Of chards and men
Nov. 30th, 2008 02:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gravitas_shortfallEarly today, early being the time I usually wake up on a week-end, when the church bells ring Vespers and the sun darts its ethereal fingers across the horizon in beautiful shades of violets and reds, or would, if there were any sun fingers to be seen in this blasted country, early today I was making myself a fine cup of chicory.
Chicory is to tea what a dejected Masai warrior is to a teenage emo with a man-purse. It's thick, black, strong, bitter, and hides its great sweetness and depth deep inside, where it can only be found by a few very trusted friends and ladies of spiritual importance. Tea's all right if your idea of a good time is watching 'Dirty Dancing' on poppers, I suppose, I'm not here to judge.
Cup of chicory firmly in hand, and after hurling a few invectives towards the builders noisily redoing the upstairs flat - they were playing Dvorak's 9th Symphony by von Karajan really loud, when it's a fact Claudio Abbado's version is a thousand times better, the pigs - I ventured to the garden to greet the SO. She likes to garden, she does, and autumn is a good time for leafy roots to spice up a warm meal on an otherwise warmless day, please tell me what year the sun is next supposed to appear, I'll make sure to still be in the country.
It's not really a big garden, being in Camden, and much of the soil is taken by exotics like fig trees and palms, but there's a little square of ground that's fit for growing vegetables. The current ones include a few different types of fire-coloured cabbages, sweet radishes, and, to my dismay, chards. It's not that I don't like chards, it's just that they're a species that you sample once a year and then bid goodbye til the next, a bit like the cheek of the stubbly great-aunt in the New Year.
And it seemed to be that time of the year, because the SO had a particularly rooty specimen impaled on top of her spade, chard juice slowly running down towards the basket holding its recently deceased extended family. Tragedy not only befalls the best of us.
"Hello, darling", she said. "The chards were all ready to pick, so now we have to eat them. How about a chard pie, chard a la Bordelaise, chard sorbet, pot-au-feu of chard, and a nice Chardenstrudel for dinner?" (I'm paraphrasing, you get the spirit)
"I think I'll skip on this, thanks. I got 12 kilograms of cheese in the fridge and the neighbours complained it was setting off their fire alarm."
"Oh, I know, we can have a chard fondue, too!"
"No, really, I'm fine with the cheese. Really."
"Chard souffle on a bed of chard Marengo, truffles, and chards? It has cheese!"
"Hrmmmmm..."
"But chards are delicious! Everyone loves chards! UNESCO declared chards Heritage of Humanity, Gordon Ramsay wrote six books about chards, and both Cosmopolitan AND Metal Hammer's latest issues are solely composed of chard recipes! You can never have too many chards!"
"You don't read either Cosmopolitan or Metal Hammer", I pointed out.
It went on like that for quite a while. In the end, I am ashamed to admit, I conceded. Maybe I need to get a man-purse.
"All right, I will have *one* chard", I said, pointing to the helpless impaled green. "This one. Just one. OK?"
"Very fine, it is a perfectly acceptable compromise", she replied.
And the world was well, and the sun nearly decided to plan on showing up, and they were merry and drank a lot.
Morality:
I don't share your greed, the only chard I need is on the SO's spade
Chicory is to tea what a dejected Masai warrior is to a teenage emo with a man-purse. It's thick, black, strong, bitter, and hides its great sweetness and depth deep inside, where it can only be found by a few very trusted friends and ladies of spiritual importance. Tea's all right if your idea of a good time is watching 'Dirty Dancing' on poppers, I suppose, I'm not here to judge.
Cup of chicory firmly in hand, and after hurling a few invectives towards the builders noisily redoing the upstairs flat - they were playing Dvorak's 9th Symphony by von Karajan really loud, when it's a fact Claudio Abbado's version is a thousand times better, the pigs - I ventured to the garden to greet the SO. She likes to garden, she does, and autumn is a good time for leafy roots to spice up a warm meal on an otherwise warmless day, please tell me what year the sun is next supposed to appear, I'll make sure to still be in the country.
It's not really a big garden, being in Camden, and much of the soil is taken by exotics like fig trees and palms, but there's a little square of ground that's fit for growing vegetables. The current ones include a few different types of fire-coloured cabbages, sweet radishes, and, to my dismay, chards. It's not that I don't like chards, it's just that they're a species that you sample once a year and then bid goodbye til the next, a bit like the cheek of the stubbly great-aunt in the New Year.
And it seemed to be that time of the year, because the SO had a particularly rooty specimen impaled on top of her spade, chard juice slowly running down towards the basket holding its recently deceased extended family. Tragedy not only befalls the best of us.
"Hello, darling", she said. "The chards were all ready to pick, so now we have to eat them. How about a chard pie, chard a la Bordelaise, chard sorbet, pot-au-feu of chard, and a nice Chardenstrudel for dinner?" (I'm paraphrasing, you get the spirit)
"I think I'll skip on this, thanks. I got 12 kilograms of cheese in the fridge and the neighbours complained it was setting off their fire alarm."
"Oh, I know, we can have a chard fondue, too!"
"No, really, I'm fine with the cheese. Really."
"Chard souffle on a bed of chard Marengo, truffles, and chards? It has cheese!"
"Hrmmmmm..."
"But chards are delicious! Everyone loves chards! UNESCO declared chards Heritage of Humanity, Gordon Ramsay wrote six books about chards, and both Cosmopolitan AND Metal Hammer's latest issues are solely composed of chard recipes! You can never have too many chards!"
"You don't read either Cosmopolitan or Metal Hammer", I pointed out.
It went on like that for quite a while. In the end, I am ashamed to admit, I conceded. Maybe I need to get a man-purse.
"All right, I will have *one* chard", I said, pointing to the helpless impaled green. "This one. Just one. OK?"
"Very fine, it is a perfectly acceptable compromise", she replied.
And the world was well, and the sun nearly decided to plan on showing up, and they were merry and drank a lot.
Morality:
I don't share your greed, the only chard I need is on the SO's spade
