beulahbondo's Diaryland Diary
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La femme de la cuisine
The foreword of my favorite new cookbook begins "This is a book for the servantless American cook who can be unconcerned on occasion with budgets, waistlines, time schedules, children's meals, the parent-chauffeur-den mother syndrome, or anything else which might interfere with the enjoyment of producing something wonderful to eat."
On occasion? How about always?
Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck, copyright 1961, is f(l)antastico. Ignoring the chapters on brains and sweetmeats, I've made fish poached in white wine and vegetables a la grecque, which is basically vegetables steamed in a vegetable broth, then you reduce the vegetable broth till it's a lemony, savory dressing.
When my downstairs neighbor Marlene died in September, the cookbook and a barrel-shaped, marble-topped cocktail table were what I took to remember her by. I also had her large cat for a month, but thankfully he was adopted.
My eyebrows are dry, according to the five-year-old son of my friend That Hamilton Woman, who spent some time peering into my face tonight. So are my eyelashes, apparently. He seemed to be saying this with admiration. Who's to say, especially these days, which all belong to Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Last night the two tall architects and I saw "25th Hour," and today Nancy Drew, That Hamilton Woman, and I saw "The Hours." It's so sad when Ed Norton shoves rocks into his pockets and wades into the Hudson River.
11:51 p.m. - 2003-01-19
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