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.
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts