The other day at PCC I bought Coconut Flour. On the package it mentioned fiber so I immediately saw it as a worthwhile experiment. I also picked up tapioca balls, flour, bananas, and kale. The tapioca was my first exciting new choice. I happen to love tapioca pudding, massive tapioca in bubble tea, but that’s not surprising considering my attachment to puddings without tapioca and tea hot with milk.
Unfortunately I didn’t read the back of the box on all the things meant to be in traditional tapioca pudding. Or maybe it’s good because when I saw coconut milk I decided to use milk and coconut flour, two items I now had in abundance. As you can imagine, the high fiber meant non soluble and I had a grainy, albeit fragrant, pudding with slick, chewy tapioca.
Next time I’m making a very basic and delicious vanilla custard! So there’s no fiber, oh well! There’ll be fat and that should count for something.
Having made that decision I moved to recommended coconut flour recipes. Great – pancakes! That makes sense enough. If one takes into account that very dense, high fiber batters make very dense, high fiber waffles and pancakes. I poured in the allotted amount of buttermilk. Then I poured in more. Then I wondered whether to finish off the container!
Overall I had a very filling, wonderfully scented breakfast, made extra special by buttering with some leftover butter cream frosting. Yes, breakfast may really be the best meal of the day.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Perfume
What would love inspire me to do? This question keeps circulating in my mind as I consider the actions of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, and the reactions to him by everyone he meets in the story of a murderer, Perfume. How, when presented with grace and beauty and purity of a rare and pungent variety, does one – do I – respond?
To get there I’ll describe some of how I viewed the scentless Grenouille long before the fierce and troubling climax, pieces of which had been given away when I saw movie previews years ago, arrived. I viewed him with the same suspicion as his wet nurse. I’ve lived in France; I know how it can smell and how each person, although now habitually washed, has an identifiable scent. In the states it’s not nearly so easy to know one’s neighbor’s scent. There is compulsive washing followed by deodorizing and even, at times, perfuming. Mainly people smell like nothing, but it still remains pretty easy to smell their dog.
Now, if everything stank would I know myself distinguished from it? Certainly, I would. I would also know my family members, and a couple other special people whose fragrance has captured my imagination. (I’ve been told it has to do with pheromones.) Although, I will admit that perfume throws me off enormously. I still remember a strange time when I ate my mom’s hand lotion, thinking it should taste as good as it smelled. It didn’t.
Grenouille’s elevated view of his powers was another fascination for me. Of course he should be given extreme approbation for the ability to smell his way around in the dark, to have a perfect memory of each scent he’d ever smelled and the ability to recall it at will, to smell each stage of a daffodil’s demise, to ascertain the color of a child’s hair by her smell, and most of all to combine the essence of each item he admired into perfumes of great persuasion.
But Grenouille’s ignorance of his hate, utter lack of any fine feeling for humanity, and overall incapacity to relate to other humans except in condescension, masked as it may be through his complete understanding of character, was baffling. Over and over I wondered how a human can survive with absolutely no support except the nearly magical abilities of his own nose. And what’s more phenomenal was his rather strange decision that he did not wish to survive any longer.
Leading me to ask myself, how would I respond to the wearer of the perfume of life, or, should that be too strong, the perfume of love. Eros, agape, philia, storge, are honest possibilities, or would I respond to the fullest of good emanating from a person with deep selfishness and destruction, the desire to consume such a one? I would desire to answer love with humility and grace. But there’s that niggling doubt that I might, as I did once with my mom’s lotion, seize it and devour my share.
To get there I’ll describe some of how I viewed the scentless Grenouille long before the fierce and troubling climax, pieces of which had been given away when I saw movie previews years ago, arrived. I viewed him with the same suspicion as his wet nurse. I’ve lived in France; I know how it can smell and how each person, although now habitually washed, has an identifiable scent. In the states it’s not nearly so easy to know one’s neighbor’s scent. There is compulsive washing followed by deodorizing and even, at times, perfuming. Mainly people smell like nothing, but it still remains pretty easy to smell their dog.
