Don't shit yourself with excitement, though. It isn't much of anything, really, or won't be. Still, I'll have put in a lot of time doing it. In the end, the two of you who still come here to visit will probably watch about half of it before your interest flags. It's ok. What do I care? I'm an artist. . . almost. I create to live.
I think I got that mantra right.
I was an artist in the kitchen yesterday. I made The NY Times all-time most liked recipe, so they say. Beef stew. I did it just like the recipe said. Mostly. NY Times recipes are usually too complicated for anyone who has a life outside the kitchen, but this one was a bit of an exception which is probably why it is their most popular. No exotic ingredients that one must search for in Asian or Indian food markets. No herbs and spices that you would use only for this one dish. Nope. Seared beef bits taken from the pan. Red wine vinegar and red wine into the pan, scraping the pot with a wooden spoon to deglaze it. Add beef broth and bring to a boil. Add the beef back to the pot and simmer for an hour or more while you work on your A.I masterpiece. I'm not kidding. That's what it said. Chop one onion, two potatoes, and five carrots and add to the pot that has been brought back to a boil. Simmer until the vegetables are done. The only spices were salt and pepper. Oh--and two Bay leaves.
And after all that--voila!!! It tasted just like beef stew!
I like stews and soups more than most things. I drank Delirium Belgian Beer (ale?) with my meal. My guest drank Pinot Noir. Mom drank Coors light. It was a real party.
I made this a couple days ago from my own early Polaroid experiments that I had run through and enhanced in A.I. Why? I did it for the woman who was the original model oh-so long ago. She was happy. There is no other reason I can see for making anything, really. It is just fun.
I have a very busy week, as I've said. Last night at dinner, we were talking about "super agers," people who live longer than most. Everyone always wants to know how they did it. Fuck, man. . . it was just the luck of the draw. If you call it "luck." One of the world's oldest women has a drink and a cigarette every day.
"I think that's the secret," I said.
"Everyone has their own life," my mother said. I choked on my stew laughing.
"I don't."
It was funny, so don't make me into a cruel person. I don't know what else I'd be doing if I were not taking care of my mother 22 hours a day. You know, I'd just be sitting around "pulling my pud" as they used to say in the hills and valleys of rural America. Those hillbillies were linguistic geniuses. I'm a great fan.
Of their music, too. Maybe I can scratch some up here to irritate those who are on the verge of abandoning the blog altogether. That is my special talent.
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