and how i’m in it, to the tune of tugboat hearts and all of the wet fall foliage. fuck, she says, ow.
Une Étude Désespéré sur la Lèvre Inférieur Monday, Oct 8 2007
1. Reed: 2007-2008 8:15 pm
octobers are basically made and broken by lunar alignment. this year the full moon comes on the twenty-sixth, which gives me bioassay tingles all over the place. we went to the ‘fway last night, after dark, for weekly casserole-cooking extravaganza supplies. stephen is to create bite-sized squares of macaroni and cheese, deep fat fried in peanut oil. the recipe calls for 18 eggs, and requires an intermediate day to congeal. andrew filled the dutch oven with his usual array of quality ingredients, because he has high standards, immense patience, and a penchant for bolognese. the rest of us looked on enviously and tried to capture the errant splatter of bacon fat. constrained by a recent dirth of glass ovenwear, i filled my aluminum stock pot with roasted vegetables, which may become soup-impromptu at some point midweek. by midnight, the kitchen was an eighty-degree garlic steambath. i am not one to complain on a rainy night.
the house next door is making goat noises now, and we are nearly all in attendance. i am sure that this will compliment their backyard rooster, whose body clock is reasonably well-tuned but sometimes falters in the light-polluted hours between two and five. as dinner-time approaches, everyone is decked out in long sleeves and tuning up the collective record of common sense in the face of exploding grease. not even the ethical violation of health food’s very most basic tenets will discourage me from being included. note: deep fat fried cinnamon-sugar rice cake. note also: intense skepticism. there is no shortage. my head is a vinyl outbuilding, and it hurts. delta(chairs) [the change in expectations].
The Flagship Dish Friday, Sep 28 2007
1. Reed: 2007-2008 4:20 pm
mogadino. mogador. medolphinol. bupe. we like to take tolman street in the dark and feel the crater wake on the frame of the car. it shakes like a cookie sheet, bounces like a diving ring. roadways unimproved speak softly, require no left turns, brush the car with things in the shape of mountain laurel. the rain returned last night, and with the new season, i tried to recall everything i know of brazil. geny gomez seems so fragile at my height. i am glad we left the city before this happened, though i wanted nothing of the sort.
now we want a few more place settings and a complimentary covey of dinner guests before november first. we want spencer’s weakness, and we want better manners. we want we want an open-air element. what we want are perfect, non-Ballardian globes of snow pea and sweet corn, liquid but for the strength of a sphere. last friday, post RKSK, i woke up with a bruise on my knee that looked, in the haze of my rousing moments, just like the cover of the third no man’s land trade. we want to save 10% at safeway and identify the quirk.
