November 30, 2008
November 25, 2008
The Louisiana variety (which means, among things, no actual grilling) from a Saveur recipe. Threw in some green peppers -- a suitably cajun-esque addition. The top lighting in the kitchen makes this puppy look pretty glisten-y and unappetizing, eh?
The flavor of the sauce wasn't strong enough. And I put it over grits... I'm gonna go with the traditional french baguette as the side next time. Will post any recipe mods if they come in the future.
November 24, 2008
In other news I'm reading Murakami's After Dark which has a cover most gorgeous that I won't share here. It's reflective and shite and will be lost in photo-translation. I'm talking about the paperback. Get thee to a bookstore and contribute to thy local economy.
Anyway, having read a number of Murakami books and enjoyed them (despite cloying pretention) I'm left wondering at times if Japanese culture breeds such direct, soap operatic dialog. I'm assuming this is just a Murakami stilting of reality. After all, the book seems to be part Japanese ghost story, part romantic teen comedy, and part random gangland. The boy-meets-girl-light-flirting-ensues parts feel really Chungking Express in a good way.
For the descriptive prose version of such lack of any opacity, here is an excerpt from the first chapter:
Through the eyes of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair. In our broad sweep, the city looks like a single gigantic creature-or more like a single collective entity created by many intertwining organisms.I love you Murakami, but really... isn't that the dictionary definition of "city" being passed as insight? Is the translator at fault? Cultural difference?
Someone once said (sourcing quotes is for the weak) that writers were folks that come to realize something and make a big deal out of the revelation, while everyone around them tries to pretend they haven't known it their whole lives. I know I have been guilty of this more than once.
November 20, 2008
November 17, 2008
November 12, 2008
November 3, 2008
We find ourselves on a strange stoop
In a strange city on a day stranger still.
Quick for step you struck up conversation.
Hook and latch from hint to hint.
The weather, an Aunt, a school, financial ruin
In the not-too-distant past. Button to button to pin to pin.
Did you know your mother? Your father?
We haven’t gotten that far back in the real world
Where we’re anonymous faces,
Self-fashioned grifters running from debt
Of one kind or another. And televisions bark
Landfall predictions for the season’s next named storm.
Pose, you say, this one is for Auntie.