chanterelle and pappardelle

sounds like two happy ladies, much bosomed, in their fifties, on a wine tour through napa. which it might mean after all, though in my case it simply and deliciously turns out to be dinner. i hear glutton, gourmand, hedonist from my thoroughly loved peanut gallery. yes, it's true, i don't go for the deadly sins, none of them seven, if i did i'd have seen dandelion growing from below long time ago.  so be it. nor am i in with the pope. some zen aside, i don't do religion, but i am of the much twisted strain of one of my forefathers, the guy nailed ninety five theses to the door of the then church. i've taken a fancy to luther, the man who cooked, who famously said to his guest: why ain't you belching, nor farting? did you not enjoy this here meal? i mean check the guy out. he looks the wisdom of a full belly. he's known in my house as mawt'n and i'd eat at his kitchen any old day.

yes, i do eat. call me a sensualist epicure, or an epicurean sybarite and you're right to condem my use of butter, though as of late i've come to repent and turn to the oils, the walnut, the hazel and some of the grape.

so, tonight i stewed mushrooms in some pinot blanc, having glazed their shallots in hazel oil before. the pasta was pasta, gnarly al dente, and cut to size from fresh sheets (thank you pasta works). no big deal, not quite as buttery, though delicious. it's true, butter has its many a use, can't imagine doing sunny sides in oil, but tonight those chanterelle and pappardelle had me full bosomed and happy, i wonder if mawt'n might see it that way.