William S. Burroughs
Dinah Fried recriou alguns pratos apresentados em clássicos da literatura.
E a Emily Temple dá as receitas para recriar as sugestões de autores:
Vladimir Nabokov’s Eggs à la Nabocoque
“Boil water in a saucepan (bubbles mean it is boiling!). Take two eggs (for one person) out of the refrigerator. Hold them under the hot tap water to make them ready for what awaits them.
Place each in a pan, one after the other, and let them slip soundlessly into the (boiling) water. Consult your wristwatch. Stand over them with a spoon preventing them (they are apt to roll) from knocking against the damned side of the pan.
If, however, an egg cracks in the water (now bubbling like mad) and starts to disgorge a cloud of white stuff like a medium in an old fashioned seance, fish it out and throw it away. Take another and be more careful.
After 200 seconds have passed, or, say, 240 (taking interruptions into account), start scooping the eggs out. Place them, round end up, in two egg cups. With a small spoon tap-tap in a circle and hen pry open the lid of the shell. Have some salt and buttered bread (white) ready. Eat.
November 18, 1972″
Salman Rushdie’s Lamb Korma
Lamb korma is one of [my son] Milan’s absolute favorites, and mine as well.”
1½ cups chopped onion
1 cup clarified butter (melted and skimmed of milk solids)
4 to 5 large cardamom pods (available in the spice section)
10 to 12 small cardamom pods
2 lb lamb, cubed
6 to 8 garlic cloves, crushed
½ inch fresh ginger, peeled
and finely grated
1½ Tbsp ground coriander
1 tsp red chili powder
1½ tsp salt
8 oz plain yogurt, lightly whisked
Pinch of saffron
1. Brown onions in butter until deep golden. Remove with a slotted spoon and pulse in a blender to form a paste. Crush cardamom; mix into paste.
2. Add meat to pan; stir over medium-high. After a few minutes, add garlic, ginger, coriander, chili powder, and salt. Stir for a couple of minutes. Mix in yogurt. Cover and cook over very low heat, 1 to 1½ hours.
3. About 5 minutes before korma is ready, add onion-cardamom paste and saffron so it can be absorbed by the meat and gravy.
“Trim all excess fat first, then cut the meat into medium-size cubes, deboning some pieces and keeping others on the bone.”
“After 30 minutes, you may need to add some water. But if your gravy is too watery, you added too much! Turn the heat up and boil some off. A korma should have a thick sauce.”
Emily Dickinson’s Coconut Cake
The following recipe for coconut cake even inspired its own poem — penned directly on the back of the paper.
1 cup coconut
2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
Allen Ginsberg’s Cold Summer Borscht
Though The Last Soup of Allen Ginsberg it’s not, Ginsberg had a notoriously fine soup hand, so we think this summery borscht might still inspire some poetic brilliance.
Dozen beets cleaned & chopped to bite size salad-size Strips
Stems & leaves also chopped like salad lettuce
All boiled together lightly salted to make a bright red soup,
with beets now soft – boil an hour or more
Add Sugar & Lemon Juice to make the red liquid
sweet & sour like Lemonade
Chill 4 gallon(s) of beet liquid –
Serve with (1) Sour Cream on table
(2) Boiled small or halved potato
on the side
i.e. so hot potatoes don’t heat the
cold soup prematurely
(3) Spring salad on table to put into
cold red liquid
1) Onions – sliced (spring onions)
2) Tomatoes – sliced bite-sized
3) Lettuce – ditto
4) Cucumbers – ditto
5) a few radishes
Suitable for Summer Dinner.
Há algo de Joker (i.e. Heath Ledger) no Jerry.
Ainda assim, Jerry!
From now on the mothers will sleep alone
among the portraits of the dead
only the mothers know where they’ve gone
and how the long labour of dying
had distanced them already from the living
alone from now on the mothers wander
among the graves of the departed
reciting down those avenues of death
prayers in unknown languages
telling the heavy beads of dispersed time
they no longer measure time
by nights that fall across the earth
nor by mornings rising on the world
they ask everyone where the territories
of death begin and where they end
the mothers discover solitude
the world contained by a square of hardened earth
they keep having the same dream that cracks darkness open
converse with the emptiness of mirrors
repeat the same prayer in which daylight is dying
from now on in the rumpled sheets of time
the mothers celebrate solitary weddings
in the deep silence of their houses
clocks without hands
mark the passage of the hours
from now on night will have eyes
tracking the mothers’ sleeplessness
two angels inhabit them who one day
will ask for our accounts when our turn
comes to approach the doors of heaven
with the rosary’s thread broken
the mothers pour the water of their tears
into the graves’ crucible
they pay attention to the flight of birds
messages from the dead between their wings
our second home is built
in the avenue of death say the mothers
why have we given life
just to struggle with the shadow for it
until our own last breath
all we see of our kin is bleached bones
hands soiled with graveyard earth
we plant trees and bushes so those branches
will be the roof of their new dwelling
if only we had known say the mothers
we reread letters the dead once sent
and imagine different answers
everything becomes clear once it is too late
there is not enough thread of regret
left to string the shards of our night
our hands tremble the mothers keep saying
from looking into too much darkness
our eyes can barely see light
the suns have deserted our gardens
long rags of cloud hang from the trees
we all dance suspended like puppets
with time holding the strings
our movements replicate
ancient gestures and from now on no one
will hear our expropriated speech
what wouldn’t we have done for our loved ones
plucked the splinters from life’s thorny bouquet
then one by one the roses wilted
from now on through a windowframe
we will watch the sea marry the horizon
our life a glimmer that flickers on shadow
slowly we divest ourselves of our backbones
hunched over further each day
with the inconsequential weight of memory
and with waiting for our own end.
Translation of “Jusqu’aux lendemains de la vie.” by Marilyn Hacker.
A rotina de trabalho de Henry Miller é inspiradora. Principalmente as noites:
If groggy, type notes and allocate, as stimulus.
If in fine fettle, write.
Work of section in hand, following plan of section scrupulously. No intrusions, no diversions. Write to finish one section at a time, for good and all.
See friends. Read in cafés.
Explore unfamiliar sections — on foot if wet, on bicycle if dry.
Write, if in mood, but only on Minor program.
Paint if empty or tired.
Make Notes. Make Charts, Plans. Make corrections of MS.
Note: Allow sufficient time during daylight to make an occasional visit to museums or an occasional sketch or an occasional bike ride. Sketch in cafés and trains and streets. Cut the movies! Library for references once a week.