Now, if everything stank would I know myself distinguished from it? Certainly, I would. I would also know my family members, and a couple other special people whose fragrance has captured my imagination. (I’ve been told it has to do with pheromones.) Although, I will admit that perfume throws me off enormously. I still remember a strange time when I ate my mom’s hand lotion, thinking it should taste as good as it smelled. It didn’t.
Grenouille’s elevated view of his powers was another fascination for me. Of course he should be given extreme approbation for the ability to smell his way around in the dark, to have a perfect memory of each scent he’d ever smelled and the ability to recall it at will, to smell each stage of a daffodil’s demise, to ascertain the color of a child’s hair by her smell, and most of all to combine the essence of each item he admired into perfumes of great persuasion.
But Grenouille’s ignorance of his hate, utter lack of any fine feeling for humanity, and overall incapacity to relate to other humans except in condescension, masked as it may be through his complete understanding of character, was baffling. Over and over I wondered how a human can survive with absolutely no support except the nearly magical abilities of his own nose. And what’s more phenomenal was his rather strange decision that he did not wish to survive any longer.
Leading me to ask myself, how would I respond to the wearer of the perfume of life, or, should that be too strong, the perfume of love. Eros, agape, philia, storge, are honest possibilities, or would I respond to the fullest of good emanating from a person with deep selfishness and destruction, the desire to consume such a one? I would desire to answer love with humility and grace. But there’s that niggling doubt that I might, as I did once with my mom’s lotion, seize it and devour my share.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Grocery Shopping
I go to a grocery store at least every week. I go to the same ones regularly, but today I decided to try out PCC. I had never been before, but wanted to know what it would be like. Well, it was just like PC Greens. Strangely similar with the plethora of organic prefabricated foodstuffs. From the childish bunnies to the serious sheaves of grain, all images reverberating unbleached whole grains and unrefined pure cane juice. This allows the highly acculturated, who only have time to buy processed foods, the option to get them without preservatives.
Although gardening was part of my earliest years, I didn’t take a shine to being healthy for the sake of image until my junior year in college. Immediately it was out with Nabisco’s standard Newtons and in with Nabisco’s side line, and far superior, Newmans. I hit up PC Greens as often as the beach.
I learned to juice fruits and vegetables, make yogurt smoothies, and modify all recipes to take some percentage of oat flour. I ate meats from animals that only ate grains at their leisure. I drank milk from happy cows. And I was broke.
Really, spend $5 on a peach? Is that indicative of good health practices? Yes, the organic peach tastes just as good as one off the tree, which I always ate on family trips to California, stopping at relatives’ back yards as soon as their houses to see what’s growing. And true, I never have found any reason to buy peaches in regular stores as they are nearly always mealy and dry, barely squeaking out flavor between the pit and fuzz. I can still remember the way I was transported to the delicious true tree fruit taste when I bought organic, so I still do. But let’s be honest. I can only afford apples.
Although gardening was part of my earliest years, I didn’t take a shine to being healthy for the sake of image until my junior year in college. Immediately it was out with Nabisco’s standard Newtons and in with Nabisco’s side line, and far superior, Newmans. I hit up PC Greens as often as the beach.
I learned to juice fruits and vegetables, make yogurt smoothies, and modify all recipes to take some percentage of oat flour. I ate meats from animals that only ate grains at their leisure. I drank milk from happy cows. And I was broke.
Really, spend $5 on a peach? Is that indicative of good health practices? Yes, the organic peach tastes just as good as one off the tree, which I always ate on family trips to California, stopping at relatives’ back yards as soon as their houses to see what’s growing. And true, I never have found any reason to buy peaches in regular stores as they are nearly always mealy and dry, barely squeaking out flavor between the pit and fuzz. I can still remember the way I was transported to the delicious true tree fruit taste when I bought organic, so I still do. But let’s be honest. I can only afford apples.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Madonnas
The Madonnas of Leningrad took me by surprise. I can’t say I even caught onto the premise straight away. Fortunately I had read that the author was previously a play actress, which explains why the characters’ actions and movements were so coherent, even if Marina was dreaming. Not having acted myself, but knowing that it’s not purely a delivery of lines, but a fluidity and full context which the cast creates, helped me appreciate the unique writing style of Debra Dean. It did not read like a script, it read like a ballet, at least I presume, as I have never read a ballet.
