on being gwyneth

you may be familiar with the rustic tradition of leaving a stewpot on the stove, always simmering and ready to accept whatever victuals are provided by the recent catch. in mountainous country, the pot may represent the local population of varmints and birds… in coastal or river areas, it may taste more often of any variety of fish, finned or shelled.

we have a similar habit in our household, involving booze. our standing jug is never empty, and contains a rotating mixture of whatever vodka, mixer and red juice (cherry lemonade, fruit punch, etc.) were in stock this week, combined in artlessly toxic ratios.

we call this alcoholic gumbo “drinky”, and our carafe lives permanently in the fridge, replenished continually and with little regard to anything but sweetness and potency.

i love chutney. and by that i mean to say that i LOVE chutney.

apparently that passion is not universally shared, as i learned years ago when i cooked an elaborate handmade curry for the woman who eventually became my first wife. i had given her healthy portions of curry and chutney, which she ate with what i interpreted as gusto. serving seconds, i pressed yet more excellent chutney on her, beaming at the success of the meal.

it was years later, when she related the event to our friends, that i discovered she was only being polite, and that she had watched that second helping of chutney hit her plate with quiet dread.

i’ve learned a lot since then, so this evening, when i opened the first jar of major grey’s that i’ve bought in years, i gave alison a very small bit on the end of a spoon, and told her to let me know what she thought.

she made a face like a cat with peanut butter on its tongue, and gave a kind of hissing cough. the test was negative.

ah well. more for me.

it’s nice to know that after all these years i can still make a decent spinach soufflé.

a friend of mine recently started a discussion on her own blog, regarding the status of food as art… a status which she is inclined to argue against. in support of that argument, she said this:

“What food, when properly prepared, can’t do is evoke sadness or outrage or some sort of subtextual moral or lesson.”

to which i responded:

these criteria describe “improper art”, which is art that, by being designed specifically to motivate positively or negatively, is either p*rn*graphic or didactic. “proper art” is that which produces “aesthetic arrest”, and exhibits the qualities of Integritas (wholeness), Convenientia (harmony), and Claritas (radiance).

i believe that i have had moments like that while dining… brief instances of pure being, experience erasing thought and bringing me to a point of stillness. i think that makes it art.

i’m just sitting here, minding my own business, doing my daily work thing, and suddenly i am possessed by an overwhelming desire for aioli.

nascar nation can’t even read a fucking recipe.

you know that reflexive cringe you get, when you realize, almost out of the corner of your ear, that the lobby music is derived from something that was so special, so distinctive and idiomatic, that it could never have possibly been made into muzak?

i got that a few weeks ago, walking through the frozen food aisle.

people of a certain subculture may fondly recall the moosewood collective, and the series of cookbooks that bore its name, authored by molly katzen. for many of us, the moosewood cookbook and its sequels were what made it possible to understand health food as something more than gruel and sprouts. the recipes were hearty, fun, and various. they led us to explore the co-ops, and learn to love tahini and tamari. they were truly seminal, like the joy of cooking, or our bodies our selves, and conveyed a certain progressive purpose. and like the best such books, they invited involvement, to a greater degree than one might otherwise have had, in something more than just meeting a daily need.

and that day, a few weeks ago, i glanced down among the frozen peas and patties, and saw moosewood frozen macaroni and cheese.

i’m sure it was tasty. i’m just as sure that it missed the point, as much as “cinnamon girl,” played on a soprano sax.

Old Bay seasoning on my pizza.

for dinner last night, i ate half a salami and an entire small tub of htipiti – a dip/salad of red peppers, feta, olive oil and various spices – on pita.

i did not sleep well.

first one of the season:
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