the dogs bark, but the caravan moves on

Life goes on, a new Mayan cycle of time begins. Whether that means anything or nothing to you, it is interesting to note the collective reaction to the possibility of yet another predicted apocalyptic event. Skeptic or believer, a lot of people were talking about it.

We have a linear view of history, or more specifically, our own history. And if it is linear, then I guess that's why we wonder where we are going. Are there patterns of progress? Or is history random? If there are indeed patterns of progress in history, what then is the ultimate direction? What (if any) is the driving force of this progress? Philosophers such as St. Augustine and Hegel spent a lot of time thinking about eschatological matters, end points and the inevitability of humankind running its course.  

We do seem consumed by the final cadence. Whether that comes from a buddhist, christian or secular standpoint.

But ambition, competition, social rules of constraint, in the end, nobody wins. All that really matters, all there really is, is the moment. Feeling joy, even exquisite joy or something authentic in the moment. If you're not feeling it, you must do something about that. We're here now. This is it. Find something that works. Love, appreciate, strive to be thoughtful and good, create, don't sit on the fence, don't be lukewarm. Do it now.

oh to be a writer, a real writer!

"I'm not going to tell the story the way it happened, I'm going to tell it the way I remember it."

Narrating our lives through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, blogs...subscribing to our own myth, the myth that we have lives worthy of narrating, worthy of sharing. Seeking the best light in which to present ourselves and enjoying hipstamatic and instagram's zany effects which help erase lines and spots and colour our experiences with the hue of faded, seventies coolness or X-Pro II style. We seek words and images that will connect us to others. We want to be heard and seen in a world where, increasingly, many feel mute and invisible. We want to leave a trace of ourselves, a scattering of breadcrumbs along the path. Follow them and find me...please.

The impetus to write is to impart certain knowledge, whether this is knowledge based in the fictional world created by the writer, or based on authentic information. Either way, the writer has an overriding idea that she or he wishes to convey. And then they seek whatever devices they can to amplify their meaning, win the reader over and get inside their soul. Although the latter is perhaps too intense a desire...

It all starts with an idea. From the initial idea, the writer commits it to paper, or in more modern terms, to the screen, arranging the work in a certain way and finding suitable material with which to express this idea. The text which ensues is an amplification or elucidation of the initial idea. Invention and intention are co-dependent elements in the craft of composition. In inventing a work, or inventing a way to relate auto-biographical adventures, the writer takes the subject matter and uses it to  meet a certain end, to fulfil her or his intention.

Authorial intention is the fundamental requirement in the act of literary creation to which all other elements are subordinate. The creation of a context, or, in other words, the selection of appropriate subject matter, the ordering of material and the use of some fancy footwork literary devices all follow on from the writer's initial mental conception and give form to the idea.

A real writer knows what to do with an idea, or more importantly, can first of all recognise a good idea. A real writer sees the good idea, feels the potential emanating from it, picks it up, turns it over, and then seeks to convey that idea in such a way that the reader can feel the weight of it in their hands and their hearts. A real writer knows the fear of offering their newly clothed idea up to the world for the world to take from it what they will, to love it, hate it, spit it from their mouths. The real writer knows this fear and offers their ideas all the same.

Oh to be a writer, a real writer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLISb4_gIxA

I, animal

A visit to the zoo after hours. It's the stuff of childhood fantasy. There was a Willy Wonka moment as the group of about 50 'I, Animal' goers, all with our head phones on and a very fancy O ipod touch around our necks swarmed through the gates, not really knowing what to expect, but feeling full of anticipation nonetheless.

Guided by the voice of Zoe, we were led around the tour we chose when asked which animal we preferred: giraffe, elephant, monkey or penguin. I was on the giraffe tour. But the focus of ‘I, Animal’ was not the animals. Melbourne Zoo, instead, felt like a stunning backdrop for some introspection on a hot summer’s night. Led past hot looking lions, peccary pigs who could rip a jaguar apart and who are particularly smelly, on to the unusual tapir, which is like a cross between a rhinoceros and a horse, to the beautiful herd of zebra and finally to the majestic giraffe, Zoe then prompts you to find a quiet spot and turn your face to the sky and think deep thoughts of self-reflection—not something you expect at the zoo. The tour then ends with the opportunity to ride a beautiful old-fashioned carousel in some sort of we-are-all-children-of-the-world gesture of whimsy and letting go.