I have, however, visited St Petersburg, and all the gorgeousness of the Hermitage, and even walked along Nevksy Prospect. This familiarity added a lot to my enjoyment of the story. It’s like when you see the road you drive regularly in a race scene in a movie, and all of a sudden, you’re more there.
The story, which at first is entirely plausible then turns off only the slightest shades, imperceptibly at first to one's consciousness, until it’s absolute fabrication, was thrilling. Oh, how exciting to recreate one’s existence and interact with the gods, to see art so clearly – or reality so poorly – that art’s infamous characters are one’s contemporaries, their stories told like layers of oils on canvas over one’s own.
The only thing which was just too, too difficult to redeem was the bar of chocolate, except as compared against glue. I can still remember as a child trying to eat Soviet chocolate (circa 1989) and realizing that it was terrible. That big bar Marina goes for, and is her token as she again becomes the Madonna in her story, must have been a far better import in 1941.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Flower Value
I thought I was being clever to consider the nutritional value in flowers, which I’ve never seen done, even still, as people do in fruit and vegetables, grains, meats, and dairy. In pastry it only makes sense to capitalize on the vitamins available in the decorative and delicious marigolds, nasturtium, clover, violets, etc. that bring so much to my food and palate.
In fact, my absolute favorite snack, plain yogurt, honey, and wheat germ, sometimes stares back at me seeking a direction. If I happen to peek outside instead of at the fruit bowl there’s the possibility of herbs and spring flowers winking, raising an eyebrow, asking if I dare.
And occasionally I do dare. I pick a leaf and taste it, sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it’s bitter, sometimes there’s a fragrance, which doesn’t translate to my tongue, but adds color or variation or, if I’m not being careful, a slug.
Now that my housemate has a Vitamix I expect to be able to do better than just a crushed leaf or maybe a shredded petal. I am out to make sauces and drinks and floral potions as has been done throughout history by the herbalist, poet, and chef. So, whether I was clever to think of their food value I cannot say, but it is certainly clever to incorporate into my sweets what’s outside.
In fact, my absolute favorite snack, plain yogurt, honey, and wheat germ, sometimes stares back at me seeking a direction. If I happen to peek outside instead of at the fruit bowl there’s the possibility of herbs and spring flowers winking, raising an eyebrow, asking if I dare.
And occasionally I do dare. I pick a leaf and taste it, sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it’s bitter, sometimes there’s a fragrance, which doesn’t translate to my tongue, but adds color or variation or, if I’m not being careful, a slug.
Now that my housemate has a Vitamix I expect to be able to do better than just a crushed leaf or maybe a shredded petal. I am out to make sauces and drinks and floral potions as has been done throughout history by the herbalist, poet, and chef. So, whether I was clever to think of their food value I cannot say, but it is certainly clever to incorporate into my sweets what’s outside.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Chocolate Pudding Pie
As someone who has tasted and enjoyed a wide range well conceived desserts, I marveled at the eagerness I had Saturday night for a supermarket chocolate pudding pie. It looked good, but that, I kept telling myself as all my fellow picnickers were digging in, scooping as much with fingers as cutlery, and seldom onto a surface other than palm or lip, should be deceiving.
It should, too. Of course the store bought pie might have the sheen of delightfulness, but one must expect the taste of fabricated corn syrup and mere flavorings of chocolate. But, at the half way point, I caved. I sliced a wedge into a bowl, and picked up my fork. It was delicious. I was so frustrated! How can I be able to wish I’d cut a larger wedge of something I dared not read the label of?
