A Good Egg

Photo Flickr - Pixel Addict

Catherine gently pressed her ear against the cool stainless-steel surface of the refrigerator. Something was moving in there. The noise had been going on for about a week now. Sometimes she thought she might be going crazy, hearing things move around inside a refrigerator when obviously nothing inside a refrigerator could move. “There’s got to be a mouse or a bug in there, hiding and eating things. Gross. Really gross. Why did this have to happen to me?” she muttered. Glancing quickly into the wide mirror covering one wall of the kitchen, she neatly straightened her stockings, skirt, hair and t-shirt then with a quick final kissy-faced look at herself, she walked out the door, text-messaging her landlord about the problem as she went.

An appliance repairman was waiting by her door in the gathering dusk that evening. He moved the refrigerator out from the wall and poked around in the back of it for an eternity. Nothing at all was wrong, he said, and his tone spoke volumes on his opinions about expensive young women with fancy new refrigerators who thought noises were “coming from inside them”. Catherine paid his one hundred seventy-nine dollar bill and had just returned to the living room table to finish up some work when the noise happened again. It was a flittering little noise rising directly from the center of the fridge. Slowly, as quietly as she could, she pushed the chair back from the desk. Sliding off her shoes she tiptoed across the living room carpet towards the tiny kitchen with great caution. Her hand reached for the chrome handle of the fridge, her painted pale rose-colored nails gleaming. She prepared herself for whatever it was that was about to jump out at her – an ugly little grey mouse, a fat jumbo crunchy water bug, maybe even a slippery grey-and-green striped snake? With one sharp strong movement, she opened the door.

The (large, white, USDA Grade A) egg rolled completely sideways with a funny little shudder onto a scrunched up plastic bag of trail mix. Catherine frowned with disgust then reached out her hand to pick it up. The egg cleared its throat, or at least it made a noise that sounded like it. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” it muttered, in a male voice that sounded both smarmy and impressive at the same time. Catherine tried to scream but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a little airy squeak, like she was in one of those weird dreams. She tried again. “Aaahhghuh.” Only this small, strangled chortling noise would come out of her mouth. She felt faint, dizzy. The edges of the room began to darken and close in on her. The only thing visible to her now was the inside of the refrigerator, wavering slightly as if underwater. “I’m what you’ve been looking for, baby,” the egg continued, in its rough low voice. “I am The Egg Man. You’ve heard of me, no doubt, if you know anything at all. The Beatles even wrote a song about me. But you can call me Eggy.” Catherine thought she was going to throw up. Hanging on to the door of the refrigerator to keep her balance, she swallowed with some difficulty and tried to speak.

“You’re just an egg,” she gasped out. “A stupid little egg that someone put a computer chip inside somehow, just to play a trick on me. Who was it?” she stormed, thrusting her chin out towards the weird egg. The egg, Eggy, rolled merrily sideways first one way then the other. Then he jumped marvelously up on to his larger end, tottering but firm. “That’s where you’re wrong, baby, you’re wrong. I am The Answer. And I am here before you. Listen up, for you’ve got a chance to learn the secrets of life, right here, right now, coming right from this refrigerator, this egg, the Egg Man. Not everyone gets that chance. Do you know what I’m going to do for you? I’m going teach you how to cook, babe.” Catherine stared at the egg. Then suddenly she began to laugh. She laughed and laughed, uproariously, till tears ran down her cheeks in patterned rivulets of streaked shades of black mascara. She held onto the refrigerator door for dear life, bending double with laughter, screaming out in little shriek-like gasps. This egg was amusing. All right, she’d give it a try. She’d listen to this jumped-up egg.

At first the egg was rather mannerly. Each day after work, Catherine would open the door of the fridge and there was Eggy, full of flowery phrases and charming compliments. He rolled this way and that, wherever he pleased all over the inside of the fridge now, and he seemed to have grown slightly. At night Eggy sang to himself in the dark of the refrigerator, slightly off-key. “Shiny Happy People” was his favorite. Every once in a while he would try to do a Led Zeppelin riff. It was a bit disconcerting, knowing this singing came from an egg in the refrigerator, but of course he was not just an egg. He was Catherine’s egg, and she trusted him implicitly now. For now she was learning how to cook. She knew the rules, rituals, and ways of making delicious things to eat. Eggy had taught her all these things, giving cooking lectures from his usual perch on a soft bed of lime-green Bibb lettuce she’d laid gently on the kitchen counter just for him. So many things had changed in Catherine’s life with Eggy as a part of it. Her co-workers now all eagerly sought her out to share important discussions about lasagna, birthday cakes, grilled steak and boneless organic chicken breasts, exchanging quietly whispered promises of secret recipes for the best chocolate chip cookie ever made. It was a brand new world for Catherine and a surprisingly enticing one. It was a brand new world for Eggy, too. He began to take intense pride in his appearance. “Get down that olive oil, baby, and give me a rub down!” he’d chuckle, “No, not that oil, get out the best one! I want to shine like the star that I am,” and Catherine would rub him all over his creamy shell with the best olive oil one could buy, and he gurgled with pleasure, and he grew and shone. If he were a man, you might say he looked well fed and loved.

One evening Catherine came home from work and went directly to the kitchen to open the refrigerator door as usual. Her heart started beating wildly as she viewed the horrible scene that lay before her. The shelves, just this morning were so neatly lined with beautiful foods, were all askew and every single last bit of food was utterly demolished. Torn romaine lay with oozing red grapes in pools of oyster sauce. Flattened red peppers perched on sour cream puddles with sad mangled parsley sprigs trying to raise their heads though drenched with splattered slightly-dried out ketchup blobs. Sharp glass shards of the refrigerator light bulb were everywhere, diamond-like in the gloom. And there was Eggy. He sat in the center of it all, shuddering slightly, breathing heavily. Catherine was close to being speechless with the shock. Her mouth opened but before she could say a word the egg roared.

“Nothing is right in this place!” he screamed, and it seemed as if he trembled with enough rage to scramble himself without any extra heat applied at all. Life changed after this. Eggy had become bored. Bored with himself, with the limitations inherent in who he was, with the sameness of his life, and with the refrigerator most particularly. Eggy’s directives to Catherine became imperatives now, arbitrary and brusque. Each day the refrigerator had to be completely re-organized in specific ways impulsively choreographed by Eggy, sometimes even in the middle of the night. He ordered that many new and different ingredients must be bought which he then surrounded by himself by. Many of them very expensive, for Eggy felt a desire to sit upon a tin of hundred-dollar caviar, he had an urge to lean upon spiny lobster tails, he felt it vitally important to roll over and over the surface of Kobe steaks. Somehow this seemed to make him feel better. These expensive redecorations would briefly make Eggy seem like himself again, like the egg Catherine had known and trusted. In these rare moments he would sing Shiny Happy People and wave muttered directions at Cici on how to make the best Billi-Bi (for he was rather an old-fashioned egg in ways, traditional rather than nouvelle or exotic) or offer extended discourse on the wonders of smoked sausages and their importance in cookery (a favorite topic of his, always). But this happened less and less often. “I take care of everything around here!” he self-importantly proclaimed, if Catherine seemed unwilling to move all the jars and tins from the refrigerator door into the vegetable bin. “How can you even think of not wanting to do what I say? Who are you, anyway? A nobody, till I came along!” and Catherine was just too exhausted to argue. Her life had become wrapped around the idea of the egg, the idea of the world he had seemed to offer her. She was confused, drenched in fatigue, really too completely worn out to be able to think clearly at all.

Her hair now appeared dull and shaggy. It was no longer neatly clipped and cared for at the salon for her finances were all being eaten up by Eggy’s constant demands for expensive new food items. She winced to herself one quiet evening, feeling bereft and hurt, remembering the small soft pleasure of a manicure. But it all seemed so very long ago, in another lifetime. Now Eggy ruled, and Eggy was unhappy and nothing would do to fix this. Catherine sat in a chair by the refrigerator door every evening now as the egg rolled, jumped and droned on for hours about his superlative capabilities and about how everything (aside from himself) sucked. She tried to keep his spirits up, for after all, this egg had offered her wisdom. Hadn’t he? It all came to an end one bright summer morning. Catherine awoke to hear the refrigerator crashing around in the kitchen, screaming angry noises coming from inside it. She dragged herself out of bed wrapped in the quilt, as she hadn’t found time or energy to make the bed last night (the sheets were in the dryer) or even to find something to wear to sleep before dozing off with the usual combination of a sour taste in her mouth along with a hot pain pulsing beneath her dry heavy eyes. As she dragged her feet across the floor towards the kitchen she was steeped in an uncaring torpor, though she knew she had to take care of Eggy. When she got to the kitchen the refrigerator was almost flying off the floor it was rocking from side to side so vigorously. Her hand unwillingly circled the chrome handle and pulled.

The egg flew out in a sudden rush, bouncing violently from salad bowl to soymilk container to shiitake carton. It flew towards Catherine, screaming in a hoarse high voice, “I have the knowledge! Why aren’t you listening?” then it fell on the floor. A large crack on Eggy’s surface began to seep green, purple and black mucous onto the tile floor. A venomous stench arose, choking Catherine. She rapidly backed away, stumbling over the loose ends of the quilt wrapped around her.

Anyone awake that morning in the neighborhood smelled that stench, for it was enormous as it wafted through the hot summer brightness, and they all recognized it though none could give it a name. They had known it from time eternal. It lodged in the backs of their throats, and some choked on it and tried to spit it out. Others tasted of it carefully, curious how they might use it. Most of them, though, turned quickly away and tried to pretend it wasn’t really there. They tightly clamped their noses shut with their thumb and fingertip to keep the smell out and said, “This has nothing to do with me.” and they thought of jokes they could tell about it later in the day to whomever would listen. But this smell existed, regardless of whatever jokes could be made about it. It had always existed, and it could go anywhere - into anyone’s home or life without warning - for it was free-floating and always had been, this hidden stench of rotten egg.

“You’ll never find a better egg than I!” the egg gasped and screeched as it puddled into a large odorous mass on the kitchen floor. Catherine took the entire roll of paper towels and pulled sheet after sheet to sop up the mess of egg, which no longer had anything to say, its powers now completely gone but in some vague trick of memory which would surprise her with its strength in times to come. It took a lot of paper towels to clean up Eggy. He stuck to the floor like glue, he bubbled and oozed nastily, but finally it was done and she carried the big plastic trash bag outside to the trash bin in the driveway. She was still wrapped only in the quilt, not caring in the least bit that someone might see her.

Walking back into the kitchen, she thought for a brief second of making some breakfast. But then again, she didn’t feel like going near food. At all. The idea of cooking anything completely disgusted her. Catherine crawled back into bed. The bed was warm and soft, and as she lay down it hit her that every bone in her body ached. She was totally lost, utterly defeated. But as she fell asleep an image filled Catherine’s mind. It was an image she’d never dared think of while Eggy had been in charge. She allowed the image to enter her dream and as she did the bright colors and the tastes of crisp buttery toast dipped in golden perfect egg yolk flowed like warm honey through her entire being. All she needed now was a good egg. Then she could get cracking.

These are the Tunas of our Lives

Photo Flickr-Matt Biddulph

Charlie the Tuna is my friend. He's friends with lots of other people too, so I'll have to try to not be possessive of him. Often Charlie is forgotten about (so self-effacing!) but he seems nonetheless to be around in lots of kitchens, ready and willing to be helpful when needed.

I was thinking about Charlie just the other day and wondered how everyone else felt about him. So rather vaguely, I posted a query on Serious Eats and the response was surprising. So very many ways to use tuna were described - there was a veritable treasure-trove of ways to dress up Charlie. Of course some people don't like him too much - I know that my own children do like tuna at home but never in public. The worst thing I could do to them would be to send a tuna sandwich in a packed lunch for school. I did try, once. Their horror after that experience dissuaded me from ever trying that again!

As Mother's Day grows near the tunas made by women who were mother-figures in my own life came to mind. My grandmother (who was not a cook by any stretch of the imagination) put together tuna sandwiches as one of the few things she did "cook". On soft white bread, a mashed pulse of tuna mixed with mayonnaise was flattened along with a swath of butter thickly spread onto one of the bread slices, caressing one side of the tuna like a sliver of fat coolness to bite into. This is the way sandwiches were made in Maine where she lived, when she lived. Butter was a requirement or it simply wasn't a sandwich - no matter whether the filling had mayo in it or not.

My mother didn't much like tuna sandwiches. I can understand why. Instead, one of her specialties was tuna casserole. Made with Campbell's cream of celery soup lined up in its red can and Mueller's elbow macaroni lined up in its blue and white box with the little peek-a-boo cellophane center, the tiny curls of macaroni smiling out through it.

I loved that casserole. In later years I didn't make it very much - it was simply not in the "gourmet" category I liked to putter around in. Once I did make it, when a little boy was visiting. He was six years old and he knew his food. "You're a Great Cook!" he informed me after tasting the dish, which his mother did not make for him at home, I guess. "A Real Gourmet!" I was happy to have him think this, and remembered the taste of my own childhood.

The blue and white box the macaroni came in was useful, too. My dog Wolfie (the most adorable little black Pomeranian one can imagine) stuck his head into the box for some reason then pushed his nose through the broken cellophane peek-a-boo front. It sat on his head like a bizarre crown for a furry little King. I only wish he had worn it every day, but he tired of it after about ten minutes, pawing it off then looking for something else to get into.

My mother-in-law Josephine (a wonderful cook who had learned at her mother's side on a small farm in Italy) had six children to raise. Her way with tuna is remembered with both fondness and fear by her children. She did send tuna sandwiches for lunch, and her children did have to eat them. No discussion here - it was what there was to eat. Actually it was delicious though daunting to have to eat it in front of the eyes of taunting classmates as I hear tell - but I've eaten it and loved it. Flaked inexpensive tuna, grated carrots, finely chopped celery, minced parsley, chopped hard-boiled egg and grated onion with some mayo, salt, pepper and red wine vinegar went into the blend which was then put between slices of white bread. Her trick was to not drain the tuna too much. So what one ended up with was a lovely drippy mess which was rather disgusting at the same time.

How many other ways is Charlie used? I roll a blend of tuna, mayo, capers and lemon juice between roasted red peppers then slice into roll-ups for a cute-looking casual h'ors d'oeuvre. Sometimes I layer tuna blended with mayo, garlic, lemon juice, plenty of ground black pepper and chopped parsley on a baguette with sliced tomato and Provolone and heat the whole thing in the oven for fifteen minutes for a savory, rich hot tuna hero. Divine. Add potato chips on the side and there is no need to imagine heaven - it is there in a very simple, quick bite. A plebian heaven perhaps, but then that's how I like it!

For classicists, there's Vitello Tonnato. For Francophiles there's the famous Pan Bagna (Claudia Roden offers the best recipe, to my mind). Elizabeth David mentions a historic recipe from the 1500's for "Tarantella" in one of her letters to a famous friend. But of course that was before Charlie was canned.

That Charlie. He sure does get around.

Happy Mother's Day to All! (P.S. Save Charlie for another day - he's usually pretty easy to find.)

To Eat: Shoots and Leaves

Photo Flickr-john w


I’m not on a diet. Nor is anyone else here. But that doesn’t mean that strong personal food preferences, definitely idiosyncratic food preferences, do not reach my ears as chief cook and bottle-washer, oft expressed in the well-known phrase “I don’t like that” when the dinner menu is being discussed.

It's not really even (solely) about pickiness to my mind. It’s about taste and perhaps even about physiology. My daughter would like the world to be made of cheese, with a little bit of chicken on the side please. My son would vastly enjoy a universe built from Japanese food and Doritos. Me? I just want a salad. Preferably one someone else made, just for me.

The only “diet” I’ve ever heard of that caught my imagination was written by MFK Fisher. Her advice was to make a meal of one good thing and lots of it, as much as one might want - then to plan the meals to create a balance of food over the day . . . instead of the more usual way of planning the meals to each be completely balanced as independent entities. The only problem with that diet could be the tendency to make every meal an ice cream meal.

If I were on a diet, things supposedly would be simpler. Day would follow day, so nicely planned out and well-running. The Plan would Rule. No matter what the plan was. But is a diet really the answer? Most everyone I know is on a diet – and nobody is really too happy about it.

It gets even worse when to add insult to injury the diets one decides to bow to then obstinately do not live up to the promises they hold. Not being able to eat things one really likes (whether it be for reasons of health or even merely of being organized in a family of many tastes) can make life seem rather grim. Especially if the diet is for health and as so often happens, the pounds do not magically start rolling off.

My solution has been to try to find a happy middle ground, one without a sense of denial but rather a feeling of hopeful embrace. One solution to resolve my family’s “I don’t like that’s” is to say “To Eat: Shoots and Leaves”. It’s not a perfect solution, granted. But it’s better than eating (a diet), shooting (someone, anyone – maybe whoever invented the diet?), and leaving the scene grimly after meal upon meal of food not to one’s taste.

Embracing the eating of shoots and leaves can be shaped many ways. As a way to find a meal everyone likes, it often works for us. So if the perennial question of what to eat for dinner raises its head in your home, you might also want to respond to it with the answer - "To eat? Shoots and leaves!"

Here is an excellent recipe to try, full of the variety any usual family with fully-developed idiosyncratic tastes requires. It’s an oldie but goodie, quiet but still staunchly standing. You too can be cute as a panda eating shoots and leaves.

Sukiyaki Salad

Buy lots of these good things. Be sure they are fresh and colorful:
Spinach
Mung Bean Sprouts
Mushrooms
Red Bell Peppers
Cabbage
Cucumbers
Carrots
Scallions

Choose a salad dressing or offer all sorts:
Sesame-Ginger or Tomato Vinaigrette, or whatever odd things the children may like

Prepare your choice of:
Grilled Beef, Chicken, Shrimp, Pork, Lamb or Tofu

Chop and toss, dress and devour. You can make it pretty or just chow down, glad that finally the bickering has ended.

Hello Kitty in My Life

Photo Flickr - devlyn


Sung to the tune of "Let it Be" by the Beatles

When I find myself in times of trouble
Hello Kitty comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
"Be like me"

And in the hour of darkness
There is still a light that shines on me
There will be an answer
Hello Kittyyyyyyyyy

Hello Kitty Hello Kitty
I'm glad you talk to me
Bringing words of wisdom
"Be like me"

You Can, Go Home Again

Photo Flickr-law_keven

If you want to go home again, it's best to start out on a sunny afternoon on a late Spring day. You'll need a starting point of course, and the best starting point is always the Champs-Elysees.

To get to the Champs-Elysees, go over the ten foot long bridge spanning the trickle of stream that separates Virginia and West Virginia on the long winding road dotted with hayfields, truck repair shops, and small houses, then turn right almost immediately into the new shiny Shell gas station with the Subway sandwich shop and convenience store all enclosed so nicely within it.

Here the journey begins.
It's best to be dressed right for this occasion of home-coming. Men: bandanas and motorcyle jackets with black sunglasses will do, or alternately overalls with a white T-shirt and workboots. Slouchy-jawed and unshaven is best. If you can't manage this then at least wear a feedcap that has seen better days. Women: jeans and any old top are fine. Makeup and hair are the important parts here. Hair should be long and frizzley with bangs pointing upwards in seeming delight, or short scarily spiked out. No makeup but for dark black all around your eyes with a liquid eyeliner, providing a clear unsmudged intense accent.

Drive north and turn onto Bozoo Road. Head up the road past the black cows that always seem to dance to the music on the car radio. Sometimes they ambulate to the beat, other times they wiggle their heads sideways and toss their tails. When the day is a bit chilly the younger ones might prance and butt heads, playing at a big fight. As boys sometimes look like puppies when they tussle and play, these young steer look like boys somehow, boys just stuck in the big leathery hides just pretending to be cows.

Go past the sparkling pond that fills an acre and a half in the front yard where the bass and bluegills are always ready to bite. Drive straight out to the little brick church that sits on the top of the hill on the edge of nowhere, where the hills and green and sky just lay beyond till they reach the river and the old ferry some miles past, which is there but which seems like the end of the known universe, looking past the tiny deserted church with its dirt parking lot edged with its broken-down wooden swingset and kiddie slide.

Stinking Lick Road is there on the left, the tiny dirt road heading straight back into the edge of the barren-looking woods. Someday someone might actually drive up that road and see what's there. Why would a place be called "Stinking Lick"?

The place to go to is the Dairy Bar, and the Ballard Food Store too. Here, the burgers taste like burgers did in 1965, at any Dairy Bar anywhere. They taste like home, like summer, like simplicity and innocence. The french fries are crinkle-cut, the ketchup cheap and vinegary. Let's be clear about this. This is a world away from "gourmet". This is a world away from any sort of pretension, here at the Dairy Bar. "Ice Milk Available" says the old hand-lettered sign on bent posterboard stuck to the wall with yellowing cellophane rectangles of tape. The small square workspace is where all the food is made by the lady that owns the place with an always-present teenage girl assisting, learning to fry oysters, grill burgers, make a perfect swirl of soft-serve.

When the order's ready it's squeezed out with a welcoming extended hand through the tiny glass window in small white sacks, while they call out names. And they do know your name. Be sure to keep your ear in good tune though, waiting to be called, for each syllable of your name will stretched into three, lilted into a song with high and low notes sounding through the air.

Across the street at the tiny food store, the dark interior is belied by bright toppled boxes of produce and seeds and plants out front. Things look like they have been saved for survival purposes from some past wartime inside the store. The chicken feed is more prominently displayed than almost anything else except for country ham in a large cluttered plastic-wrapped assortment of cuts, and there's the round of hoop cheese around the corner next to the six fifty-gallon plastic garbage containers filled with different kinds of dried beans. They're labelled "new crop" when they are, of course. Pintos rule, and new crop ain't old crop by any stretch of a cook's imagination.

Crossing the street, there's always the pickup truck driving by with too many people stuck together in the cab, lurching sideways with hay bales in the truckbed, sometimes followed by a battered horse trailer. They smile and wave through the open windows as they drive past. No, you don't really know them, they don't really know you, but you are here and they are here and that warrants a smile and a wave. You nod and smile and wave back and remember all this, this way of being.

There's always the guy that walks out of the store past you as you walk in. He might be tall and lanky, or short and skinny. He's never fat, for he works with his hands on a farm. He bales hay, fixes the vehicles that always break, handles the cattle and the crops and somehow he just never gets fat or pudgy or overfed. He's always there though he may not always be the exact same guy, but he looks right into your eyes, I mean right into your eyes, unashamedly, without hesitation or covertness of any sort whatsoever and he smiles the sweetest damn smile right into you. In that moment an internal breath is taken away along with a sweeping off of your feet even though you know that if you opened your mouth to talk you'd scare the guy half to death being, as you are, an "outsider". But that smile held the beauty of a simplicity that's rarely if ever seen outside these parts, outside places "like this", like the place you've come home to. No measurement, no conniving, no wondering, in that smile.

In that smile, you're the girl that sits on the haystack laughing, as the colt skitters sideways at the cat that jumps from the grass to surprise it. In that smile, his eyes say in a straightforward manner, without any twisting torturously around as if under a sharp pin: I'm a good man. His eyes say this without question for he knows he is, without question. The sun rises, the sun sets. The world is as it has been for some long time here and it won't change too quick, no needs to worry about this that the other thing and more. Hay grows and is cut, over and over. Calving season comes regular with reminders of life and death as some calves live and some die, some rise and grow, some falter, and each one is a small perfect thing of beauty. That smile says he's a man who likes you as a woman, without question. It says, "I'll cherish you." And you know he would, for it shows in that smile, without question. He'd cherish you, and how often does that happen.

Inside the dusky store a piece of hoop cheese is cut with the heavy battered knife from the huge black wax-edged round set out on the wooden table waiting to be cut by different hands, to be taken home to different homes, to be nibbled on by a hundred different people, each one devouring it crumble by slightly oily torn-off crumble. The plastic wrap is set right there next to it to wrap it.

Time to go now. Time to drive back up the other road past the battered sign for the Cashmere Coon Hunt Club, where the guys meet on Friday nights to drink beer and plan that someday soon they'll head out to the woods with their favorite huntin' dogs to hunt raccoons . . . someday soon . . . then past more hills, more green, more cows, more ponds. Time to drive back to where you live which is not here. Time to go back to where you belong a mite more closely than you belong here.

You can go home again, even if you don't really belong there, as each tangy crumble of warm orange hoop cheese will remind you. You can go home with the taste of each bite taken into your hungry mouth, touching your tongue as you nibble with little bites till bit by bit the hypnotic, acidic, dense buttery haunting taste is done with. Home is where the heart is, and sometimes you can even taste it. No matter how you're dressed.

Dining Upon the Celebrity Chef

Photo Flickr - David Wulff


Today our guest blogger Moira Tuscanaro offers astrological advice on how to choose the chef just right for you.

Hello dolls it’s Moira! With Mars in a tailspin it is vitally important for us to focus on what is truly necessary to inform and improve our lives. We must focus on that which will move us to a higher plane of existence.

I speak now of Celebrity Chefs, of course. How indeed, could it be otherwise?! Purrrrrrr.

Who among us has not wanted to devour one of these tasty morsels?! Who has not spent hours driven nearly mad with a constantly-simmering sense of urgent desire driving one’s thoughts, endlessly thinking of every move they make, wanting so very badly to have been there, to have been by their haute and hunky sides as they smacked that head of garlic or slapped that ever-so-rude runner’s hand?! It is touching to see, this mad passion. And we should indulge it, and indulge it well. Who knows where this passion might carry us? Gazing at the stars is merely the start of the path. Perhaps a side-trip into the kitchen will follow. Meow.

Let us speak more of the Celebrity Chef. The food they create is just the tip of the iceberg. It merely serves to pique our interest in them personally. Who they are, what they do, their adventures in and out of money-making deals, whether they fulfilled the request for an order of foie gras in sheep’s milk and whether or not their hair was clean today! This knowledge is vital.

Astrology leads us to the higher planes of thought, where can then decide: Are they perfect enough for us? Have they done all things in the right fashion that we need them to? And their testicles – have they both descended? We are so darn pleased and quite excited in an odd sort of way to be recently edified (by a renowned expert in the restaurant consulting field in a story on a certain foodie website) that this knowledge *is* required in this decision-making process! Yes indeedy! We now understand that we must only deal with those chefs with both, descendant.

We will not speak of any women chefs here, for they are a breed apart. And besides, nobody ever mentions them anyway. Could this be due to the reason everyone knows deep within their true hearts? That the kitchen, indeed, is where women *really* belong? Mew.

Here, then, are your advisements. Enjoy, enjoy! There is nothing more emotionally delicious and truly exciting to the egotistical taste buds than feeling the savory hot juices of a celebrity chef dripping down a happily quivering double chin, particularly if he is live and on the hoof!

………………………………………………………………………………….

Aries: Your chef will have a ferocious temper. His enunciations will be fiery and his food will evoke thoughts of Amazonian adventures. His method of recipe development will be to arbitrarily toss bunches of pureed habanero peppers into every pan, after they were hand-chewed to a fine pulp by the easiest-going dishwasher on the staff. His hair will be messy, his chef’s coat bold with brightly embroidered titles. Many sparkling sauces will embolden your chef’s food, sauces made by reductions of as many pounds of wild game he can hunt each night from any slow-moving wait staff. Sharpen your teeth, Aries, and join him!


Taurus: Pork roast. Pork roast. Pork roast. Passionate pork roast. Pork roast with herbs. Pork roast stuffed with exotic fruits and braised in a fine red wine. Pork roast coated with fennel seed and garlic, wrapped in caul fat, slowly browned then cooked in milk. Your Taurean chef is there to sate you. Meat. Pork roast. Perhaps an artichoke to start, but a small one, enlivened with poached beef marrow and shaved Parmesan to kill off any vegetable flavor. Your earthy Taurean chef will make you so happy that you will be unable to stand up from the table after dinner. Fat, sublime, loving satisfaction will be yours. Take a bite.

Gemini: Look deeply into your Gemini celebrity chef’s eyes. You may notice their innocent, pure gaze. Don’t be surprised when important utterances he allows to fall from his heart-shaped lips are as confusing as dancing on a floor where a pound of butter landed. Pretty, pretty food, though. Food that is easy, light, whimsical, and sometimes threateningly towering. Do not forget to place your napkin on your lap while dining upon the Gemini chef. He is can shatter quickly into a joyous mess of delicious flaky crumbs.

Cancer: Cancer, your star-studded chef attends to the detailed requirements of status with the tenacity of a crab. Hints of his high quality will start outside the door to the restaurant, quiet yet audaciously tenacious reminders. Mind your manners with this chef! His food will not be as controversial as some you might find with the other astrological signs, but you will surely be eating a man who Knows Who He Is. Expect him to taste of the finest old Larousse or an equivalent modern text.

Leo: The Leo celebrity chef will announce himself with a toss of his glorious mane soon after you enter his restaurant! Watch his progress as he magnificently swooshes through the dining room, bowing and graciously kissing each lady’s hand! His food will be flamboyant. Foams that hit your chin as the dish is placed before you and truffles en masse, carved into tiny swans strewn over the baby piranha eggs draped over a flittery filo butterfly will merely whet your appetite for more, more, MORE of him! He will be ever so happy to oblige.

Virgo: Be quiet and be serious. Please wear your best clothes, dear Virgo, as you approach your chef. He is surprisingly skittish though touchingly formal. He will expect perfection from you as you dine every bit as much as he does from himself. Exude a sense of calm reflection as you eat your single perfectly poached mouthful of quail egg on the eighteen inch plate that the staff of three carry with completely straight faces to set before you. Take gentle small nibbles of him before chowing down for highest essence of flavor.

Libra: The Libran celebrity chef is usually so full of charm (when you can catch him awake and not napping under the pastry table) that you might have an intense urge to lick him all over endlessly before diving in. From his kitchen he will seduce you with creations made for the tiny bite. Some of them will look quite silly. Nevertheless, as you laugh, your hunger to really bite him and to really bite him hard, will increase. Indulge yourself. He won’t mind. He will consider it a chance to take a break.

Scorpio: Humble yourself before the Scorpio star chef’s menu creations. There is serious artistic merit invoked in each plate. If you act appropriately, there may be a seven-course meal provided, all for your appreciation. Make lots of happy noises while eating or he may hit you with his sharp tail or tongue.

Sagittarius: The gregarious Sagittarian chef is ready to entertain you by whatever means possible! Catch that still-flapping live fish as he throws it into the air towards you to prove its freshness! Tread upon the fresh herbs strewn along the floor towards the kitchen while deeply inhaling the aroma! Join the ranks of laughing wait staff at the bar for a drink or two while you endlessly wait for your table. It is all so much fun to have this happy raconteur of a star-studded chef in mind for a tasty meal. Don’t mind the mess, just enjoy the fun!

Capricorn: Bring a book. Bring maybe two books. This could take a while. If you have enough patience to wait for your Capricorn celebrity chef to finally deliver your whole grain ethically grown biologically unaltered specimen of DNA-checked intelligent tiny portion of poached fish with Arctic sea nettles, it will be worth it. Please keep quiet about the whole thing, and eat him with a sense of duty and an air exuded of undertaking a higher calling. He will appreciate it deeply and in a heartfelt way.

Aquarius: Get ready for glamour with this zodiac sign celebrity chef! Sighing with intense pleasure, he will be ready to strip off his Armani suit just for you to chow down upon him and all the creations on his luxurious menu. Most of them are only there for show, anyway, just to whet your taste. They really were never made by anyone in that kitchen at all. But so what! It is all in fun! Don’t forget to take off his Rolex before you start to nibble. It might give you an unpleasant shock.

Pisces: The mystery that your chef exudes is only matched by the tasty lightness of his food. Often he can forget to make any food whatsoever, being swathed in a lovely daydream of what it is he will put on his menu tomorrow. Nevertheless, this chef has a happy sweetness of taste that all the chefs from any other astrological sign lack, and the kitchen staff always remembers to keep cooking, so who cares?!

The stars have offered their advice to you, dear hungry ones.
Who exactly are these chefs in person? That is something the stars can not tell you. Only you will know that. Aside from the fact that these chefs are all men. Remember that these astrologic advisements do not apply to women chefs. They are a breed of their own and can not be defined within the parameters of what is flying around in the sky.

Only you have the understanding of your own hungers, particularly those that strike when the Moon is full and bright, as it lies omniscient and heavy in the sky as if straining its ears to hear the distant baying of howling hounds. Meow. Prrrrrrr.

Jam Tomorrow, Jam Yesterday

                                                            Photo Flickr-ms.Tea

But never jam today.

I know I promised to talk about chili, but as I must follow Lewis Carroll's rules it won't be today.

Instead there is something to read. It is more than good enough to eat. Wander to it if you'd like to read something warming and delicious in words. From Rachel - it's the last comment on the linked post.

I love to read Rachel's evocative writings.