random items

I'm reading an article by Lewis Lapham in the May Harper's. Lapham used to be the magazine's formidable editor in chief. Under Lapham, Harper's was icily brilliant almost every issue, in my opinion. I miss his voice and I think the mag has slipped rather a lot since his retirement. His article is on the peculiar American trait of historylessness, which provides the basis for our political discourse's constant doomsaying and constant nostalgia. Hep stuff.

I'm also listening, as I have done a lot lately, to Chopin solo piano works. I have come at last to the conclusion that Frederic Chopin is not allowed in the house. I mean: "Funeral March"? Are you kidding me? (Lauren didn't even bother to point out that he's long dead, this morning. She sort of chuckled.)

Today I am going to attempt to read a "work of philosophy" by a French "collective" active in the 1990s. There's a guest lecture on campus on Wednesday about them. I am deeply suspicious.

I am also going to try to read one of the papers I have to comment on in Canada in June. This one is on the McGurk effect. No, I'm not making that up.

But what I really think I ought to do is get back to writing something about porn.

when is a sex scandal not a sex scandal?

I turned on my hotel TV this morning, like I always do when I’m alone in a hotel room, and the first thing that confronted me was the Andrew Wiener “sexting” scandal. Not only did he tweet his underpants to a woman somewhere or other, but he also apparently had an ongoing text flirtation with a casino card dealer. On my screen was an outpouring of moral revulsion and condemnation. It was quite festive.

I don’t care about Anthony Wiener. Nonetheless, it’s disturbing that we’ve become so culutrally obsessed with this bizarre romantic/moral expectation that no reasonable person could ever engage in extra-curricular fantasy, flirtation, or even attraction. I heard Wiener’s texting equated to “cheating” on his wife. Really?

To me, this looks more like an attack on imagination than anything, which is no great surprise in a society that demands simplistic black-and-white moral distinctions. A spouse is either faithful or faithless – and to be faithful apparently means having no other attractions or affections of any kind outside of the marital bond. There is no room for ambiguity, and no forgiveness for even the mildest flirtation or shared fantasy.

On one hand, that attitude is frankly and utterly stupid. I can no more refrain from haphazard and random attractions than I can stop seeing. It doesn’t mean I’m faithless. Beyond that, I can’t begin to fathom why it’s become an unimaginable moral monstrosity that anyone could possibly get erotically entangled in fantasy with someone not sanctioned officially for it. Our culture has a driving need to judge, I guess.

Not that I’m sending anyone pictures of my underpants – because I’m not quite that stupid or foolhardy. Besides, sometimes a few words are worth a thousand pictures.

dinner

I can't really give full verbal expression to what goes on in my kitchen sometimes.

Gratin de pommes de terre à la dauphinoise

Innocent Yukon Gold potatoes, totally unaware what fate has in store for them, prior to adding boiled milk, cream, gruyère, nutmeg, white pepper custard.



With the custard added. This is the potato equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction at this point. I decided to get tricky, and temper the egg with some boiled milk, then dump the egg back into the milk, add the nutmeg, etc., and most of the gruyère, then reduce that into an actual custard. (Escoffier has you toss all the ingredients together unblended before bunging the whole into the oven. Not sure it would make that much difference, but this was pretty smooth.)



After 45 minutes in a moderate oven. If you lived here, you'd have quadruple bypass by now. (Only you wouldn't, because it's been about a year since the last gratin, hence the urgency to do this tonight.)

The notorious arugula, white peach, pignola, white pepper, and chèvre salad. Eat your friggin' heart out.

The filet, plated, with the madeira and green peppercorn sauce, sautéed mushrooms, and the gratin. Killer-diller.