, an FSomething I hate:
Fighting. Boxing, I mean. A brain-damaging, life-destroying 'sport'. Something I love:
Fennel. What a delicious, delicious vegetable. Here's a lovely simple recipe for fennel, orange and olive salad.
The first time I had this salad was one of those "who knew? these flavours!! why has this been kept from me?!" moments. It is a most wonderful summer salad, crispy, fresh, sweet and salty, the fennel so subtle and yet entirely necessary to marry the strong, slick olive, the sweet, bright orange. (Threesomes: even in food.)
There is a lovely sounding recipe* in Elizabeth David's Summer Cooking called Bar a la Marseillaise. (Imagine I've remembered how to get the accent on the 'a'.) You bake a whole fish covered in olive oil, white wine, fennel, garlic, mushrooms, onions and potatoes. How good does that sound? I imagine you could make a splendid veggie potato dish just by leaving out the fish. If you are going with fish the original is a loup de mer, Elizabeth David recommends a bass if you aren't in France. Bass covers so many kinds of fish that it pretty much just means fish. I suppose we would say today 'a firm-fleshed white fish'. Somewhere I've been:
France, clearly on mind mind because see above, but I've only been to Paris and Versailles. Only! What a pretty, pretty city. Somewhere I'd like to go:
Florence, Firenze. It looks very pretty, too, and full of things I'd like such as coffee, limoncello, Italian food in general and opulent churches. Someone I know:
My F is a colleague, a quiet, funny, kind person I rely on a lot to get our work done. A film I like:
There are so many choices but, littlerhymes
, I really had to go with Foxy Brown. I believe my love for stylish and turned up to 11 started young. A book I like:
Fire on the Snow, by Douglas Stewart, about the Scott South Pole expedition. I love this verse play. I first heard it on the radio, unprepared, unready for the Announcer's stark voice, his horror and reluctance, his rejection of the story he is required to tell as he spends three stanzas avoiding the word 'that tastes like snow', that makes 'live coals gasp for breath'. 'A free man should have his choice', he begs. How can I begin to tell you how this opening stuck me where I stood and stole away with my imagination? The memory, the juxtaposition of a warm evening at home, reading the paper, eating supper, and the stark, beautiful, deadly Antarctic has never left me. Stewart's imagery is fantastical and magical: 'Flesh that is snow; ice that was bone' and 'Like their own memorial marbles, like/Their own reflections trapped in a mirror.' It's possible this leapt to mind because I'm watching Fortitude
*Well, everything in Elizabeth David books is lovely sounding and everything I've tried has been lovely tasting.This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. comments.