It was all a little music video-ish...walking down the central path with people peeling off into their various groups with hipster instrumentals coming through the headphones, I felt slightly manipulated in my emotions. But of course I loved it. Impeccable timing on the device, as the empty baboon pit became a lunar landscape as we were asked to reflect on the connection between Neil Armstrong's giant leap and the baboon's first encounter of the wide blue sky above, having only ever been enclosed, and as we turned to take in the outside enclosure, a man in a space helmet came up over the hill and with a sign told us that seeing is believing. And the music built into a meaningful crescendo.

I don't really know why I was drawn to the giraffe in that awkward introductory moment when the ipod is making you pick an animal. How to choose? Is it an animal I'd most like to be? An animal I feel the most attachment to? Will my choice say something very profound about me? The pressure.  But I was happy with my choice. The giraffe is not only one of the most aesthetically well-designed animals around, but one of the most impressive examples of biological excellence in engineering.

Giraffes have developed special mechanisms to insure adequate blood flow up their long necks and into their heads. In addition to larger hearts and higher blood pressure than humans have, giraffes also have especially tight skin and strong muscles in their legs. The tight skin around the legs prevents the blood from pooling and the muscles help pump blood back up, so that enough blood always reaches the head and the giraffes don't faint. NASA doctors have noticed that after astronauts have been in space they have a tendency to faint when returning to Earth and so they have carried out extensive studies to apply the principles of giraffe skin to NASA spacesuits.

The thought we were left with, as Zoe asked us to look up to the sky, is that we share this space, this planet with many other species. We are the only ones who seek to make nature adapt to our desires. We don't appreciate how our own bodies are made and how they need to be treated with respect and nurturing, so it is hardly surprising that we crash through our surroundings to create some sort of in-the-moment comfortable state of fulfillment without a thought for sustainability and the creatures and life around us.

Cheers

Sunday morning, I prepared for Christmas Aperitif at my place in that nervous hostess way. Of course, I completely over-catered, wondered who would come and who would not and should I judge my very essence on those that didn't come...you know, the usual. Then it got brilliantly sunny, my flat looked amazing and most people came. There was one moment when I wondered how many people my balcony could support, but they were all happy outside, exclaiming over the views and basking in the sun. I think a lot of them (from north of the river) were stunned that 'south of the river' was actually an ok place to be and many had to concede that yes, if south of the river meant living where I live, then it really is a pretty good place to be.

And it is.

I live a lovely, lovely life, surrounded by lovely, lovely people.

Lucky.

Whip it

Saturday night, hipster night. Although the very act of labelling it hipster negated any shred of hipster credibilty and we very quickly had to adopt the term 'whipster'...wannabe hipster. I'm ok with that, I don't have nearly enough ironic tattoos or 80s facial hair to really carry off hipster-ness. Nonetheless, we did wait on Mamasita's uber cool stairs for the rite-of-passage-40-minutes to get a table and some Mexican street food. Street food is the new black. So Mexican street food, well, need I say more...? It's the giddy heights of edginess. What Scott Eddington does to corn is nothing short of a gastronomic miracle. Very tasty.

Then it was down an alleyway past street art and dumpsters to the dead-end and The Croft Institute where they make great cocktails in a science lab ambiance. I declined the possibility of the syringe drink where you get a glass of something with a jauntily placed syringe of something else in it and you add whatever the syringe has to whatever is in the glass and then nonchalantly drink from the glass while the syringe bumps agains the side of your face. I just went normal cocktail. Normal but with a bushel of mint stuck in the top, which did end up bumping, or mintily brushing, the side of my face as I drank it. I just adopted a bored expression and I think I carried the whole thing off ok.

Then on to another bar in China town with no name on the door but it's just known that it goes by the moniker, New Gold Mountain. Old world glamour with asian flourishes. Up rickety stairs to the first level which revels in its resplendent jade luminosity...and the poppy bar on the next level, pulsing in a sanguine cocoon-like way. And perhaps, as a result of plunging into the vermilion, I opted for a tempranillo instead of another cocktail. I easily lose interest in mixed drinks, clearly another nail in the coffin of ever aspiring to hipster-ness.

