Several months ago, born out of my frustration with and pining for all the blog beauty that IThere exists a life made for magazines, blogging, film, pretend, and there exists the real thing, which trends towards chaos but requires no staging. Staging is one reason this will never be a food blog. It's too damn much work. Not just work to get the photo right, but to cook the damn food. I love to eat more than most things, but I don't love it enough to spend hours in the kitchen, only to have to spend hours more cleaning up the kitchen, and yes, I have a husband who is near deity status for his efforts in this regard, but for what? A couple hours of eating? And that's only if you're French. If you're American, assuming you divide your "eating time" into three meals, you spend 30 minutes on dinner. The French on average spend twice as long.
could not was too occupied with other things to make happen, I did a post about my almost magazine house. Nothing has changed and I'm evidently not alone. This may be rationalization, but I think this speaks to a life well lived without the help of "staff".
so yes. The time I would spend making food to show is time I'd almost always rather spend doing almost anything else. There are already enough people who have been given this gift and I don't need to suffer. Woefully, I occasionally forget this.
..forgettingI made the mistake of thinking I'd do one of those pretty food posts and decided to make some carciofi fritti. Doesn't that sound nice? It's Italian for fried artichokes. Very Neapolitan. Very much a pain in the butt for no good reason, at least in practice. I don't know where the Romans got their baby artichokes, but it wasn't at a high end grocery store. The baby artichokes hunted and gathered from there do not get cooked when you gingerly coat them in egg wash, flour and panko bread crumbs. They stay very solid and inedible,
|Palline fritte di corda|
Aren't they beautiful?
A rope by any other name....