the evening breeze

the neighbor dogs are barking. dark's setting, the old copper beach weaves its arms like medusa. the mars-moon syndrome came around again, bigger and brighter than ever, venus even, they say, unlikely i say. feels like early fall, the night needs a blanket. after a mellow afternoon, light getting away all too soon, it turned coolish, thinking about what to feed the natives. coming around to answer some  e-mail and blog-quests, folk wanting to know all about stuff. 

i deal with my recipes through aggregate experience. grand. been around the hot stove at conception, much like angela carter's kitchen child. in the belly of the beast. mother opened cans, mostly. learned much of the round-about at grandmother's pub, her karmeliter. she who extended soup under a hot faucet. add seventeen years of craig and pierre at their whimseys and at the times, capriciously. working cuisine magazine monthly for that grand year they allowed us to exist. then those various woman wanting vittles, plus that fabulous teacher, the mother of them all, inspired invention, or as we say, the devil eats flies when no souls are around. 
moderation, as always is key. salt is wonderful, and soy is an excellent alt as salinizer. that said, there's never enough butter.
leftovers are mostly persuaded to join next day's lunch or dinner, certainly, what's left after that, is slurped by our favorite wagtail.
i shop the markets. daily. city market, pasta works (hello jennifer), newman's fish (hello thea), and chop. whole foods on rare occasions. i hate the farmer's market. six dollars for carrots and eight for twelve eggs? you've gotta be kidding. too old to cut that kind of mustard. i like frugal. and i do the frug without fail.
i am careful with words. though every so often my suabian wants through. inventing glossaries. still confused by the quart and prefer the liter. certainly that of a glenlivet. the twelve year old surely will do.
i love woman and their sublime notions of being fed. it all depends, don't it though. too much is just that, but, hey, not enough tafelspitz and watch out.
favorite cook books are my library and too many to mention, though i've read as intermezzi all of nero wolfe, mfk and fernand point, at times interchangeably. i own a dusty, if early larousse.
inspiration comes from reading, or the stores. mostly by requisite demand from my beloved. sometimes, when i think, i come up with queer combinations. like i thought blueberries would be amazing in mashed potatoes. or the day rose petals entered pasta fazul. gawd and gott mit uns.

that's all, she wrote, i keep dreamin' that i'll wake up and find you here with me. sometimes i sing, though not in the tub. i do a mean yodel. it seems to set eggs nicely. it keeps all them-those out of my kitchen, excepting the truly tone deaf and her, in desperate need of a hug.