This question will haunt me, but I have two possible explanations. One, I don’t really care for chocolate, so anytime I taste chocolaty food I am pretty well resigned to only being slightly responsive. Curiously, I much prefer chocolaty things to chocolate itself. I’ll take the cake, not the candy, or in this case the pudding, not the sprinkles. Two, I had just spent two days at a conference about the weighty subjects of contemporary slavery and human trafficking in the world. If I could guess at the participants’ reactions, I bet a lot of comforting pudding was in need afterwards, and I am not exempt from that.
It should, too. Of course the store bought pie might have the sheen of delightfulness, but one must expect the taste of fabricated corn syrup and mere flavorings of chocolate. But, at the half way point, I caved. I sliced a wedge into a bowl, and picked up my fork. It was delicious. I was so frustrated! How can I be able to wish I’d cut a larger wedge of something I dared not read the label of?
This question will haunt me, but I have two possible explanations. One, I don’t really care for chocolate, so anytime I taste chocolaty food I am pretty well resigned to only being slightly responsive. Curiously, I much prefer chocolaty things to chocolate itself. I’ll take the cake, not the candy, or in this case the pudding, not the sprinkles. Two, I had just spent two days at a conference about the weighty subjects of contemporary slavery and human trafficking in the world. If I could guess at the participants’ reactions, I bet a lot of comforting pudding was in need afterwards, and I am not exempt from that.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Grammar
I am approximately a quarter of the way through an excellent book. It’s not a novel, but a study on culture and religion. I was reading along, thoroughly enjoying myself, when I read ‘less then’ and lurched to an understandable halt. That was last week. I intend to pick it back up and continue, as there are highly fascinating things to learn and consider, but I know this book is imperfectly edited. Now if I read 30% somewhere I will have to take it with a grain of salt. Perhaps it’s 3%?
Incidentally, the book I picked up to rush through to take my mind off of such blunders held one far more traumatizing. It was a novel, and I read it yesterday. At the height of drama, the denouement, the heroine gets up from her chair, walks across the room, then grips the arms of her chair, and finally walks back to her mother. At this point I’m not crying because of the revelation, I’m beside myself, distracted to pieces at the confused motion sequence.
Finally, with all this rumbling around in my mind, I have to bring back the most egregious misuse of language I’ve seen by supposedly educated adult native English speakers. Notice that I have left heaps of room for my use of French, foreigners’ use of any language, and children on their way to learning. The Employee Handbook invariably is a mess of words, meanings and punctuation. At the last position I accepted, once I’d read the handbook I had a sinking feeling about the intelligence of my new employers. I learned to respect the knowledge that they did have, yet still have not shaken that disappointment for their disinterest in seeking (or accepting, as I offered back my edited copy) help where it was needed.
Am I really so hung up as to believe that editing is as important as content? Probably I am. If I’m to understand one’s logic and accept one’s characters and value one’s strictures, then I’ll just count on the courtesy of it being packaged nicely and neatly.
Incidentally, the book I picked up to rush through to take my mind off of such blunders held one far more traumatizing. It was a novel, and I read it yesterday. At the height of drama, the denouement, the heroine gets up from her chair, walks across the room, then grips the arms of her chair, and finally walks back to her mother. At this point I’m not crying because of the revelation, I’m beside myself, distracted to pieces at the confused motion sequence.
Finally, with all this rumbling around in my mind, I have to bring back the most egregious misuse of language I’ve seen by supposedly educated adult native English speakers. Notice that I have left heaps of room for my use of French, foreigners’ use of any language, and children on their way to learning. The Employee Handbook invariably is a mess of words, meanings and punctuation. At the last position I accepted, once I’d read the handbook I had a sinking feeling about the intelligence of my new employers. I learned to respect the knowledge that they did have, yet still have not shaken that disappointment for their disinterest in seeking (or accepting, as I offered back my edited copy) help where it was needed.
Am I really so hung up as to believe that editing is as important as content? Probably I am. If I’m to understand one’s logic and accept one’s characters and value one’s strictures, then I’ll just count on the courtesy of it being packaged nicely and neatly.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Fraisier
I’ve been cutting quite a bit of ripe fruit recently. It’s rather cathartic. Perhaps not so good as a fast run along the Rhone, but far better than stewing over a bowl of ice cream (unless it’s Dahlia Lounge’s ‘Ginger Marigold’, in which case bring it on!)
What am I catharting? Could it still be the day chez Bouillet where I became convinced that there’s a direct correlation between strawberry handling speed and one’s life expectancy? Go back with me, as I slice, to the Fraisier. The Fraisier is a very lovely, light and delicious French pastry whose main ingredients are butter, milk, sugar, eggs, and strawberries.
The American version of this would be the Strawberry Shortcake, where one thrusts forward a pile of cake, cream, and berries saying, “Eat up!”
But the Fraisier is a display piece. Each berry swiftly, precisely halved and set. See without looking each strawberry’s shape, height, color, tip. Make each gesture count!
You will need: biscuit rapide, mousseline, strawberries, crème au beurre, and glaze.
What am I catharting? Could it still be the day chez Bouillet where I became convinced that there’s a direct correlation between strawberry handling speed and one’s life expectancy? Go back with me, as I slice, to the Fraisier. The Fraisier is a very lovely, light and delicious French pastry whose main ingredients are butter, milk, sugar, eggs, and strawberries.
The American version of this would be the Strawberry Shortcake, where one thrusts forward a pile of cake, cream, and berries saying, “Eat up!”
But the Fraisier is a display piece. Each berry swiftly, precisely halved and set. See without looking each strawberry’s shape, height, color, tip. Make each gesture count!
You will need: biscuit rapide, mousseline, strawberries, crème au beurre, and glaze.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Cover Letter
Dear Prospective Employer,
The twists in life are myriad, and mine tend to turn round my profession. At university I trained in French literature, after which I realized it wasn’t exceedingly useful, hence went on to complete a masters in ministry.
My educational background inspired me to teach English in China and Hong Kong for a couple years. Eventually I got back to the states and began working in university administration. I took what appeared to be the first rational step by leading a university study abroad program in Lyon, France.
Had the program been permanent I imagine I would still be there. As it wasn’t, I made an effort to stay anyway, enrolling in French pastry school.
Thus, here I am, now trained in pastry, fluent in French, experienced in foreign education, and versed in office management, thinking that we may, indeed, be a good match. What’s more, I can converse theologically!
Looking forward to setting up an interview.
Sincerely,
Adrian
The twists in life are myriad, and mine tend to turn round my profession. At university I trained in French literature, after which I realized it wasn’t exceedingly useful, hence went on to complete a masters in ministry.
My educational background inspired me to teach English in China and Hong Kong for a couple years. Eventually I got back to the states and began working in university administration. I took what appeared to be the first rational step by leading a university study abroad program in Lyon, France.
Had the program been permanent I imagine I would still be there. As it wasn’t, I made an effort to stay anyway, enrolling in French pastry school.
Thus, here I am, now trained in pastry, fluent in French, experienced in foreign education, and versed in office management, thinking that we may, indeed, be a good match. What’s more, I can converse theologically!
Looking forward to setting up an interview.
Sincerely,
Adrian
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Indecisiveness
So, as I considered what to write about I concluded that all my varied interests have done little to combat, and may in fact be responsible for, my current dilemma.
That is, indecisiveness. I love equally and passionately: travel, food, reading, writing, pick-up ultimate Frisbee at Parc de la Tete D’Or, picnics, dancing with my nieces, breakfast with my parents, a cup of tea, tug of war with Canyon, planting seeds (especially when they grow), monitoring hallways, smelling flowers, making a vinaigrette, being hugged and kissed by good-smelling handsome men, being told I’m pretty (any language is OK), buttering warm toast, sleeping out under the stars, watching clouds, conversations extolling scripture, sitting under a shade tree on a warm day with plenty of watermelon, and jumping in a lake. I may have inadvertently left something out, but that nearly sums it up.
