what you sittin on?
Yes, I was busy this week. Consider yourself lucky I never got around to writing my geriatric observations about nodding off at the Gods of post rock's reunion show. Suffice it to say that it led me to invent The Other Pathetic Fallacy™, namely detecting intimations of your own mortality in every single thing that happens to you.
Some quick remainders:
On a roll: Bruce Cole interviews Harold McGee.
Po(e) Mrs. Latte: they don't call him Friend for nothing.
Bacos? Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Fussy eaters won't like it when you deny them the fruit of the pig and replace it with a teabag of hate.
Visit the culinarily-inclined gurgling cod.
Unclear on the concept: soda bread, honey. No yeast.
Terry Castle's memoir of Susan Sontag is both touching and tawdry, but it does feature a spectacular description of the worst dinner party ever.
Quick, before last week's Times magazine expires: I'm not going to haul out the Ecclesiastes again for yet another Paris bistro article -- the more the merrier, but you'd think Bittman could spell Cerdon right. Now they're just taunting me. Still, beats the In Style-ish look-at-the-thin-woman's-bed! feature. (Partially mitigated by George Saunders's diet advice).
Plus, internet food fundies on foie gras. I love the internets.