Showing posts with label Photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Photography. Show all posts
Photo (Thurs)Day: Guacamole
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Ripe avocado, red onion, tomato, lime juice, salt, pepper, chili, cilantro. ¡Feliz Cinco de Mayo!
Photo (Satur)Day: Shiitake Mushrooms
Saturday, March 19, 2011
East meets West. Earthy, meaty, full of flavor. Shiitake mushrooms.
Purple
Sunday, July 18, 2010
SHUG: More than anything God love admiration.
CELIE: You saying God is vain?
SHUG: No, not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off when you walk by the colour purple in a field and don't notice it.
(W. Goldberg & M. Avery, The Color Purple)
Tomatoes
Monday, July 12, 2010
Oda al Tomate La calle se llenó de tomates, mediodia, verano, la luz se parte en dos mitades de tomate, corre por las calles el jugo. En diciembre se desata el tomate, invade las cocinas, entra por los almuerzos, se sienta reposado en los aparadores, entre los vasos, las matequilleras, los saleros azules. Tiene luz propia, majestad benigna. Devemos, por desgracia, asesinarlo: se hunde el cuchillo en su pulpa viviente, es una roja viscera, un sol fresco, profundo, inagotable, llena las ensaladas de Chile, se casa alegremente con la clara cebolla, y para celebrarlo se deja caer aceite, hijo esencial del olivo, sobre sus hemisferios entreabiertos, agrega la pimienta su fragancia, la sal su magnetismo: son las bodas del día el perejil levanta banderines, las papas hierven vigorosamente, el asado golpea con su aroma en la puerta, es hora! vamos! y sobre la mesa, en la cintura del verano, el tomate, aastro de tierra, estrella repetida y fecunda, nos muestra sus circunvoluciones, sus canales, la insigne plenitud y la abundancia sin hueso sin coraza, sin escamas ni espinas, nos entrega el regalo de su color fogoso y la totalidad de su frescura. (P. Neruda, Odas Elementales) | Ode to Tomatoes The street filled with tomatoes midday, summer, light is halved like a tomato, its juice runs through the streets. In December, unabated, the tomato invades the kitchen, it enters at lunchtime, takes its ease on countertops, among glasses, butter dishes, blue saltcellars. It sheds its own light, benign majesty. Unfortunately, we must murder it: the knife sinks into living flesh, red viscera, a cool sun, profound, inexhaustible, populates the salads of Chile, happily, it is wed to the clear onion, and to celebrate the union we pour oil, essential child of the olive, onto its halved hemispheres, pepper adds its fragrance, salt, its magnetism; it is the wedding of the day, parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously, the aroma of the roast knocks at the door, it's time! come on! and, on the table, at the midpoint of summer, the tomato, star of earth, recurrent and fertile star, displays its convolutions, its canals, its remarkable amplitude and abundance, no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns, the tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness. (P. Neruda, Elementary Odes) |
Confessions of a Bloghaolic
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I was diagnosed with a new desease. So I might as well come out of the closet: Yes, I blog.
Here are ten symptoms (give one or take one...) to understand if you too are affected by severe blog-addicition.
• Your collection of flours has exceeded by far that of your shoes;
• If it's not Himalayan pink salt, you start turning up your nose at it;
• In your desktop's folders the pictures of cookies, muffins and soups poured in small glasses are way more than those from your vacations;
• You're used to eat cold steaks and re-heated spaghetti, because it's forbidden to consume your picture's subject before you've portrayed it just right;
• You can talk all day about yeasts and jams with people from all over the world, whom you've never met and yet you consider your friends simply because you share the same recipe for pastry dough;
• Every time you eat at a restaurant, you feel an uncontrollable urge of replicating the dishes in your own kitchen and your friends can't stop you from shamelessly asking the waiter if he, by any chance, could pass you the recipe for that wonderful souffle';
• You always cook for an imaginary guest as well: the extra serving will be the victim of your photographic manipulations;
• The alarm can go on forever when it's time to go to work, but you don't have any problem to get up at dawn to knead your bread or - even worse - to shoot last night's leftovers, making good use of early morning light;
• Your heart skips a beat every time you see green walnuts in hulls at your favourite Farmers' Market;
• You often find yourself doing strange things, like talking to meatballs, petting tomatoes, begging the sponge cake or dancing with a bottle of balsamic vinegar;
• To you, world can be divided in two groups: those who make carbonara sauce with cream, and those who make it as it should be;
• You take care of your yeasts with motherly love and you wake up several times at night thinking you've heard them reproducing;
• You've tried to make your own bread at least once in your life and you were sincerely moved the first time you baked a ciabatta;
• You fall asleep reading the last issue of Donna Hay and you keep at least five different cookbooks on your bedside table;
• You haven't bought any shoes or bags in months because you're still paying off your new Canon's installments;
• When they tell you that the above tomatoes (THEY ARE ORGANIC!) are defective and full of lumps, you take it personally;
• By the end of the weekend you feel exhausted and all you've done is a couple of boiled eggs.
Greetings from my kitchen.
Sara aka One Girl in The Kitchen