Fish and Chips in the glory days
There are few possessions that I own or have owned about which I give a toss.There is however a select band, a coterie, of stuff for which I feel real affection. One of those rare articles has just passed. My lovely bright red serving dish. I bought her on the market in Divonne les Bains in, I think, 1997. Since then she has been my companion in the kitchen, my girl in gastronomy, my friend in feeding, my oracle of the oven. She grew old and one meal too far, baked pig’s face, signaled her demise. Quelle tristesse. I will never find another.
Let her go, let her go, God bless her; Wherever she may be I may search the wide world over And never find a better plate than she
Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet plate; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Leg of Wild Boar
Quail and snail
Choucroute!
Aie! Paella!
Fish in Okinawa. Fresh!
I think a tiny crack arrived and the baked Pig’s Face expanded it. Sad yes, but how can plate die better than facing fearful odds. For the ashes of her Fathers and the Pig’s face of her Gods
| No plate is an island entire of itself; every plate is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any plate’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in cookery. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. |
The Quiet Ripple Defines The Pond 