Yerp: Part 3 – Cooking Dinner for More Than a Dozen People.

May 14, 2011

Alright. Second morning waking up in Yerp. At the crack of dawn. Before everyone else. Again.

My head hurt, though. No idea why.

Yerp: Part 2 - An Evening in Gruissan.

My first morning in Armissan.

May 13, 2011

I had this vision of the France leg of the vacation. I saw a lot of nothing. I saw myself reading, writing, eating, cooking, staring into space and sipping wine – all in a lovely, pastoral milieu. I envisioned a lot of silence. Save for the birds chirping and the rooster crowing. 

Yerp: Part 1 (of many).

May 11 & 12, 2011

I’m doing this. I’m on the plane. I’m running on three hours of (wine-induced) sleep, two Xanax, a quarter of a bottle of water, and three quarters of a cup of coffee from the La Brea Bakery stand next to airport terminal 21. I’m listening to Explosions in the Sky and I’m pretty loopy. Loopy in the good, euphoric way.

FOR MILO, WHO NOW KNOWS THE WAY.

My absolute favorite book as a child, and perhaps my favorite book of all time, was/is The Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster and illustrated by Jules Feiffer. The book tells the story of a young boy named Milo who would rather be anywhere other than where he is, values little and considers time and all things that exist within it a waste of, well, time.

We Still Are What We Once Were. Always.

My oldest and dearest friend, Paz, visited recently. She was here for ten (10) days. I was concerned, briefly, that ten (10) days would be a skosh too long. It wasn’t. It actually wasn’t nearly long enough. Well, maybe it was just right.

The Birdcage

Yes. I know. I know.  It has been too long. But I am back now. Things have been very lively in my world. Paz was in town for ten (10) days and she only just left. Don’t worry, you’ll be hearing all about that soon enough as there is much to share. But first I would be remiss if I didn’t share a story with you of an evening that took place right before Paz’s arrival.

Your Hand in Mine

fickle |ˈfikəl|

adjective

changing frequently, esp. as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection : Web patrons are a notoriously fickle lot, bouncing from one site to another on a whim | the weather is forever fickle.

DERIVATIVES

fickleness noun

fickly |ˈfik(ə)lē| adverb

ORIGIN Old English ficol [deceitful] .

I’ve always known I’m fickle.

persnickety |pərˈsnikətē|

adjective informal

placing too much emphasis on trivial or minor details; fussy : persnickety gardeners | she's very persnickety about her food.

• requiring a particularly precise or careful approach : it's hard to find a film more persnickety and difficult to use than black-and-white infrared.

ORIGIN early 19th cent. (originally Scots): of unknown origin.

I’m also aware that I can be tremendously persnickety.

Reading, Tweeting & Eating

I was smack in the middle of a really fun book: Blood, Bones & Butter, by Gabrielle Hamilton. She is the chef/owner of Prune in New York and it is her memoir. While, unfortunately, I have not yet dined at Prune, I was having a blast eating up her words. And, lamentably, it’s been too long since I’ve really delved hungrily into a good book.

Sliding Doors

I am at a new intersection presently. The landscape is changing. And soon I need to either turn right or I need to turn left. It’s hard when I’ve been going straight for so long.

Son of a Gun - It's Rated ARGH! (Insert pirate hook here)

I really wanted to steer away from the restaurants for a while and get back to the recipes/stories/metaphors tangled up in my world. But, I was fortunate enough to hit up Son of a Gun on only their second night open and I was on a date doing it. And so, all the news that’s fit to print, right?