Sailing ships and tide pools. Pale, damp skin and sweet seduction. Spice-rubbed meat and blood-red wine. A tent far, far away in the desert. Torches burning in the night. Ropes and silver clips and halyards clanging, "take me away."
Sensations and flavors are swirling around in my mind as I'm planning the upcoming sensual dinner with the amazing Donna George Storey. Although I post recipes on this blog for ease of use, I don't actually use recipes anymore -- at least not very often, unless I'm going into completely new territory like French pastry or food preservation where precise measurement is important. Still, even with a recipe you have to be willing to adjust. So many things affect food tastes and textures. Flavor can vary according to hormones and passion or even rage and grief. Humidity makes the meringue weep. Biscuits baked in a fiery black metal stove at the top of the mountain need more liquid and less leavening. Pasta needs the human touch...or you can't feel how it will taste or whether it will satisfy. That's my humble opinion anyway.
So yesterday as I was dreaming up my meat entree, I was thinking of something to drizzle atop the woodfire grilled sacrifice -- something fruity, something exotic. Apples and pomegranates flashed into my mind. Then I wondered why. I'm always second guessing myself. What would I do without Google? (Don't ever Google "am I crazy?" the results may depress you). Up popped the most incredible, exciting thing -- a pastry made with apple pomegranate chutney on a foodie site I'd never seen before -- http://www.norecipes.com/
(Because cooking is more fun without them). Oh joyous day!
And sometimes I want words to go with that feeling of joy and excitement -- not necessarily my own. Double joy -- a hot potato (damn, that thing is a manly beast, isn't it? A mantato!) and a succulent new piece of exotica at Clean Sheets, Letting Go by Julia Freeman. "This has happened countless times in my mind, but the reality of your skin is so much softer against my lips, its garden taste one I couldn't create. Your shoulder is a harp, your collar bone is prehistoric ivory. I kiss your arms and wrists, finding the missed perfection that history lost from antique statues; the rose bouquet of your breasts is a gift and in your debt my tongue forgets any language but this, the rhetoric of kiss and lick." This exotica took my breath away....into the wind, over the waves, and off to shores unknown where cooking is always more fun without recipes.
On the horizon: Look out Mojave, here I come