I walked back to the pantry, two tall cabinets behind the dining room table on the wall that separates my apartment from another. This is the farthest my apartment goes in that direction. Bottom shelf. Two tall boxes. Couverture chocolate buttons. I removed a tiny amount.
Then using my best judgement without dragging out a scale, I estimated the same mass of chocolate for cream. Even-Steven. Thereabout. Who needs a scale?
Oh man, I crack myself up. "In a mesmerizing fashion" is something that Jason Gryniewicz says in his cartoonish voice on his YouTube channel "Daily Dose of Internet." They are addictive. You should see 'em.
This goes on forever with a chopstick. Like, is this thing ever going to mix?
Shut your mouth.
Bitter as full decades-long march through vaunted American institutions, running wild through them, redirecting them to obscene purposes, skinning them, wearing their pelts like pom ball tassel fringe.
Chocolate cannot be that bitter.
Ever since that bizarre disease last December around Christmas my tastebuds have not operated properly. They are more like my tastebuds at four years of age. Nearly everything tastes worse. I recall back then nearly everything tasting really bad. This chocolate tastes really really super bad. Super bitter. Like I should double the weight in sugar, just to be reasonable. I know that is the wrong taste but that is the taste that I have. I did not like this chocolate ganache.
2 comments:
I'm sort of shocked by your pelt-skinning metaphor. I didn't think you were the sort to know, and quote, such a thing.
Everyone tells me that. I said, "coelacanth" and Dr. Fred freaked out.
I solved a morning NYT crossword before the waitress returned with our meals and my friends who were actually helping me solve it freaked out. They couldn't believe anyone actually closes those things. They each kept asking me over and over how I know such things as I filled out the puzzle like you fill out a hospital form, and then recalling and telling them how I know something really slowed down the whole thing. I am having a race over here. Shut up with the small talk already.
Inside at the front door of his condominium Myre said, "The dog's name is Paloma. Know what that means? "
I said, "well, noisy little bitch would be pequeña perra ruidosa so it's not that." The dog had been barking at me noisily the whole time. "Paloma means dove."
"Boy." Myre is shaking his head negatively. " I just don't know how you keep coming up with these things."
"I walked passed the hotel in Puerto Vallarta a half dozen times with that word and a painting of a dove in flight. So I looked it up fifteen years ago to confirm. Here we are fifteen year later and that foreign word is actually useful. But only for answering an idle question by knowing the meaning of the name for a dog who does not like me, and I was here in this very spot decades before this pequeña perra ruidosa was even born."
He must know that I just called his dog a noisy little bitch but he was too wrapped up in wondering how I keep coming up with these things to process what I just said and to take any offense, so for him, that's how I keep coming up with these things. He does not pay that close of attention.
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