Mes petits trésors, voici ce qui ce passe:
I tried so hard to make this post more serious, so that you may understand that I do more in life than contemplate my next source of spit-swappage. But alas, my brain is so cramped from attempting college essays that it is obstructed. I have tried in vain to inundate it with various forms of mental ex-lax (Russian literature, my favorite cookbooks, The West Wing, and dinner parties), but it’s no go, if you know what I mean. So then I changed my tact, and waited for an event of notable hilarity to befall me. Considering that I haven’t written in a week, you can only imagine how well that worked out. So, a rather idiotic recounting of mes derniers jours:
Dudes and Dudettes!
I am back at work, and for the moment all is well. Except for the body building mammoth that has replaced me as bus boy (he, at least, is of the appropriate gender to satisfy the job description. But that’s truly the only good thing I can say about him.) He’s a brain damaged brute, a study in stupidity of literally gargantuan proportion! I assure you, he can have absolutely no more brain cells than are necessary for survival on the most base levels of this earth. He’s like a throwback to Neanderthalish times, and an inbred specimen at that. But, as if his sheer idiocy isn’t offensive enough, he’s also a molester. Indeed, he’s taken to covertly fondling the small of my back with his steroid-swollen digits. Ah, good times… But then, get this! If I accidentally brush against his derriere (which is about every five seconds, given his hulking frame), he let’s out these gurgling reclamations, as if I’ve violated his delicate constitution. Honestly!
In my phase of grievance, I used to long for winter. I celebrated the arrival of hibernal chill as an excuse to bundle up, to pad my wounded self and protect it from the cruelty of the world. I was filled with a hollow and somewhat desperate pleasure by the sight of trees stripped bare; the tortured beauty of the landscape echoing my own bereavement. Bereft. It is a beautiful word, expressive of sadness in meaning and sound. It forces the mouth into a special movement, so that the utterance of the word is always soft and grave. I used to love that word.
It’s no surprise that since I imported my portly papa from the big apple, he and I have spent the better part of our time rhapsodizing about food, often directly across the table from each other, and likely while reveling in the pleasures provided by a bowl of grapes. We’re able to discuss food endlessly without tiring the subject out, for there is always an element of mystère in food, après tout. It is an endlessly giving subject, always relevant, and just elusive enough that it captivates me unendingly.
Indeed, with a French posse around (believe it or not, we’ve got a Francophone tribe in Marfa), a certain haughtiness appears in my culinary attitude. Or rather, the notion of French culinary superiority that I usually secret away in the far back recesses of mind, quite ashamedly, becomes validated. And I give it voice! Grace à dieu, for once in my life I’m not soliloquizing, but discussing! With real live specimens! It is quite a departure, a breath of fresh air, a horse of a different color, and, let me see…ah! A whole different ball game! Man, I love idioms! See, even when I get hoity toity and Française, I never forget that I am very much American too.
Mes Petits Choux, Punkin’s, and Dears,
I decided to take advantage of New York’s abundant bounty, and cheffed a Faux Thanksgiving meal just prior to my departure from the lovely city. Though intermittently sedated and totally high on codeine, I managed to remain dictatorial in the food department: Daddy-o and I went shopping for ingredients, and he actually cringed at my fascist fervor and veritable verve! The trouble is, I’m always right. Toujours, really I swear it. But he is my mentor, so it’s odd. The moment has been coming on for a while, and the definitive dawning of the age when I’ve surpassed my teacher in culinary knowledge is here. But I am most fortunate that he is as excited to be outdone as I am to be outdoing. It’s rather grand, actually!
I adore Thanksgiving. It is, après tout, a nationally sanctioned feast! But my history with the holiday is a bit peculiar. My derivation, culturally and genetically speaking, is totally un-American. I’d attended a few Turkey- and- Gravy affairs in my youth, but the first real Thanksgiving I had was the one I orchestrated and cooked last year at the ripe old age of 18. As such, I get to approach the holiday with sufficient cultural detachment that I’m able to use seasonal and historical ingredients in a way that is traditional, but that doesn’t suffer at the expense of adherence to childhood memories of Aunt Gretchen’s parchment-dry turkey. As a culinary celebration that is unabashedly cherished more as an excuse to cook and gorge than to uphold any moralistic ideals, Thanksgiving holds unique appeal to me, and I attack it with particular zeal and respect.
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts