Food – "At Half Past France… "

toujours…

Juste parce que? Mais oui… elle (@antara) me manques and it hasn’t even been a week.

Killing time… second by second.

I think I want to buy a lottery ticket just so I can run this exercise myself —
an evening’s entertainment, to be sure.

https://crookedtimber.org/2024/05/06/run-bezos-run/

Run, Jeff, run.

(Here’s a photo to distract you while you’re counting your hundreds)

L’arôme des poivrons grillés

Listening to David Sylvian singing “Orpheus“, thinking about Proust and his evocation of the smell of those baking madeleines… while the smell of the peppers roasting in the oven fills the apartment. It’s intense, the windows are closed — it’s 7° C outside just now — and the smell is bringing back Southwestern memories of the annual Hatch pepper roast at the local HEB.

And not just at the HEB but when visiting in New Mexico, ground zero for pepper roasting. The sharp clean aroma bringing back memories of meals that knew no rivals. The question was, and always will be, red or green? Or the ultimate, delicious compromise, “Christmas-style.”

I could probably get Hatch peppers here, but not as fresh as I used to in Texas, so I have had to adopt and adapt.

These days I have a rainbow to choose from: red, yellow, orange, green… mild to hot. And I’m n0t talking about the sweet peppers we know as “Bell peppers” elsewhere. Those are here, too, greenhouse beauties from the fields of the Netherlands. But no, here we have espelettes from the Pyrénées, the source for piment d’espelette, along with long, dagger-shaped ones, of which I yet know nothing of their names, in a rainbow of colors and range of warmth. Learning the names of the specific peppers I’m using is as challenging as learning all the cheeses to be found in the cases at my Réné Primeur…La madame professeur de fromage dans son environnement.

But the smell… the smell of those roasting peppers in the toaster oven right now takes me back and propels me forward with the same motion.

A large handful of sun-dried tomatos, about half a dozen peppers (I use red and/or yellow to keep with the deep rich red of the “tomates séchées), the juice of a whole lemon, a dash of good olive oil. Put the tomatos in a large mixing bowl of warm water and leave them while you roast the peppers. Roast the peppers until they are limp and juicy, then drain them, along with the tomatos. throw it all in a food processor. Add the oil and lemon juice and blend until you get a rich thick paste. Goes good as a base to steam rice…

© June/July 1950

Henceforth, any and all my creative endeavors shall be considered copyright and created as of June-July, 1950. Why? Because I was born the first week of April, 1951. And I’m in such great company in maintaining this stance:

“Dates attributed to artworks are widely understood to refer to the year they were completed. However, in response to questions from the Guardian, Hirst’s company Science Ltd said the date that the artist assigns to his formaldehyde works does not represent the date they were made.

It said: “Formaldehyde works are conceptual artworks and the date Damien Hirst assigns to them is the date of the conception of the work. He has been clear over the years when asked what is important in conceptual art; it is not the physical making of the object or the renewal of its parts, but rather the intention and the idea behind the artwork.”[emphasis mine].”

Apparently, the important thing to remember in making art (or music or any other creative endeavor is the date of conception, so June/July 1950 it is.

The Hirst story has some legs; press continues to be given in the Guardian the past few days with more details about this. “Damien Hirst shark that sold for about $8m is fourth 2017 work dated to 1990s” reads the headline in the latest article on, what feels to me at a minimum of being disingenous, if not dishonest.

Oh, wait. Would that make a person a “fabulist?” It’s enough to make you stop making art/music and take up teaching English…

Copyright ©June/July 1950 by Dennis “He Started This, Not Me” Moser

Bonjour, bonsoir, whatever time it is…

“Wherever you are, there you are.”

And it’s true.

But it’s down right strange to be in France and be closer to London than Paris.

But there you are, definitely in France, but surrounded by so much of Britain that you might as well be somewhere in Hackney (sorry, Hackney — you’re a nice place and I loved spending time there, but THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE FRANCE) for all the French you’re getting to learn and speak.

Escape into town. Up by the church and le postale; at least there’s a tabac there and Isabelle and Laurent don’t speak much English, but they are amused by your efforts at le langue Française and they DO have some local brew.

Or take a right out of the gate and walk down to the bridge over the canal. There’s a bar there, seems like a real bar inside from what little you’ve seen. Certainly worth another visit and spend some time with some real locals — and hope that they’re not derelict Flems on the run and speaking in Flemish rather than French.

Call this a work in progress, call it what you will… just don’t call me late to dinner.

More to follow when the spirit so moves me…