One Last Note on This Whole Julia Child Business
a--She would have been 100 yesterday, not today
b--She would have been proud of me last night when, on her hundredth birthday, I looked down at my dinner and thought it needed one more thing.
The dinner I beheld was simple enough: artisanal fettucini tossed with olive oil, green peas and a chopped mix of black olives, marinated garlic and hot peppers. I had a glass of wine in one hand, some hard cheese in the other. All of which I then put down, reached into the ice box and pulled out some Trojan goat cheese (We're literally up to our asses here in goats) that had been rolled in herbs and chives. I sliced a goober of goat cheese from the ball and dropped it into the hot pasta.
Whereupon it melted, turning the olive oil into the most glorious cream sauce you could imagine. Like Alfredo, but with a bit more bite. If you believe, as I do, that bacon and black olives are basically the same things, perhaps a Carbonara of a sort.
Both of which are Italian, not French. But still, the spirit resides within.
I sat on the sofa, 17 feet from the door to the bathroom, and watched an episode of Giada At Home and ate my pasta. What a scary woman that Giada de Laurentiis is, with that double row of teeth. Scary but at the same time beautiful. Like some cross between Mila Kunis and a great white shark. By the end of the show I was so lathered up I had to take a cold shower.
b--She would have been proud of me last night when, on her hundredth birthday, I looked down at my dinner and thought it needed one more thing.
The dinner I beheld was simple enough: artisanal fettucini tossed with olive oil, green peas and a chopped mix of black olives, marinated garlic and hot peppers. I had a glass of wine in one hand, some hard cheese in the other. All of which I then put down, reached into the ice box and pulled out some Trojan goat cheese (We're literally up to our asses here in goats) that had been rolled in herbs and chives. I sliced a goober of goat cheese from the ball and dropped it into the hot pasta.
Whereupon it melted, turning the olive oil into the most glorious cream sauce you could imagine. Like Alfredo, but with a bit more bite. If you believe, as I do, that bacon and black olives are basically the same things, perhaps a Carbonara of a sort.
Both of which are Italian, not French. But still, the spirit resides within.
Aren't chives herbs?
Maybe. I think of them as small onions.
posted by Geoffrey at 9:49 AM
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