Carrot Top

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.

Yeah. Ridiculous how good you have made the food look. And Maine, too. You may have accomplished the near-impossible. You have made the idea of visiting my relatives look appealing. Beautiful blog.

Just looked up russ' terms for my own edification. pundit- 1. A source of opinion, a critic. 2. Learned person. tyro- 1. A beginner in learning something. Hmmm.

It can happen to the best of us.

Right. To divide the thing into different, tighter categories makes it easier to discern and decide.

I was hoping you would chime in, Rogov. And I am in agreement with what you say here. Admittedly, the starting point of this question for me was not set in the place of people like the writers you named who have given proof of their level of expertise in the form of a book or other writings. The starting point was in thinking about "the average person" who expounds within the form of this new method of mass communication, the internet. And the question was specifically raised in my mind in thinking of websites where anyone can write in and post their own version of what is right or what is wrong with the meal at the restaurant they ate at last night. It seemed to me that, depending on the person and the tone of course, a person who chooses to communicate their opinion on a thing through the mass media of the internet must be fairly well assured as to their expertise on the subject. Therefore my question. "Are we all experts on food?" I can see it both ways. As someone who has the ultimate respect for anyone elses taste whether it be for canned spagetti or for foie gras, I can say that "to each his own" and that each person certainly knows their own tastes best. But then again, as an ex-chef, I can grow somewhat hot under the collar when reading opinions on a meal posted in the mass media by "just the average guy" who seems to think that they are an expert, just because they eat. Therefore. . .the question. You know I like to talk.

I didn't take your answer as a put-down. The entire subject is rather amusing to me. Lots about it makes me laugh, for tilt it one way or another and it can look quite silly, sometimes satiric, sometimes nonsensical. Sometimes life looks like a Marx Brothers movie to me. Quite often.

Well, actually let me take one part of that back. *If* the relationship between guest and host *is* like dating (who am I to say it is not, it may be so between whoever it is. . .in a conceptual sense ) then trouble is surely bound to ensue rather quickly. For one of the parties wants to have sex, and as quickly as possible. Usually isn't guaranteed that the other party wants the same thing in the same way at the same time. All sorts of problems can arise if the relationship is shaped like that and the time span is one meal.

Sorry to sound all sort of soft about this thing, but really there is something about the relationship between the person that puts food on the table as host (whether for financial profit or not) and the guest at the table that causes it to fall more into a category slightly higher than the usual buyer/seller contractual relationship. This is going to sound even sillier perhaps, but the relationship is more exalted at best. It is about service on the part of the host, hospitality. . .raised to an artform if it can be. Now this does not mean white tablecloths and fine china, though if the situation demands that style, then that style it should be. It is something about . . .really turning oneself inside out so as to not be about one's own ego when serving the guest, but to be as much as humanly possible about moving the guest through food and service to a place where time and worries dissolve, to a place where pleasure and comfort reign. In this relationship, the host wants to bring the guest to a heaven on earth. In that sense, the relationship is sacred to the host, and that is why it is difficult for those who try to do it well to speak of this "contract" as if it were something where the guest "owes" certain profane obligations. That turns the relationship into something less than what it could be. It demeans it in a way, it profanes it. The relationship is nothing like dating. Let me not get started on that one. Finally, there are guests who do not belong at this table. . .they have a disrespect for the thing that the host is trying to do. They do not comprehend it at all. Lots of people do not understand lots of things in life that go beyond the simple and blunt and grimy. Their loss. They will never experience that thing that can happen when a host manages to create the perfect theatre of life, food, and hospitality that will make a coming to table for a dining experience. . .a small bit of heaven on earth. . .in that brief slice of time.

Area that is displaced by superior knowledge, you mean? This morning I came across a phrase that sounded just like what russ wrote earlier ("an expert is someone who knows more than you do") (Not that it has any specific ties to this thread but anyway. . . ) It is from Gore Vidal. "A narcissist is someone better looking than you are". Is the "expert" thing something that exists on its own, or only in relationship I wonder. And what are the determinants of that relationship. . does it flow from the expert or does it flow from the "other"? As ladyyoung noted, this is likely one of those questions where there is no right or wrong. I am just fascinated with the slippery nature of reality that this thing has, though, this thing of "expert". One would hope to be able to find some determinants. In other fields "expertise" is generally determined by knowledge, but that knowledge needs to have a formal shape to be considered valid in being called "expert". This knowledge could be in the shape of measureable studies undertaken that can be tested as to thoroughness. . .or work-related experience that would make for proof of the pudding. Yet in the field of food, is this true? Everyone considers themselves to be expert, at least so far as their own food goes. And that viewpoint is something they carry into the world everyday, as they make their judgements on "how the restaurant did" with their meal or "whether the offerings at the grocery store are good", etc. etc. Food. . .always slides so quickly into the areas of emotion, personal taste, upbringing. . .fascinating. Are we all experts?

Definitely. Unless the expert is a bullshit artist. But then of course, your proposal could still remain a good one, for a good bullshit artist is often very entertaining.

I love that line. Particularly if I read it as if to take it personally. Yes, but the "you" is never static, is it? So. . .being an expert is dependent on having a good number of people around who know LESS about something than the person who owns the superior knowledge at that particular time in that particular place.

Two very good answers given in the past four days. With one hundred thirty eight "views". It leaves me wondering what others would answer, if they happened to be interested in the subject in any way. I had a dream the other night. One person posed this question to another. They were both indistinct people in the dream, so I can not put any definition on who they were. . . One said, "What makes you such an expert?" The other answered, "Because I said so!" End of dream. Wish I had more to tell you.

I am tempted to shout out "Food Fight! Food Fight!" But knowing this crowd, rather than slinging the foods across the cafeteria, we'd all start asking for a bite instead. The other way is better for keeping the calories off, but. . .hmmm. Yes, please, a tot of Whiskey, a bite of haggis, a mouthful of an Indian dessert. . .with stories told while we eat of the histories of all these things? That sounds good to me.