I had no idea Leonardo di Vinci was a chef while he was working under Verrocchio. He also wrote Kitchen Notebooks. I don’t think Alton Brown would appreciate his unitasker culinary inventions, never mind their deadliness. “His invention for a giant whisk twice the size of a man involved an operator from within who was constantly in danger of being whisked into the sauce.” In his book, Leonardo also discussed table etiquette, including the protocol for assassinating someone at dinner. Too bad the books are so pricey.
What’s keeping Americans out of their kitchen? More than half don’t cook because their spouse handles the cooking, but 28% stay out of the kitchen because they don’t know how to cook. So sad. One of the other common excuses is really lame; you’ll know the one I mean when you read the article.
I’m a bit of a fish geek. Growing up in Massachusetts I was intrigued by the tough guy fishermen who earned a living on the sea. I was fascinated and a bit grossed out by the big bulging-eye fish on ice in the seafood market. When I ended up managing a McCormick & Schmick’s restaurant I wrote the “fish book” for our opening training school. Unfortunately my hours of reading and writing are lost on a floppy disc in a landfill somewhere, but that fascination stayed with me. Even if you’re not a fish geek, this video tracking a tagged tuna all over and across the Atlantic is pretty cool.
Darn, we’re out of Parmesan. Wait, let me use my pencil. What the what? Yup, you heard me correctly, check out these edible Parmesan pencils. If they ever make these for the U.S. market, they will be the ultimate Christmas stocking stuffer.
Do you run your dishwasher during the day or night? The Kitchn explains why it’s better to run the dishwasher late at night. Makes sense.
Before we get to this week’s beautiful poem, enjoy Vincent Price as Fortunato Luchresi and Peter Lorre as Montresor Herringbone in a wine tasting competition in this video of The Black Cat from Tales of Terror.
Neruda understood the majesty of the tuna.
Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market by Pablo NerudaHere, among the market vegetables, this torpedo from the ocean depths, a missile that swam, now lying in front of me dead. Surrounded by the earth’s green froth —these lettuces, bunches of carrots— only you lived through the sea’s truth, survived the unknown, the unfathomable darkness, the depths of the sea, the great abyss, le grand abîme, only you: varnished black-pitched witness to that deepest night. Only you: dark bullet barreled from the depths, carrying only your one wound, but resurgent, always renewed, locked into the current, fins fletched like wings in the torrent, in the coursing of the underwater dark, like a grieving arrow, sea-javelin, a nerveless oiled harpoon. Dead in front of me, catafalqued king of my own ocean; once sappy as a sprung fir in the green turmoil, once seed to sea-quake, tidal wave, now simply dead remains; in the whole market yours was the only shape left with purpose or direction in this jumbled ruin of nature; you are a solitary man of war among these frail vegetables, your flanks and prow black and slippery as if you were still a well-oiled ship of the wind, the only true machine of the sea: unflawed, undefiled, navigating now the waters of death.