Friday, February 25, 2011

Umbrian lentil stew with fried eggs

Eastside Road, February 25, 2011—
WHERE'D YOU GET THAT recipe, Lindsey?
"I don't know; I wrote it down from somewhere…" Lindsey is nothing if not frugal: she writes with grudging respect for the paper. And this befits a dish like this, cucina povera, a farmhouse recipe from the Umbrian hills, no doubt.

Umbria is not my favorite region of Italy; I don't know why. Our one traversal revealed it as dark, as you'd etymologically expect, and wrinkled. The highlight was seeing fireflies in an Urbino park; that, and the view from up there, down out and over the incredible plain where lentils no doubt grew.

It is a delicious dish; I hope the notepaper will be kept somewhere handy. Green salad after.
Zinfandel, Trader Joe's "Coastal," 2009 (a little dumb and flat, but not disgusting)


Curtis Faville said...


The world is full of cookbooks, but whither all your careful, meticulous recordation of fare?

What form do you see--if any--for your grand account of these past few years of professional "eating"?

Certainly it's not a gift of idle hours. What is your plan?

Charles Shere said...

A Gift of Idle Hours: what a fine title, reminding me of Les très belles heures. I could use it for the remaining days of my life.

I see no other form than that evolving here, and I'm happy if anyone finds anything useful, or diverting…

Curtis Faville said...

"The gift of idle hours" comes from Robert Frost.

A worthy coinage.

I would implore you to think about what purpose your ruminations might be put.

Surely your descendants will find it edifying, but what about everyone else?

Charles Shere said...

Ah yes, Frost. I read that poem some time ago.

Et in academia ego, you know; I was an English major at UC Berkeley too. I rejected Frost then, and do now, as hokey and inaccurate (or is that redundant). Labor has many dreams beyond those of fact.

But you ask about my "purpose": I have none. I idle away the hours, pre-empting gift. Surely this describes most blogging, certainly mine; probably yours — for I read yours, Curtis, as you know.