Go around singing inane nursery rhymes with lilting little rhythms that will not leave anyone's mind that hears them for days, days, weeks, months, till the entire countryside submits just to get some peace and quiet and escape from the figgy pudding music torture. Aaaaargh.

Okay, okay. Here's a couple of ideas that ran through my head while driving to pick up the kids at school: Beef Braised in Barolo with Fig Essence Grilled Lamb Chops with Frizzled Ginger and Scallions with Creamed Spinach and Pignoli Roasted Quail in a Pomegranate-Fig Essence Marinade with Batter Fried Plantains and Byzantine Rice Pilaf Cherry Blintzes with Fig Essence Vanilla Cheesecake in Hazelnut Crust with Hot Chocolate-Coffee-Fig Essence Sauce Sigh. Yeah. I'm off now to dole out the Gatorade and the Rainbow Goldfish Crackers to my attentive and always hungry little ones.

Aren't figs supposed to be good for the skin, Melissa?

Wow! What wonderful replies! I am left to wonder, though, why only one man (if I am correct about guessing everyone's sex) has responded. Is he the only man worth eating out there? Or could it be that Real Men Don't Eat Quiche and that they also are not quiche either. As for myself, I found it difficult to come up with an answer. Each thought kept turning into extensive menus which were probably more wishful than real. As I walked through my kitchen with my mind in its generally muddled shape, though, something popped into it. So it must be. I am a Texas Red Grapefruit. Shiny with an attempted elegance and gloss on the outside. The color of bright spirit. A hybrid, genetically, with the urge to succeed that goes along with this. Sweet and juicy on the inside (mmm hmm ) but with lines of structure and pith that disallow too much softness. Sometimes subject to suddenly and surprisingly spitting out acid juice in the face of those who would hold a fork to me. Full of vitamins, though. Now the next question must be. . . If you are a food that would or could be cooked, how would you like to be cooked?

Chili. Both red with beef and white with chicken. These are new-age guys, ya know. Both can be made ahead and set out in big crockpots. Cornbread on the side, natch. Lots of it. Grated cheddar, chopped scallions (that's "spring onion" to y' all, but you know that) and and a big bowl of sour cream to top. Another pot of nice steamy white rice. Yum. .............................................................. And cookies by the massive handful.

If you were a food, what would you be? Why would you be this food? (If you are too complex to be one single food item, then please feel free to expand yourself to a meal. . . )

Actually, Varmint ← And that's as it should be.

I really like the idea of bringing a personal rabbi to a Pig-Pickin'. I really like it. And it also has great possibilities as the basis of a good children's book, too! So. . .what did he eat, Melissa? Or was his feast just of the beauty and the cameraderie of it all?

I've never tried that, Abra. . .but have a feeling that freezing might change the texture. But then again, it depends on what sort of presentation you want, finally. Whole fish. . .or in a blended texture at service time? Of course the other ways of preserving fish would be salting and/or smoking. The salting would not work in your recipe, but I am wondering if smoking the tuna before making the confit would assist in possibly making it hold longer. It would likely be delicious, too. . .(though perhaps not what you had in mind. . .)

I couldn't agree more! I tried to convince Jason to Photoshop in some toenail polish and bubbles in the bathtub. Now there's an eGullet Christmas card if ever there was one! ← I thought the same thing myself about the piggie foot picture, but instead saw a little yellow rubber duckie bobbing around alongside it! Didn't dare say so, though. You all have been wonderful in sharing the time that you had so that we could enjoy it without having gone, just through the photos and words. I am totally amazed at Varmint and his family and the great generosity shown in pulling this thing together. Maybe next time the crew should throw a party for him the day after the party! Sit him in a lawnchair with some beer to watch the cleanup crew or something. Well, maybe not. The whole thing might go on for a week. Thank you all, anyway, for sharing the fun of what looked and sounded like a really enjoyable (and of course historic) time! Karen

markk. . .have you tried telephoning the paper with the question? It is likely that they would be happy to provide the information. It may be that the operator sends to several wrong extensions at first, but that might be the quickest way to get an answer to this. . .

