Freedom from Industrialized Foods

Things have been slow in the Carnal Food Movement. Nordo has seemingly retreated into his kitchen for deep deliberations on the future. But occasionally, we do receive some bits of news from him. Apparently, the world has been weighing heavily on his shoulders. Monsanto has been buying up seed and grain companies left and right and a sugarcane company in Brazil, and the world of artificial foods continue to grow. He wrote me the entire ingredient list of a Stouffer's Salisbury Steak frozen dinner. The gravy alone had over 40 ingredients. It must have taken hours. He sent this out only a day ago in a missive titled "The Need for A Holiday Celebrating Freedom from Industrialized Food".

Mythologue #1

As the story goes there was a time that people subsisted on very unnatural things.

It was the age of petroleum when the black tar was used to fuel everything under the sun- machines, medicine, men, and women.

Trucks, who drank the stuff, rumbled over highways, poured from the stuff, and transported to every store boxed confections, extruded from the stuff, each one carefully packaged in the stuff.

Long oily worms of the stuff were pulled free and spun into new types of fabric.

Vats of the stuff were applied to the skin in order to lubricate, hide blemishes, and provide an attractive sheen.

And, as the story goes, people bored into the inner workings of Nature itself. They cracked cells open and unraveled the strands of life.

Strands were twisted and rewoven to create new lives that died in a year.

To be bought every year.

Strands with bar codes. And strands with trademarks.

Strands with ingrained poisons for pests.

Strands with new colors and new flavors contrived so that our foods became infused with preservatives and would grow around the world in great fields of regularity.

People found that they could create another world, a synthetic manufactured world entirely controlled. People would never want and never need to fear the whimsical cycles of Nature.

As the story goes people willingly turned a blind eye to the darker side of their creations, and they relinquished power over their world to anonymous companies and unscrupulous individuals. Due to the chemical tinkering strange and unsightly creatures began to appear, and the Synthetic Garden was born.

Nordo.

I'm sure something is brewing. Keep posted.

Around and Around In Glass

There are percolations heard in Nordo's kitchen. Something seems to be brewing. Perhaps another show is coming...?

But for now, a small tale from a restaurant.

A female finger rubs the rim of a glass. It tingles. She amiably smiles over the rim at her gentleman as her foot, clad in a t-strap heel, bounces in time with the piano. He utters a comment, and she laughs tilting her head back. The glass is an elegant bowl on a long thin stem and empty.

A waitress in a flouncy black dress whisks the glass away in mid stride. The woman and her gentleman barely notice. The waitress approaches the kitchen. “Corner.” A waiter jerks to a stop, and she speeds by without pause. Pans rattle, and a spoon clatters to the floor.

The glass held high in the waitress’s hand rounds the bar station, its lipstick stain evident from across the kitchen. Turned upside down, it is placed in a dish rack. “Need more white wines”, she commands.

The glass is rearranged in the rack. Another two, four, six surround it. “They happen when they happen,” is the response. The rack is pushed into the washer. The door clicks closed, and the sterilization clears away any residual memories.

The waitress gazes up at the ceiling. “You can always tell when something isn’t right at a table.”

“The looks?”

“No, the way they hold their glass. Tight.”

Steam whistles out from the dishwasher and the door pops open. The rack is pushed out. The glass is hot to the touch.

“While you’re here, take these to the bar.”

“Got it.”

The glass clinks against another repeatedly as the kitchen door swings open raising a veil on the bar sounds. As alcohol slides down the throat, laughter bubbles up to the ceiling. The waitress passes table nine.

“I know, but there can be no regrets.” The lady intones.

“No. No regrets.”

“We make choices.”

“Yes. Choices.”

“Another round?” The waitress announces herself.

The lady and the gentleman size up the evening’s progress. The lady speaks first giving the slightest lift of a question for him to respond to. “Of course, another round.”

“Let it flow,” he complies.

And the waitress moves on with a smile. “Two more Sauvignons. Table nine.”

“Got it. They’re on a tear.”

The bartender reaches for the rack and grabs the glass by the base. Spun right side up it comes to rest on the bar. Another is set beside it. The pale yellow liquid slips into the bottom of the bowl, one finger, two fingers, three fingers, and a splash for good luck. Rounded out, the glass is full.

