As bombs and missiles explode, Wednesday Florence farmer’s market fills the heart with much-needed comfort. So lucky that freshest local ingredients still exist in these parts. Mark Bittman points out in today’s NYTimes column “French Food Goes Down”, that even the quality of the most coveted cuisine in the world has declined. Frozen chicken, days-old fish. It’s sad. “Fait maison” signs used to signify regional reliable staples of home cooking. That has gone by the wayside in restaurants of both France and America. Another reason to rely on local produce, fishmongers, butchers. “Fait maison” from your own kitchen.
For bouillabaisse, find the freshest vegetables, firm fish, clams and simmer in its own essence. Blend in some melon for sweetness. Get a fresh baguette from Bread Euphoria. Better than anything along the byways of Provence these days.
A tiger cub roared at Royal Liverpool. Rory ruled wire-to-wire. Sergio accepted well-earned accolades. Rickie lost the orange pants. Right direction. Solid round. Young guys stepping up and taking the shots. No hinking or dinking. Love it. Old Tiger finished British Open at the bottom of Hoylake.
I am probably the only one watching Ray Donovan last night to have recognized Ann-Margaret. Elvis the King’s former squeeze. Will she hook up with Mick? Gritty great episode.
Happy birthday shouts out tomorrow to a Prince and a Queen.
British Open from Merseyside, Royal Liverpool at Hoylake. Site of a previous Tiger win. He’s back and in the hunt. Fun viewing of the links along the sea. Merciful distraction. Can Rory survive the lead through Friday?
CNN has another Malaysian airplane disaster to occupy them as they thwart a takeover by Fox. Is there a Moonves-Zucker partnership in the offing? All networks consumed with the tense geopolitical tragedy in the Ukraine. Not to mention the Middle East has just begun a major encore ground war.
So, let’s hope for an exciting golf tourney. And keep Ray Donovan from going into the trunk again. Bon weekend to JoeyPants and mAd moving Ben.
As an aspiring flâneuse, strolling undetected along the backroads, random thoughts for the weekend. Apologies to Baudelaire.
World Cup. Argentina’s twelfth player. Not fair to have Il Papa silently praying behind the scenes. Did he sway the Dutch coach to leave the tall goalie on the bench? Pazzo. Due dueling Papas Benedict v. Francis for the Final. Ave Maria. Germany does have the best team. We’ll see.
Yay for Jon Voight Emmy nom. Ray Donovan returns Sunday.
Border crisis. 3-year olds bunched into buses by Central American scam-lords. Christian Right says round them up and send them back. Are they less God’s children because they weren’t lucky enough to be born here? It’s not an immigration issue. It’s a question of humanity. Who are we? Beck most “Christ-like”? Mediaite. Strange bedfellows. Bon weekend, Charles.
Will never watch This Old House the same way again. Always marveled at the skill of the craftsmen. Richard soldering pipes. Roger caressing root balls. Norm inserting rabbets into dadoes. Tommy tooling mortises and tenons. Drill. Screw. Fasten-ating to watch. What I never appreciated before was those poor suffering neighbors next door. What they went through. Now I do.
Trucks blocking the driveway. Earth-moving machines bigger than the house. Louder than B-52′s. Bulldozer guy who seems to enjoy banging boulders with his shovel just to get his rocks off. So to speak. For some reason shirtless young carpenters’ hammering doesn’t annoy me quite as much. Photo voltaic panels save energy. Great. As long as you don’t like trees. Oh, and the gigantic garbage bin couldn’t have been dumped anywhere but our front doorstep?! Bong. Clang. And it’s not a muted drab brown. No. It’s screaming RED. Like Brasil feels about Germany today. At least the porta-potty is on the other neighbor’s lawn.
Don’t get me started about the carbon footprint of a “green” home.
Filed under Home, Writing
Early Sunday morning backyard. Mrs. Wild Turkey looked like the manager of a World Cup team. Which way is that goal?
Nederlanders kicked the ball backwards for most of 120 minutes. Costa Rica’s team and goalie waged a mighty defense when the ball did come their way. Tall guy beats short guy in the end. Really?! Silly game.
Recipes for the 4th. RecipeDetours. Cookout at Cathy’s. Kielbasa and cake. Birthday paloooza. mAdBen home. Weekend bon.
Let’s face it. It’s still not our sport. El fútbol. Yes, our boys play it when they don’t make the real Football team. Or, as young kids to get trophies for just scrumming around the black and white ball. But, c’mon. There are no quarters, innings, or periods where the clock can be stopped for television commercials. No gazillion dollars on ads. And, really. Most of the guys on the U.S. team. They are not like truly Americanos, if you know what I mean. No Bud Lites to be seen.
Our goalie Howard was heroic. And that kid, Green. The rest of the team looked tired and klutzy. Those gorgeous South American and European stars can pass and kick. The British announcers’ classy parlance is superlative, too. “Dripping with drama” instead of “What a faker he is”. Maybe next century, U.S.A. U.S.A. Now, let’s enjoy watching very good play.