And that was the night. What sub-culture simulation is next? 

bittersweet

<<je m'installai tranquillement sur une marche avec une tasse de café et une orange et entamai les délices du matin: je mordais l'orange, un jus sucré giclait dans ma bouche; une gorgée de café noir brûlant, aussitôt, et à nouveau la fraîcheur du fruit. Le soleil du matin me chauffait les cheveux, déplissait sur ma peau les marques du drap. >> -->

I sat down on the steps with a cup of coffee and an orange, enjoying the delicious morning. I bit the orange, and let its sweet juice run into my mouth, then took a gulp of scalding black coffee and went back to the orange again. The sun warmed my hair and smoothed away the marks of the sheet on my skin. 

 Bonjour Tristesse, Francoise Sagan

-->

a particular coincidence of action

I read about Cartier-Bresson on Saturday. Apparently he was "renowned for spending long hours wandering the streets of Paris with his camera; sometimes waiting for hours on end for a particular coincidence of action to occur...'.

A particular coincidence of action. I like it. It resonates for me. Are we not all wandering around waiting for a particular coincidence of action to occur? For that moment where we stand outside ourselves to appreciate the synchronicity of life. We happen to be in a certain place, at a certain time and wonders unfold. Or, through a series of events and seemingly unrelated actions we end up in just the right place at the right time for love or creative fulfilment or discovery or progress. In those moments, we smile and experience the thrill of somehow being connected in to a bigger picture.

Henri Cartier-Bresson was a French photographer considered to be the father of modern photojournalism and a developer of street photography or the life reportage style. He was around for most of last century, given that he was born in 1908 and lived until he was 96.

Most of Cartier-Bresson’s photographs were taken on a 35 mm Leica with a 50 mm lens. He had three rules: he never contrived a picture, never used artificial light and never retouched the results. He thrived on accident and being alert for serendipity; those "happy accidents" or "pleasant surprises"; when you find something good or useful while not specifically searching for it.

The argument, here, is of course that Cartier-Bresson was searching for it, or, at least, waiting for it. So does that mean that there is an element of 'build it and they will come'-ness to his appreciation of coincidence. Perhaps we see what we want to see because we need or seek to see it.

Carl Jung was the first figure in modern times to articulate the issue of coincidence and serendipity and gave the phenomenon the name synchronicity. For Jung, this was all tied in to his ideas about archetypes and the collective unconscious. Now, they are pretty fancy names for concepts that we all feel or are aware of, but decline from labelling them as such. We just live them. So, to explain, an archetype is a universally  understood symbol, term, statement, or pattern of behaviour. Similar to a prototype, or an original version of a thing. According to Jung, in our humanness, we inherit certain universal psychic behaviour patterns, or templates of human experience and these inner 'understandings' colour the way we perceive and operate in the outer world.

We have to have an archetype or an unconscious view of the world to believe in, notice and give meaning to coincidence. Otherwise everything is random and the idea of coincidence is simply that, exact correspondance or a concurrance of events with no apparent connection.

My own response to a particular coincidence of action is Yes. Without the particular coincidence of action that occurred to bring me to this point, I would not be at this point. Obvious? Perhaps. Over-stating it? Certainly. But I like it nonetheless.

Scarf

 

I remember when I first started work waiting tables in a restaurant. I was a bundle of nerves. There is so much to remember and as well as remembering all the systems and trying to balance plates up my arm in a nonchalant sort of way, you have to be welcoming and friendly. There's a lot going on. Imagine what it must be like for young people who come disadvantaged backgrounds; new migrants, refugees, asylum seekers, or Australian youth who are passionate about working in the hospitality industry, but unable to find work.

Scarf is a not-for-profit social enterprise which seeks to assist these young people by providing them with hospitality knowledge, skills and experience from mentors in the hospitality industry.

Participants embark on a 10 week programme where they take part in wine education, formal service practices, cocktail training, beer education, coffee making and more. The programme concludes with a dinner service, the now famous Monday Night Dinners. Scarf trainees get hands-on experience in a real restaurant environment whilst being guided by their mentors.

On this particular Monday night, the venue was The National Hotel in Richmond. Or, The Nash, as it is affectionately known. A beautiful big old pub that has been stylishly and industrially renovated. I was in a party of seven, seated at a solid wooden table. Our earnest waiter, Josh, enthusiastically poured water, took our drinks and then food orders, watched over by his very encouraging mentor. He did a great job, even if his anxiety was palpable.

And Scarf are doing a great job too. Creating a meaningful community. It's a cosy, bright accessory to keep out the chill of modern urban malaise.

お任せ

omakase

It's up to you. I entrust this experience to you.