“Good pour.”

“Someone just got lucky.”

The waitress swirls the glass and watches the wine tickle the rim. “Someone may get lucky.”

From across the room the lady waves off her man. He responds with a quick word. She locks her eyes on him. The waitress pauses, the glass hovers in the air above the table.

“Why do we always go round and round on this?”

“Why are you so damn stubborn all the time?”

“Someone has to be right.”

“Sauvignon blanc,” the waitress whispers.

Without recognition, the lady grips the glass under the bowl. She takes a long drink.

“Thirsty?” A derisive drawl elongates the question.

“In need of drowning.”

“I could help with that.” And he tilts his glass with a, “Here’s to you.”

Tables stand empty with dirty plates, rumpled napkins, and credit card receipts. The evening’s volume fades, the remaining voices easy to distinguish.

“I don’t care what you think.” The words slip around in a slur, her voice raised in pitch. The glass sloshes overhead full with the words.

“I didn’t ask if you did.”

They repose and sit behind their respective walls.

“Done for the evening?” The waitress breaks the blanket of silence. The man stares ahead as the woman looks away from the man. She rubs the rim of the glass. Three seconds pass.

“Yes. I am done for the evening. I am done with all of this.” As the lady rises, the glass tips, and slowly falls to the table. It spills a dark wet spot onto the tablecloth. She walks to the door and out into the night.

“I guess I’ll take the check.” He raises his glass and gulps down the remaining wine.

It is quiet. The waitstaff nod to one another over tasks. A long stem rose rises in the center of each table. . A spoon, knife, and two forks lay upon a napkin. The glass is placed to the right and up from the napkin. It stands empty waiting.

Dan Barber's foie gras parable | Video on TED.com

"The great blessing for chefs and for people that care about food and cooking, is that the most ecological choice for food is also the most ethical choice for food, whether we're talking about brussel sprouts or foie gras. And it's almost always, (and I haven't found an example that proves otherwise,) the most delicious choice."

Dan Barber's foie gras parable Video on TED.com

Watch this video of the incredible Chef Barber of Blue Hill in NY, discuss the most delicious and controversial of foods after visiting a farm in Spain that makes truly humane foie gras. Fascinating!

Sauced Closes Its Doors

The last patrons of the bar left, the glasses were washed, the plates dried, and the doors locked for the night. Mike and Charlotte sat in the back seat of the patrol car together for one last time. Val locked the doors with her keys, vowed to take a few days off from the business and never hire another blonde again. Saul smoked a few cigarettes as he stood on the platform, waiting for the Chicago bound train, the Ephemera vial safe in his valise. The stories had been told, the files closed, and the broken hearts laid to rest.

Another successful venture complete, Nordo tucked away Murray’s recipes for a later day. His first foray into the world of alcohol and intrigue had been a complete success. Now, winter hovered on the horizon, and it seemed appropriate to hibernate and contemplate the next great venture. The future is a wide open palette of possibilities. Maybe he will return to New York and take the city by storm, perhaps Chicago needs another three star establishment, or maybe, just maybe, he’ll settle down in Seattle for a while. Who knows?

I believe the bar will be back and maybe sooner than later. The style, the music, and the drinks seemed to touch the heart of Seattle. The Northwest likes to drink fine cocktails while being swept into an era of mystery with shocks of sexual tension. Seems like a fantastic combination to me. I will never forget the beautiful women belting on stage as the audience swooned in the dim lighting of the lounge. Another world had opened up, and those who made it in the doors fell in, swallowed by nostalgia and intrigue. The world was not a better place then than now. But we can always dream. It was like peaking into a speakeasy of the day. If life could always be like that maybe we’d all feel a bit grander. Or, at least, drunker. Let’s all romanticize the darker side of life, shall we?

Nordo feels proud of this one. He feels that he and his crew captured the essence of what it is to drink, to be in the bar of bars, to stay late into the night and stumble home, to fall for the woman at the next table, to throw caution to the wind, and forget the troubles of home, to watch the stars reel overhead, to feel high, and rich, and larger than life. It’s all in the love of alcohol.

That’s how life goes sometimes, you can either sip it or shoot it.