Goose: 1930s Style

Edwin Rosenbush was not only a restaurateur but a chef who took pride in offering customers fresh, locally grown vegetables, beef, fowl and fish. There was a lady living in Sumter County who delivered fresh eggs daily. This once meant that the poached egg you’re eating for breakfast at 8 o’clock in the morning was inside a chicken before you were awake!

That was Livingston, in West Alabama, during the epoch before big businesses and their technological fetishes began destroying the food chain with preservatives; are we not already embalming ourselves, whilst alive, with the introduction of synthetic toxins? I grew up in the 1950s when milk was delivered to your back door in bottles (and farmers hand milked their cows; love that personal touch), soft drinks and beers required openers (and that spritz sound followed by the smell of Dr. Pepper before it was de-flavored at 10, 2 and 4) and few were paranoid about too much or too little salt, sugar, eggs or red meat. Shopping in the neighborhood grocery store (Smith Brothers on The Strip) was a pleasurable experience where the butcher knew your eating habits, likes and dislikes, or in my family’s instance, Jewish in the Deep-Fried South of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, by not offering pork chops during the High Holy Days.

L’shana tova!

What follows, is an authentic recipe from the era of home cooking in the cafe. Imagine how the chefs of the late 19th and early 20th Century would view our cooking culture in the early Twenty First? Doubtful they’ed be impressed. This recipe is offered exactly as written over eighty years ago. Sadly, most of his recipes were stolen or lost eons ago. In a future post, I’ll share an authentic menu; guaranteed to make you wish you’d been born before we began contaminating and mutating cattle, chickens, feed, corn, water….

GOOSE

Is much tougher than chicken or turkey and takes longer to cook. Is also a dry meat and needs a little water added and frequent basting.

Never scald off feathers. Hand pick and singe. Clean and season; pour water over and roast as you would a turkey allowing 25 minutes per pound for it to cook. Giblet sauce, currant jelly or apple sauce is good with it.

Dressing:
1 cup mashed potatoes
4 apples peeled and cored
4 onions
Sage, thyme, pepper, sale to taste

Places apples, onions and herbs in sauce pan, add water and cook till soft. Rub though a sieve and add potatoes. Season and stuff goose, sew up and put into roasting pan. Rub 1/2 tablespoon of lard over goose and pour over 1/2 cup boiling water. Put in oven and baste every ten minutes.

(Serve with apple sauce).

Hypnagogique: Physiognomy of Zero Point Field

Doused in fiery quasar auras and the charcoaled fragrance of the eleventh dimension brings solace to the paradigm shifting chaos embedded in the sentient intellect.

Former upright being returns to all fours and tracks mind prints of insouciance and transcendental facial features of faceless fastidious, facetious fiends.

Expressionless freedom is still a chimera, costumed in creatures creaking through cracked idyllic idiom periodically priceless idiotically tasteless.

Lumbar spinal spiral galactic arms enshroud magnetic resonance imagining; properly externalized forces crush spirited platinum consciousness resources into finite dark matter replacing gray with white noiseless typewritten thesis of gregarious upper level pain management, quintillion cycle.

Eclipsed and stripped of garments flesh made sinuous parabola desperately ravenous to taste madness over one iced cube of wisdom, melting in decay as string theory unravels mysteries no longer interesting to brain fried freedom fed furiously from fracases forced friendless finality.

If it cannot score it isn’t their game; deep fat frizzed lest it cannot be digested.

Protozoon to soon Saracen moon in the insane prism lane betwixt, between.

Existentially imprisoned interstitially and in the interspatial netherworld tormented dreamer of musical poetry of the absurd wormholes frozen in time, in space, in cosmic walkabout.

Yay, as astral projector through the washbasin of hallucinogenic marenights, devoid of fear for sacrificing the illogic in favor of empowering anarchism, beard anointed in special perfumes as eyes melt from sockets to sliver down fateful faces of distorted noir, taking comfort in nonconformity defying deifying demagogues. At the precipice lemmings refuse to retreat rather risking rivers of rationality below.

Cool deep waters warm and salty. Refreshing, revitalizing, resilient.

Creative, not destructive, alas, man takes control again unleashing masculine profundity; darkest humor for his sake named mayhem. Hu man, hu man ity, humus.

Mayhem, like humanity embraces the selfish male interloper, barely concealing it's enviousness; disquieting feminine outrage, discontent hem sic him.

Maelstroms convergence soon arrives on the wings of ravens; lost in fogs of colourless pallets, once rainbows of bee honey now crust, dust, dusk rusted and muskrat sallied.

Far fetched
Forsaken
forespoken
forbearance
forborne
forever
forlorn
foregone
forgotten

Pink Martini: April 30, 2006 – December 31, 2012

Surreal Days for Pink Martini

Surreal Days for Pink Martini

My feline companion, Pink Martini died earlier today at an area veterinary hospital of renal failure. Pink is pictured looking at the destruction from the April 27th, 2011 tornado in Tuscaloosa. Pink, named for the Seattle-based music group that fronts singer China Forbes, was the third born of six to Cous Cous LaPress during the morning of April 30, 2006. In August, Pink’s brother, Tippy Van Helsing died of feline leukemia.

Pink is survived by his mother and four sisters, dubbed the femme fatale felines of PinkToo, ShyGirl, Kitja and Katja.

After receiving the news – I had left Pink with the doctor, who was trying to open a block urethra, after contracting a kidney infection over the weekend – I returned to the house where the sisters are housed in an exterior dwelling.

Instinctively, they knew he was ill when I transported Pink into the carrier early today. When I began talking about him they mewed in a manner that was profound and chilling. Tears flowed freely and one suspects later tonight the deluge will occur. Pink slept on our bed for five years and was one of those sweet souls that combined innocence and naiveté equally and was beside me when I wrote many of what I consider my best essays.

There are individuals who do not believe in animal souls; I am not one of those non-believers.

Every living being has an essence that defines it amongst the innumerable animate forms populating this planet.

Not trying to convince anyone that bee and ladybug spirits are more important than theirs. I know my soul has value; however, the importance of the bees, trees or weak of knees should never be ignored. My beliefs are based on cosmic ideology and consequently I no longer fear the inevitability of death, and I sincerely hope, and expect, a few others to accept a living, breathing, caring and non violent solution to tomorrow’s sunrise.

Inspirit of life is infinitesimal – we don’t see grass grow but it does – and like a cool breeze in spring it caresses other spirits into a planetary eco-dance. Everyday is the new year. Every nanosecond is delightful, leading to milliseconds and days pass like shadows of eagles to soar above the madness.

There is no year ending tonight. Dates are arbitrarily subjective little proto-matter and as such matter less. As a sentient thinker, I place emphasis on life daily rather than embrace the death and despair. Pink was fortunate to have a home and love and an opportunity to explore metempsychosis; I believe he was either a first time reborn or second but in my world, he will return, not to me, but to another caring carbon baser.

Goddesses of the Feline Soul, until we meet again, bless you Pink, bless you.

Solace Between Raindrops: Pachelbel Canon in D

Johann Pachelbel Canon in D Original Instruments from David Tayler on Vimeo.

Voices of Music

Strong storms are converging on the State of WestAla; between huge raindrops, and expected winds up to 40 mph, the holiday season takes on the expected southern inhospitality. The city is dead; the uni is closed and the parking lot is flooding away and the felines sit in the window watching gently. Rather than get lost in the minutia of why I do not celebrate holidays, especially the last three of the year, I would rather listen to classical music. Enjoy.