We like this way of dining. We expect the chef to surprise us with his or her innovation and artistic flair with the food. We like abdicating all responsibility and having the evening unfold before us of its own accord, or at the mercy of the kitchen and waitstaff. We don't want to pore over the menu and wonder if we are ordering too much, too little or missing out on the very thing we should have ordered.

As you wish.

And we increasingly have the possibility of having others run our lives for us, making the decisions, telling us what to do. If you have enough money and are willing to part with it, you can have an omakase lifestyle. Personal shoppers, mortgage brokers, dégustations, even ghostwriters on online dating services...you don't have to live your own life any more if you are too busy or not quite up to all the decisions.

I like omakase. As a dining experience. I like being surprised by food and combinations of flavours which are unfamiliar to me. I appreciate the chef's training and talent and I am more than happy to allow them to shine.

I don't wish to omakase my life. I want to make my own mistakes, as painful as they are. I want to work out my own style, which changes depending on the day. I want to present myself to others as I am, not be promoted to the world or potential suitors in the way that will best sell me. OK, so I'm a little awkward, a little quirky, I don't always get my outfits right, but here I am. Me.

you can fix everything with enough duct tape. and spit.

13 year old philosophy. Actual 13 year olds said this. In passing. They didn't even look up from filling in the gaps of an exercise testing their knowledge on French indefinite articles (that is, the word for 'a' in French). Dead pan. One girl's homework diary had ripped. Her neighbour said 'I don't think that's fixable', her friend replied with the now immortal words, 'you can fix everything with enough duct tape', and, without missing a beat, the original pessimist acknowledged this with a nod and added, 'and spit'. Deadpan. For them, it was a throwaway exchange, up there with a 14 year old comment I heard today, 'if you picked up as much rubbish from around the centre (for NZ readers, please insert common room at this point) as you do boys, we wouldn't get in as much trouble for being messy'.

Gold. From youthful mouths.

They say these things and move on to LOL-ing and OMG-ing and screaming about One Direction and all hope for the future of the world is lost, but in amongst the inanity, there's gold.

Now, we, the older ones know full well that you cannot fix everything. Even with lots of duct tape. Even with spit. And let's not dwell on that particular image, even though I know you have gone there in your minds. It's an inevitable consequence of such image-filled prose. But cynicism aside, the phrase does strike some sort of optimistic chord. Who else out there is thinking Macgyver?

"A paperclip can be a wondrous thing. More times than I can remember, one of these has gotten me out of a tight spot," from the man himself...but, and more potently, given that these children were born in 2000 and have no idea about Macgyver...:

Pete: His name is MacGyver. He can fix anything. He could fix a computer with a hairpin and a piece of duct tape.

AND

[Murdoc is pretending to be MacGyver] Murdoc: I could fix this if I just had some duct tape."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuiFuh3KxcE

Wow.

flavour profile

I'm sensing a theme. It's a very inadvertent theme. But perhaps that's how it starts. Last week, it was Naked for Satan. This week, slow-roasted kid goat followed by la fiesta de la vispera del dia de los muertos.

Complete coincidence of a thread running through there. Really.

I came up with Naked for Satan at the request for a cheap place for dinner. It's a pinxtos and vodka bar on Brunswick Street. It's a name that conjures up all sorts of images and a concern about who amongst your friends you can actually suggest this to. The name refers to Russian Leon Satanovich who fled to Melbourne from Russia in the twenties and worked as a caretaker of a premises on Brunswick street. He unearthed some big old copper boilers and with them created vodka stills. During the hot summer months, Leon, or as his Australian friends called him, Satan, would strip down to his undies, to tend to the stills. The code phrase, Let's get naked for Satan, referred to slipping along to a clandestine gathering at the still and drinking the heady liquor.

The copper still dominates the decor and there is some kind of Basque Russian fusion going on as the food on offer is an array of pinxtos, tasty morsels of cold meat or seafood or vegetarian delights served on bread and skewered with a toothpick. The system relies on honesty as you help yourself to as many $2 pinxtos as you like and take your pile of toothpicks up at the end to pay. Happy times.

Then there was the www.eatwithme.net gathering at Gorski and Jones. eatwithme seeks to connect people through sharing food and eating together. Once you join the online community, you can join events which have already been suggested or come up with your own idea for a food experience. Tuesday night is kid goat night at Gorski and Jones.

