21 April 2008

21Apr- self-indulgent digression on memory.
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Now, as I'm wondering what to cook for dinner, I realize with some sadness that I'm beginning to forget what the baked spaghetti pie at Mother's (as mentioned in the New Orleans entry) tastes like. Curious how something so relatively simple in a panoply of exquisite culinary experiences would demand so much of my memory. I worry sometimes about when my recollections of wonderful wines will fade. There are some wines I hope I'll never forget: Latour is always striking and comforting. I've never been able to afford a bottle of my own but whenever I've enoyed it, oddly, I've felt at home. Tenuta di Trinoro, with its richness and velvety texture. Cos d'Estournel, with its leather. That older La Grange that taught me how unbelievably silky an older Bordeaux can get. But outside of wine, when will the great foods of my past go? Those crabcakes at the Canyon Grill in TN. Slow roasted wild mushrooms with thyme, butter, garlic and olive oil that renders an extraordinary, rich au jus.

It would be nice to think, somewhere out there, there are people who look back on our food and our wine with such fondness.

But now, as my stomach grumbles, I try to remember that baked spaghetti pie. Served in a little, white bowl like those in which we serve rice. On a little oval plate with a piece of French bread. Lima beans. Ground beef. A sprinkle of Tobasco. So rich and piquant and reassuring. That feeling of contentment. And that's all that's left: mostly a feeling. I should've taken a picture or tried to reverse engineer it while I was sitting there but I didn't even think about it. And what next month? Will I just remember that I liked it?

hm. Gather ye so on and so forth.
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Sunday, Edward Hopper, 1926

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