I’m toying with the idea of making Fridays “Foodie Fridays” or something less twee, but the last thing I need is to get locked into another Every Damn Week Post (although I will admit that most of the ones we’ve got now just involve finding a picture and saying, “Hey, what did you read/work on this week?” so not labor intensive. Even Cherry Saturdays require minimal research. Happiness Sundays are a bitch, though). And yet I feel an intense need to talk about food, and I’ve seen leanings that way in the comments, too. The problem is, right now food is a problem for me. Or a solution that I haven’t quite arrived at yet. Which pretty much sums up my life.
I’m obsessing about food lately and I realized that my new found interest in it is making me happy. Which of course reminded me of Proust and his damn madeleines, although I do love madeleines, and all that food-as-memory stuff. I’ve been having a fraught time lately, and I just realized that the reason I’ve bought Braunschweiger three times in three weeks is that it reminds me of my relatives shoving fat on bread at me in times of stress. Also Braunschweiger (aka liverwurst, aka goose liver), although sounding and looking horrible, is delicious. I’ve even found a pate recipe using it to so I can upgrade my obsession persona from German peasant to snooty upscale German peasant.
Where was I?
Right, madeleines and memory, food is happiness. The right food at the right time in the right place? That’s ecstasy, but just food in general, well prepared and right in front of you? Come on, that’s always smile-worthy.
How were you consumed by (or just consumed) happiness this week?
You know in the movies how a character will say, “I can fix this,” and then in the next scene he has whatever it was completely disassembled with the pieces lying all around him? That’s where I am. I’ve broken the book down into acts and then scene sequences, and started hacking scenes out and labeling them so I can find them later, and my computer desktop looks like a junkyard. Some of this stuff I can cut and I’m happy about–the Grandma Keres scene, some of the bar scenes, a lot of the first working day stuff–and some of it I’ve cut and it nags at me. The Hotels in the first scene is one of those. I know damn near everybody said they could go, but I think I lost something there.
Anyway, what that means is that I’m doing a truly terrible job of blogging and I apologize. Thank god you people don’t need me to keep this place going.
And now back to the Ten Thousand Pieces of Nita Dodd.