At 31 I’m unemployed. Incidentally I was unemployed at 30, 29, 25, 24, and 22. There maybe was another time or two in there, as well, but that would take some very effortful reconstruction to ascertain.
By this I mean the Monday through Friday, nine to five standard. Prior to these documented years I was working on my education and filling out my time with all the aforementioned activities which I truly enjoy.
What I should document is that I saw this all coming. For some reason schools decide if they can no longer instill fear into (by and large very good) young children through corporal punishment, they’ll resort to ambiguous, unanswerable questions and leave the child to languish in uncertainty with the admonishment to report back.
I remember the blank page with one question written in chalk at the front of the classroom. Pink chalk. Surely everyone remembers the moment when their hope and future come under scrutiny, instilling stress and despair at the years (by my calculations at the time: 90) stretching ahead.
“What do you want to do/be when you grow up?”
Retract that question! Bring back the belts and paddles, the injustices of physical humiliation. Just don’t make me, untrained in sorcery, fill out a page, worse, a workbook, on what my life might hold! (Bloody hell! Blogging didn’t even exist back then!)
“A reader,” I would write lamely. “I want to read.” Forget that for close to twenty years I’ve scoured ‘help wanted’ ads and have never come across a single request for such a position. As a child I had to create and defend this impossible dream.
Wanted: Reader! Someone well versed in reading a variety of genres, including, but not limited to: novels, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, especially biographies, religious works, and editorials. Microsoft Office is a plus, but you only have to have perused the manual, as we much prefer to hear your commentary on Where the Red Fern Grows. Looking for a candidate with twenty years’ experience and expecting a full career ahead as a reader, perhaps even fifty more in the field. Send all resumes to: yahdablahblah@mmhmm.com
That is, indecisiveness. I love equally and passionately: travel, food, reading, writing, pick-up ultimate Frisbee at Parc de la Tete D’Or, picnics, dancing with my nieces, breakfast with my parents, a cup of tea, tug of war with Canyon, planting seeds (especially when they grow), monitoring hallways, smelling flowers, making a vinaigrette, being hugged and kissed by good-smelling handsome men, being told I’m pretty (any language is OK), buttering warm toast, sleeping out under the stars, watching clouds, conversations extolling scripture, sitting under a shade tree on a warm day with plenty of watermelon, and jumping in a lake. I may have inadvertently left something out, but that nearly sums it up.
At 31 I’m unemployed. Incidentally I was unemployed at 30, 29, 25, 24, and 22. There maybe was another time or two in there, as well, but that would take some very effortful reconstruction to ascertain.
By this I mean the Monday through Friday, nine to five standard. Prior to these documented years I was working on my education and filling out my time with all the aforementioned activities which I truly enjoy.
What I should document is that I saw this all coming. For some reason schools decide if they can no longer instill fear into (by and large very good) young children through corporal punishment, they’ll resort to ambiguous, unanswerable questions and leave the child to languish in uncertainty with the admonishment to report back.
I remember the blank page with one question written in chalk at the front of the classroom. Pink chalk. Surely everyone remembers the moment when their hope and future come under scrutiny, instilling stress and despair at the years (by my calculations at the time: 90) stretching ahead.
“What do you want to do/be when you grow up?”
Retract that question! Bring back the belts and paddles, the injustices of physical humiliation. Just don’t make me, untrained in sorcery, fill out a page, worse, a workbook, on what my life might hold! (Bloody hell! Blogging didn’t even exist back then!)
“A reader,” I would write lamely. “I want to read.” Forget that for close to twenty years I’ve scoured ‘help wanted’ ads and have never come across a single request for such a position. As a child I had to create and defend this impossible dream.
Wanted: Reader! Someone well versed in reading a variety of genres, including, but not limited to: novels, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, especially biographies, religious works, and editorials. Microsoft Office is a plus, but you only have to have perused the manual, as we much prefer to hear your commentary on Where the Red Fern Grows. Looking for a candidate with twenty years’ experience and expecting a full career ahead as a reader, perhaps even fifty more in the field. Send all resumes to: yahdablahblah@mmhmm.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
