Monday, January 20, 2003

If you’re looking for sexual positions for the obese, as some people are, according to my referer list,  I sympathize, but I’m afraid I’ve no expert advice to give—at least not yet.    If I cook a few more ducks like I did the other night, well, I may be googling sexual positions for the obese myself.   After Christmas, when I made pheasant, I rejected the instructions on the pheasant, with disastrous results.   So, the other night,  when I made duck, I decided first to follow the instructions on the package and roast for 22 minutes per pound at 400 degrees.   The duck was not bad, but there was a layer of fat between the skin and meat a good ½ centimeter thick all the way around.  It was highly flavorful and, in truth, I’m not as afraid of saturated fats as the diet dictocrats would have us be (thanks, in part, to the book Nourishing Traditions )However, I did find that the fat detracted from the pleasure of a nice, crisp skin.   To that end I’ve decided that next time I will cook the duck according to the Joy of Cooking which advocates piercing the skin shallowly (not poking into the meat) all round and roasting the bird breast down in a slow oven.  The fat is then supposed to more or less melt off, and can be siphoned from the roasting pan for another use, if you like.    I really find myself curirous to see if this will work and will report accordingly.    And now Dean goes off to Laguna Seca for a few days to report on racing so Kipp and I will go into "cupboard mode", which means we will eat lots of lovely things from the pantry that Dean wouldn't even consider, like bean gratins and salmon fishcakes and grilled polenta.   I still can't believe I married a man who doesn't like beans.     comment []9:34:22 PM     My child is on the toilet, singing.  I do not remember the last time I sang in the shower, much less on the toilet.  Ah, youth. . .   Speaking of the toilet, last night I watched part of the 2003 Golden Globes on television.  It’s a weakness, but I’m always drawn to the fashions, much the same way I’m drawn to figure skating.  I can't help it.  I have to watch.    I get tired of little wisps of spaghetti strap dresses and bare bony arms and black.  Any time I see someone in sleeves or florals, it’s like manna from heaven.    Although, I have to say, of all the pulchritude on display last night, I’ve never seen anyone at any awards show look more fetching than Laura Linney, in her coppery blond ringlets and spaghetti-strapped olive-green dress.  Maybe it was because the last time I saw her she was shuffling around in jeans and tennis shoes in the movie You Can Count on Me.  She looked so normal.  She almost looked like me, except for the completely different face.   Kate Hudson’s dress was such a pretty, French provincial sort of floral fabric, though not peasant at all in design.  Beyonce Knowles bloomed in a rose-covered bodice.  Jill Hennessey flounced in chocolate colored chiffon. Kristin Davis sallied forth in white satin.  But nothing else really stood out.  There was trash, there was elegance, there was good taste—but I’m always hungry for out and out beauty.   I guess I'm not the only one hungry.  I had to laugh at the broadcast last night.  Every time a new female would appear on stage, the camera would cut to some other female eyeing her up.  Sarah Jessica Parker's and Catherine Zeta Jones' eyes went positively cat-like, as if they were sucking in every detail.  Maybe they were just thirsty.     comment []1:57:05 PM

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