In My Honest Opinion
Both are simple in concept, do very simple tasks using reliable technology, and yet, why is it neither one ever seems to work quite right?
Is it alchemy or magic when a spell is cast and you are transported to another place? When words transport and images bring a place to life?
Food bloggers are stuck in that nether world between art and craft, hobby and vocation, respect and silliness.
Perhaps we belong to the old tradition of serial story telling?
It was in that spirit, of wanting to walk in Dickens or Collodi’s shoes, that I went to the Plate2Page food writer & photography workshop in Tuscany.
While our son was growing up, we worked crazy long hours. I’m not complaining, just stating a fact. One other fact of our life is that we always ate dinner together. Even if it meant me riding my bike home from Gleason’s Boxing Gym like a mad woman to get to Gourmet Garage before it closed, then making dinner by 9:30; that’s what happened at our house most every night.
I don’t think any of us ever really thought about it too much; it’s just the way it was. We watched a movie together while we ate, checked to make sure homework was done. Regular stuff.
Dinner has always been our connection time and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
But, I had to break down and buy some food. All I had in the fridge was a lone bottle of Bud that my nephew had left there over the summer, and Budweiser just doesn’t work as a coffee substitute in the morning. Maybe for some of us…
As I’m walking down Mott St., checking out the vegetable stalls to see what looks good, there is a spiffy looking new storefront, aptly called: “New York Mart”. It looks intriguing, so in the name of neighborhood research, I wander in.
Great. I’ll have the line caught tuna. It is line caught, right?
How do you prepare that?
Sous vide, then finished with a lightly smoked foraged cedar ash char?
But, could you do that with just a half char? I really like just a touch of char on my tuna.
It can be so overpowering.
There’s a little island, off the coast, between Roma and Napoli and it is calling our name. A craggy crescent of volcanic rock, Circe once ruled Ponza, singing her siren song to the tragic Ulysses. Perhaps, we’re hearing the call?