Gorski and Jones have a wood-fired oven and they're not afraid to use it. The chefs down there on Smith Street delight in coming up with new taste sensations from the aforementioned wood-fired oven, sensations that aren't pizza. Their latest offering is slow-roasted kid goat. Divine. And you may note the deliberate insertion of a more celestial adjective to counteract the seemingly dark leanings of my food choices. So I ate baby goat with 7 strangers and I liked it.

Lastly, there was a day of the dead eve down at Pantry, where Melbourne's most renowned Mexican restaurant, Mamasita, came to Brighton. The Pantry hosts Masterclasses every now and then where they invite chefs to come and share their passion for food and last night it was Scott Eddington, the very talented 26 year old Head Chef from Mamasita. 

It was very rock n roll. The owner of Pantry yelled a superstar intro into the microphone and the music blasted as Scott Eddington took his place before the assembled 100 guests. Appearing unruffled by the camera and phallic microphone right up beside him, projecting his every move onto a large screen behind him, he deftly prepared dishes and explained the hows and the whys of his recipes. It's street food, basically. Street food is so hot right now. And speaking of hot, Scott explained that the food that he and his team create at Mamasita is not about the heat of the chillis, but is more about the flavour profile. The chilli lifts and enhances the flavours of the other ingredients rather than cancelling them all out through a fiery and numbing shut-down. We tasted ceviche and guacamole on tostaditas, or little tostadas; tongue and cheek in a soft shell taco; pork fillet rolled in herbs and spices and served on a walnut sauce and a little chocolate flan. We even did a tequila tasting. Who knew there were highlands and lowlands and the tequila from the highlands is sweeter? I'm picking quite a few people knew that. I didn't, but I do now and I feel happy in the knowledge and certainly happy to have tasted the chocolate and cinnamon notes in the highland tequila.

Mamasita is known for its queues. Last weekend they did 640 covers on Friday night and 630 on Saturday. That's a lot of tacos, tostadas and tequila infused sultanas. I may even join the queue one of these days...or invoke the spirits to get me to the front of the line...


 

noir desir

Chocolate.

That's all I have to say because just the mere mention of the word and people go off to their own special place, salivating, sensing the desire for rich chocolatey goodness, convincing themselves of the health benefits of good quality dark chocolate, grabbing their housekeys and heading out the door in search of the life-giving, essential food.

Chocolate.

It's a little wasted on me. Anathema, I know. I like it and all, but I don't crave it or get excited at the thought of a big box of chocolates or block of the stuff.

So, it is a puzzle to many that I joined some actual choco-philes on a chocolate walk through Melbourne's many laneways and grand arcades.

Walk Melbourne is a new company that seeks to walk visitors and Melburnians alike around the best places for chocolate or the choicest dumplings, good coffee, interesting designers and emerging artists. Monique, the founder of Walk Melbourne is a passionate woman who loves to share her love of food, coffee and life.

The idea behind the chocolate walk is to take her guests to artisan chocolatiers, those who really care about chocolate and strive for perfection: Chokolait; Haighs, Koko Black and Ganache. Plus La Belle Miette, who produce beautiful macarons, but who find their place on the chocolate walk because of their sublime chocolate macaron.

Tasting, appreciating the quality and the knowledge behind the purity of flavour, allowing the aroma, the texture, the mouthfeel of the small lump of dark brown-ness to pervade the senses.

there's no sense in nonsense especially when the heat gets hot

The idea of travelling back in time to rectify mistakes, change the course of events, say the thing you really meant to say, ask the question whose answer you will always wonder about...It's compelling.
But we can't change what has gone before. We can only look back, nod to the past and the people we were at that time, take a deep breath and strike out on the path under our feet, one foot in front of the other. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojvHPIevz7E

Ortographobia

Does spelling matter? Many would say no. There have been emails circulating since 2003 citing apparent research which shows that as long as you get the first and last letters right, the reader can understand what you mean. The obvious flaw in the evidence provided was that the writer didn't stick to the first and last letter rule anyway and the obvious lie in the evidence was that it wasn't evidence at all, given that NO SUCH RESEARCH EXISTED.

Does spelling matter, given that we have spell checkers? And does spelling matter more than creativity? There is a rag-tag fleet of educational reformists who claim that insisting on correct spelling stifles the creative process and that it is far better to allow the flow than to get caught up on the correct orthography. I frown at this. Is there not such a thing as a creative writing process, whereupon the creative cherub is free to flow wherever they like and record their incredible thoughts in one big long word if that's what gets their juices going? Is this not, perhaps, a draft? And then could we not then later, once the cherub is lying spent on the floor, dripping with the emotional perspiration that only comes from unchecked creativity, correct the spelling?

