Il Pranzo di Ferragosto



Il Pranzo di Ferragosto. Il Pranzo di Babette. 

Cioccolato. Schegge di April (“use your words, Leon”).

Food flicks specialise in happy endings. Unless, perhaps, Eating Raoul or La Grande Abbuffata.

Throughout August I et pumpkin babies.

Take one infant pumpkin, about the size of a softball. Wash, trim the ends. Slice thinly. While butter is melting over medium heat in a skillet, slice some green onions, some sweet red peppers. Crumble feta or mozzarella. When butter is sizzling, arrange the pumpkin slices as for Pommes Anna, or just dump them in, if that is the sort of person you are. Layer with vegetables and cheese. Salt and pepper. Cover. Ignore for fifteen minutes. Uncover and serve. Don't forget to turn off the burner, probably that's just me.

Pranzo di Ferragosto. Ripe olives. Pumpkin Baby. Tuscan bread from the one bakery in Overton that does it right. Cantaloupe, sweet and musky, with fat blueberries to counterpoint. Pecans and gorgonzola to finish. (Or organic goat gouda, no animal rennet.) Prosecco to downwash.

From the garden, organic it goes without saying: pumpkin baby, red peppers. Organic, but storebought: butter, green onions, cheese, pecans (regional), blueberries.

Immigrants from the bel paese: olives, gorgonzola, prosecco.

How come I have pumpkin babies? Last year's jack o'lantern's guts survived the winter in the compost heap, sprouted, ran 40 feet in every direction, and right now are dangling green and ripe pumpkins 8 feet up in the boxwood hedges.

Happy ending for this summer.--Giac.

Double Feature

I like Anna Wintour. She describes herself as "decisive." She appears so to be. Therefore, she possesses an abundance of a quality I lack practically altogether.
I like Grace. I like the luckless Italian fotografer. I like the little muscle-guy who knows how to print out fotos. I like the models, the designers, the slaves, the vassals.
For, they're all wholeheartedly in pursuit of an ideal, il bello.
I never knew before, for I've never had a copy of Vogue in hand.
They're painters, artists. They take young flesh and brilliant costumes and distinctive settings, and create foto-paintings.
God bless their hearts, one and all.
Besides, The September Issue was so much funnier, and so much more suspenseful than advertised, I was delighted to have bought the ticket.

Meanwhile, down the hall, was Lord, Save Us from Your Followers. Always glad to see Jon Stewart, that handsome dog. And Senator Franken, that--er--entertaining dog. And Bono's hair.
And so very many Uncle Toms, wherever did the presenter find them?
And the self-confessing, self-forgiving presenter. How pat he has it down. A little lipstick on the pig, no need for a change of heart. Or self-examination. Or a sense of justice.
A most disheartening movie, so glad I didn't buy the ticket.--Giac.