Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Life in the Gazpacho Zone (written for the answers.com vocabulary challenge)
Mother, this gazpacho is positively dreadful. It’s full of ingredients I can't hope to identify. Can’t we do something about Gui?
Pearl, you know how Gui feels about the Spanish. He is a superb chef, but tres sensitive. If you insist on requesting gazpacho, you should know what to expect.
Mother, his grandfather’s ties to that fifth column, the French Resistance, does not justify serving julianned pig snouts at my tapas party last week. And it certainly does not excuse the frog leg paella he concocted when Father invited Dr. Sanchez for dinner. Although the good doctor attempted to be polite, you must have noticed his attempts to disguise his revulsion. My skin is covered with horripilation just thinking about it. I was agog at his uncontrolled gagging just after the main course was served. I heard from Nan later that night, she found a morsel of flipper on one of the napkins when she was laundering the linens.
Pearl, in our salad days, your father and I endured many a disappointing meal. Finding a decent chef on the pittance our trust funds yielded was close to impossible. It wasn’t until after your grandmother died that we could afford a reputable chef. I refuse to let him go and have someone of the recently-riche ilk of the Jensons abscond with his culinary genius. We would be the laughing stock of club.
Mother, from the family stories, I’d have to refer to your salad days as what most people would think of as their Kew Gardens days. Radicchio and truffles are a far cry from iceberg lettuce drowning in Seven Seas Italian.
Pearl, love, have you tasted this paté? Velvety, just superb! How can we consider replacing someone who can create this masterpiece from the liver of a goose? When we go to heaven one day, I pray that this paté, most certainly an opus dei, is there to greet us at the buffet table. Gui’s paté, a crunchy little bagette smothered in brie, served with an endless glass of something vintage, dry and red. Pearl, the ambrosia of heaven.
Mother, Gui is an ignorant simean of a man. His wife Babette is not much better. There’s hair everywhere. Hair in his nose, hair in her arm pits, hair in his ears, hair on her ankles. These people could find day work as anthropological displays at museums. And PUH-LEASE, have you noticed the fug that follows them wherever they go? The mélange of food and human particles they leave in their air stream is stunning. I feel as if I have been the victim of olfactory assault. Gui smells like a three week old escargot when he wafts through a room.
Pearl, jewel of my heart, after 13 years at Our Lady of No Nonsense, I had hoped you would see things more clearly. Life is about perspective my dear. Perhaps your university is exposing you to much too much personal choice. I think we need a delightful trip to the islands to cleanse our mental palates. What do you say love?
Oh Mother, let’s do. I think a break from the tedium of the Hamptoms is the perfect solution. OH BABETTE, ma cher, s’il vous plait, please bring us some more paté and a bottle of that ’45 Beaujolais the Jensens brought to dinner. We're going on holiday!
Pearl, you know how Gui feels about the Spanish. He is a superb chef, but tres sensitive. If you insist on requesting gazpacho, you should know what to expect.
Mother, his grandfather’s ties to that fifth column, the French Resistance, does not justify serving julianned pig snouts at my tapas party last week. And it certainly does not excuse the frog leg paella he concocted when Father invited Dr. Sanchez for dinner. Although the good doctor attempted to be polite, you must have noticed his attempts to disguise his revulsion. My skin is covered with horripilation just thinking about it. I was agog at his uncontrolled gagging just after the main course was served. I heard from Nan later that night, she found a morsel of flipper on one of the napkins when she was laundering the linens.
Pearl, in our salad days, your father and I endured many a disappointing meal. Finding a decent chef on the pittance our trust funds yielded was close to impossible. It wasn’t until after your grandmother died that we could afford a reputable chef. I refuse to let him go and have someone of the recently-riche ilk of the Jensons abscond with his culinary genius. We would be the laughing stock of club.
Mother, from the family stories, I’d have to refer to your salad days as what most people would think of as their Kew Gardens days. Radicchio and truffles are a far cry from iceberg lettuce drowning in Seven Seas Italian.
Pearl, love, have you tasted this paté? Velvety, just superb! How can we consider replacing someone who can create this masterpiece from the liver of a goose? When we go to heaven one day, I pray that this paté, most certainly an opus dei, is there to greet us at the buffet table. Gui’s paté, a crunchy little bagette smothered in brie, served with an endless glass of something vintage, dry and red. Pearl, the ambrosia of heaven.
Mother, Gui is an ignorant simean of a man. His wife Babette is not much better. There’s hair everywhere. Hair in his nose, hair in her arm pits, hair in his ears, hair on her ankles. These people could find day work as anthropological displays at museums. And PUH-LEASE, have you noticed the fug that follows them wherever they go? The mélange of food and human particles they leave in their air stream is stunning. I feel as if I have been the victim of olfactory assault. Gui smells like a three week old escargot when he wafts through a room.
Pearl, jewel of my heart, after 13 years at Our Lady of No Nonsense, I had hoped you would see things more clearly. Life is about perspective my dear. Perhaps your university is exposing you to much too much personal choice. I think we need a delightful trip to the islands to cleanse our mental palates. What do you say love?
Oh Mother, let’s do. I think a break from the tedium of the Hamptoms is the perfect solution. OH BABETTE, ma cher, s’il vous plait, please bring us some more paté and a bottle of that ’45 Beaujolais the Jensens brought to dinner. We're going on holiday!
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