That truly is some of the most glorious looking bread I have ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. I keep coming back to this thread just to stare at it. Fantastic.

A Fabulous Prize. New Orleans as it stood was a Fabulous Prize all in itself. In running through the city of New Orleans in memory, I see streets. New Orleans. . . more than any other city, is made of streets. Streets that demand attention, streets that co-operate with each other in a secret plan to lead a persons feet onward and onward, round and through the city. Streets with distinct personalities, each one. Wide boulevards link medium size thoroughfares which link cobblestone paths which tie into paths through green places. Streets that either burst at the seams with music, life, smells of food and laughter. . .or streets that are just ready to burst with life should the right moment be found. The streets of wealth in New Orleans do not hide their face from the poverty so very near by. . .and the streets of poverty have a richness of their own variety. What made it so in New Orleans? The music? The bars? The idea of Mardi Gras all year long? It could be the aromas of the foods alone that made of New Orleans a place that nobody would or could ever help loving. The boulevards, the roads, the paths, the avenues, they all sang with the aromas of food. Rich food, spicy food, food that caressed the soul in the same way that the sultry sweat of the heat on the sidewalks would melt one almost in place while wandering those streets. You walk slowly in New Orleans, unless you are crazy. There is too much to see, smell, feel, hear. Can you taste the coffee? Can you smell the pastries and breads? I can. I even imagine that I can smell the steamed crawfish, their shiny little heads nodding together in a chiascuro brightness, dumped out rolling out in a rosy gathering of happy jollility on that battered wooden picnic table covered with its generous swath of thick brown paper, the yeasty toast of smell of the pitcher of beer literally making my tastebuds seem to jump right out of my mouth. . . at that small shack alongside the highway out of town. The place that was New Orleans is still there. It is there in our tastebuds, our minds, our songs. The place that is New Orleans is still there, for it was a sort of magic that made it. It grew from that particular place on earth to be what it was, and what a Fabulous Prize it was, too. And soon, when the land reclaims its own after the floods, when it heals as it does after a field is burned, the seeds that are New Orleans will push up from the blackened soil again. Strong seeds, seeds as vital as they were before if not more so. For how could it be otherwise? For New Orleans has the magic of Singular Place, and it is a place that will always be one magnificent gift, one Fabulous Prize. Just wait and see.

Now my third and fourth favorite photos are of the evil black hands reaching into the lovely pile of pork. . .and Ronnie Suburban looking gleefully excited as he reaches in with his tongs. . . Really, this these four photos could be put together for the start of quite an exciting and strange children's book. ............................................... Oh. And the food looks absolutely mouthwatering!

Beautiful. Looks like you have perfect weather, too!

Hungry.

You make me smile, Rogov. In a very good way. That entire world you just described sounds like it rings with beauty. ............................................. But I must add, this time, that you have confused me with Melissa. Which is not at all a problem for me but goodness knows I might get her into trouble if people think I am her. If that makes sense. .................................................. Uh uh uh. Mixing up your women. . .dangerous business. How many of us do you have dangling round, dear?

Even better. I am jealous of you all, and am planning on how to make my children pay for being children and being subject to children's tiredness and stress which makes me, the mother, want to keep them home quietly. Someday when they are trying to make me feel guilty about the many wrongs I imagine I do, I will quietly intone: "Remember that Pig-Pickin'?" Sigh.

I'm not sure which one is funnier and more marvellous. The photo of the pig foot languishing in the bath or the pig flattened out laying covered with bacon as if it were getting some sort of pig beauty treatment.

I am curious, Rogov. About what percentage of the students at the College de France do respond to that final question at the lectures? Just trying to add to my bundle of things I'm dragging along looking for the signposts to Nirvana, you know.

I can not believe that I posted such an excellent "straight line" and that nobody has answered it yet. What a lost opportunity! The answer should have been, "Not at my restaurant." Pah. Well. They may have an excuse. It is the weekend, and they may all actually be working.