Maybe it's me, but I'd be thwarted from full appreciation of the cherubic creativity if the words with which this creativity is expressed are wrong.

I can already sense (even in this as yet unpublished thought) the heckles rising on the backs of my readers' necks..."who does she think she is?"..."what a snob"... Sure. I know. Spelling is tricky. Some people just can't spell. Heard it. I know.

But I'm sorry. Spelling DOES matter. In my examples below, of course I understand that the Amphitheatre referred to in the sign is the Northcote Amphitheatre. After all, it's in Northcote. Does the fact that it is spelled incorrectly impede my progress to the Northcote Amphitheatre? Probably not.

 And, well, what can I say? Attached is a hard word to get right...lots of other people on the internet spelled it this way, it's not only the of City Port Phillip who have an attachment issue. There are a lot of entries in Urban Dictionary where all sorts of attachments are referred to and they all have an extra 't', like a judeo-christian flourish in the apex of the word. 

Then there's the old apostrophe s. It's a tricky rule. I understand. But basically, if there is more than one parma, and the word becomes plural, you just add an 's'. Pretty much the same as steaks on the sign on the right. Perhaps it's the fact that parma is an abbreviated form of an italian word...would that make an apostrophe an appropriate choice? Um. Let me think about it. No. Unless the parma is owning something...the parma's crust was particularly crunchy or the parma's fat content was enough to make a grown man cry, then there should be no apostrophe. Or if the parma is going to do something and you want to shorten 'the parma is going to give me a heart attack' to 'the parma's going to give me a heart attack', then you could use an apostrophe. But I don't think that's what is going on in this sign. What I especially love about these signs is that the people went to the signwriter, paid him or her the money, the sign got made into a weather-proof, enduring canvas-type advertisement and everyone looked at STEAKS (with no apostrophe) and PARMA's (with an apostrophe) and thought, great job, she'll be apples. Or she'll be attatched to apple's somewhere in the norht...

Spelling matters.

Millewa

Spanning three states, Victoria, New South Wales and South Australia, the Murray River is the third longest navigable river in the world, after the Amazon and Nile and measures 2520 kilometres from its source in the Upper Murray. Home to mobs of kangaroos, pods of pelicans, cacophonies of cockatoos and also to koalas (there is no collective noun for koalas as they are solitary animals?!) and to some very large cod, the calm, softly-moving Murray River, or Millewa, as it was originally named, is a rich and soul-filling experience. 

Answering nature's call in a hole in the ground behind a tree is not the most soul-filling of experiences for the French teacher accompanying a class on an Outdoor Education camp, and nor is a half hour walk turning into a two and a half hour walk in the midday sun when the guide wasn't sure of where he was going. However, these things are all part of the experience, and getting back to a real toilet, a hot shower and an icy cold beer are all the sweeter.

three score years and ten

Queenstown, New Zealand, backdrop to a seventieth birthday. Nature joined in the celebrations with a show of all the extravagance she could muster...rain, snow, brilliant sun, all in the space of a couple of days.

In the words of Mark Twain on his 70th birthday: "The seventieth birthday! It is the time of life when you arrive at a new and awful dignity; when you may throw aside the decent reserves which have oppressed you for a generation and stand unafraid and unabashed upon your seven-terraced summit and look down and teach- unrebuked. You can tell the world how you got there. It is what they all do. You shall never get tired of telling by what delicate arts and deep moralities you climbed up to that great place. You will explain the process and dwell on the particulars with senile rapture. I have been anxious to explain my own system this long time, and now at last I have the right...and when you in your return shall arrive at pier No. 70 you may step aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart."

mon amour

blue cloths of heaven

with white thread of hopefulness

golden glow, my heart

cooking

“Find something you're passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it.” - Julia Child

Chef Frederic is passionate about cooking and about sharing his knowledge. A trip to the Bastille market, a selection of ingredients, an upstairs apartment and beautiful food.

Caramelised endives in a roquefort cream sauce

Duck breast with honeyed fresh figs and redcurrants

French (brioche) toast with salted caramel sauce and raspberries

And then a walk along the Saint Martin Canal in the parisian sun to walk it all off before 24 hours in the plane.

“Cooking is like love; it should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” Julia Child