This morning, I'm feeling particularly enamoured of porridge. Yes, porridge. One of the most underrated comfort foods of all time. The year is drawing to a close, and it's getting a bit nippy. Of course, with my island-girl blood, anything below seventy is frigid and my teeth with start chattering, but when you drag yourself out of bed at seven in the morning to find wisps of smoke rising from a pot of gorgeous warm porridge with raisins and butter and milk and nutmeg and honey...there is nothing greater. Nothing at all, I say.
Well, maybe this bagel I made for myself yesterday. It was incredible. Toasted, with melted butter and basil and garlic and parmesan. Yes, it was brilliant.
Osch. Last night we had fettucine in a five cheese sauce (bergkase, emmentaler, parmesan, mozzarella, and some other cheese which I forget), with white wine and fresh basil. I passed out several times during the meal, mainly because it was paired with fat salmon steaks marinated in white pinot, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil. I was always taught that less is more with fatty fish, but this was only marinated for three hours or so, and didn't at all become acidic. My kitchen (lab) partner and I reduced the marinade afterward for a gravy, seared the fish in olive oil and fried it in butter, and did a final glaze of lime juice just before it came off the pan.
Sigh.
All I really want for lunch is a bowl of hot chicken soup with rice.
God, it's freezing.
In other news, Devon Aoki is hawt. Yes, she's skinny, but she has the strangest features. And we all know I love that.
Ah...I've been wanting to post this for a while. About a month ago, I remembered the poem itself, and it was driving me up the wall because I couldn't remember the opening lines. All I could remember were the closing lines, but here it is. William Cullen Bryant's 'Mutation.'
HEY talk of short-lived pleasure--be it so--Pain dies as quickly: stem, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release
His young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes--did it keep
A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
A lot of his work was a bit stodgy, but I have to admit that I love this piece, and 'The Arctic Lover.' He still looked like a bloody Quaker.
Cheers ma darlings
No comments:
Post a Comment