The press goes Rovian, but Tom Hayden (!) too?

The WORLD reporter wrings his hands and reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, the pack that isn’t there anymore. He is sitting at his usual table under the platanes at the Café and spread out in front of him are a dozen teletypes, but it is the one on top that has seized his attention like a bad oyster and won’t let go. The headline reads:

No Retreat: If you Want to Win, Stop the War! Barack at Risk

“Say it isn’t so, Tom. Say it isn’t so.”

Luna comes out of the Presse with a sack of abricots in her hand. She sees the Reporter and walks over. As she approaches the table, she cannot help but notice the frown, the nervous fingers twitching around the empty shirtpocket.

“Bad news?” she says, “I hope not.”

“Well,” sighs the Reporter, “I guess I’d call it BAD news all right, the worst kind of news, in fact, when newspersons or commentators pick up the negative slant put out by the Waco Weasel."

"Waco Weasel? Rove's from Waco?"

"Maybe. But listen. When an icon of one era like T.H. gets sniffy and stiffy with the icon-to-be of another era, you’ve got to scratch your head.”

“Oh, it’s Rovian, all right. And they all succumb to it, even old rads like Tommy H.” Luna takes the article and scans it. “See, T.H. gets on Barack Obama for the very things he himself practices (or professes to): being nuanced, delicate, diplomatic, non-ideological.”

“So you still think Obama’s the One?”

“Let me put it this way. The last I heard, God doesn’t live in Texas.”

“So?”

“Quit listening to Rove.”

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THE RACE TO ST. PAUL DE FENOUILLET EN DIRECT FROM G. & L.

latest from the front of the pack

en direct with G. & L.

BREAKING NEWS: TOUR DE FRANCE TO CROSS FENOUILLEDES WITH SPRINT ENDING ON REALITY STREET, DOWNTOWN ST. PAUL

Luna puts down her camera and hands Grillman the magazine she had been reading earlier, the one with the story about . . .

“The Tour de France really is coming to the Fenouillèdes,” exclaims Grillman, waving the magazine as if he had just discovered the Grand Canyon and this was his map. “At the corner of our street and the main drag, en plus?”

“They’re coming through St. Paul from Caudiès headed to Maury. Of course they’re coming down the main drag. Where else?”

“It’ll be just like when we lived in New Orleans and could walk every night down to Saint Charles Avenue and wait for the Carnaval parades, Proteus and Comus and Momus. That was my favorite. Mow-muss. The Knights of Mow-muss.”

“Sure, something like that. But I’d wager that it’ll be more like that time we saw the race charging across the Plateau de Sault.” With Lance Armstrong in the lead.”

“Hmm. That’ll be all right, too.”

“You don’t seem surprised about the race coming here. I thought you would be.”

Grillman laughs. “Well, to tell you the truth, I already knew and was on my way to tell you.” He shows Luna the teletype printout. “Really too bad, the headline. Drug-Tainted Tour de France Opens Without 2007 Champ Contador.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean. ‘Drug-Tainted.’ But what can you expect? Negative sells stocks and bonds. Well, maybe this year, that’s what people are hoping. Surely.”

Grillman nods his agreement, but his eyes take a wistful turn toward ceiling. “Yes, but I often wonder if maybe too much is made of the doping. I mean, you talk about drugs! Imagine the Knights of Mow-muss.”

“Hardly comparable, old pard.”

“Yes, but you get my drift.”

“The scene BEFORE the event is what I liked then and what I liked about that time we saw the Tour, when the street, the roadway suddenly turn into a zone apart, with its own life, like a town has suddenly appeared and then moved on.”

“Selling cotton candy.”

“And tinsel wigs.”

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PS. Look for the utile links in the sidebar

Fortha July American Pie

Coeur de lin (linseed bread)

baguettes du jour

“The most important artisan in town is the boulanger,” says Grillman, holding a baguette in his hand and waving it around, first like a conductor’s baton, then like the checkered flag at the races. “Can’t get through a day -- hell, can’t get through a MEAL -- without some of this.”

“Nobody’s arguing with you,” Luna observes, casting an eye around the studio with its empty table and stacked chairs. The only sound is the hum of an oscillating fan going about its work over in the corner beside the open française. “The question is, who does the best.”

Grillman gives the baguette a toss into the air, making it spin round and round, and catches it with a deft wave of his hand. “Well, in my book, we have found our boulangerie, right there on Rue Arago in front of the Mairie.”

“That was one of the first things I did when we got here, check out the boulangeries around town. With its history of wheat and baking, well, I figured surely there would be at least one boulanger keeping up the tradition. So one morning I was scouting our daily bread and happened to be passing this one in front of the mairie. What I saw in the window looked fresh and very artisinal, you know, not industrial at all, so I went in. The warmth was nice (it was a chilly day) but it was the smell of bread cooking that nearly overwhelmed me. The array of loaves behind the counter was daunting, so I asked the woman selling the bread if she would make a recommendation.”

“I’m glad you thought of that.”

“I know you are. Because she turned out to be very sympathetic. First she asked what we were used to having, and I told her we liked wholegrain, like pain de campagne or cinq cereal. She handed me a baguette she called “coeur de lin,” which has lots of seeds, especially the linseed, and said she bet we would like this one.”

“Why try,” says Grillman, laying the baguette with a solid thump on the breadboard and reaching for the breadknife. “Why try to describe it, I mean.”

"Why indeed."

Seconds later, he has piled six slices into the breadbowl and is nibbling on a piece he cut for himself.

Luna carries the breadbowl to the table. “Plus it’s got all those Omega Three boosters.”

“That’s right. But for me” says Grillman, holding the last piece of crust up to the light as if it were a great work of art. “it’s like eating a Rembrandt painting -- or better yet . . . Matisse or . . . ”

“Bon appétite,” says Luna.

-30-

Try to figger it out

Grillman scratches his head. Luna hands him the user's guide, knowing that he probably will not study it, but he surprises her.

"I think I know," he says, flipping the pages.

"Know? What?"

"Why they call it The Web."

Luna smiles.

-30-

En attendant God, oh: Is the Internet Passé?

A tree. A bench. Two men looking tired.

Grillman turns to Santos Dumont and says, "What's it all about, Santos?"

S.D. replies, "I don't know. What's the use?"

Grillman notices a man in khaki shorts walking by and says to S.D., "Hmm. Let's ask him."

"You ask. I'm on strike."

"Monsieur?" says Grillman, raising his hand in greeting. "Any word?"

The man stops and faces Grillman and Santos Dumont. He recognizes the trouble. The glazed eyes, the limp aspect. He heaves a mighty shoulder shrug with all the attendant facial tics and says nothing.

-30-

Confessions of a Grilling Addict

THE ETHICS OF GRILLING
by Grillman

The word “grilling” has been erased a couple of times and several penciled emendations with arrows and asterisks -- and all crossed out -- surround the headline like tired clouds after a summer storm. Among the alternatives to “grilling” we see: barbeque, BBQ, grillade, cookout, charcoal-fire cuisine, outdoor cookery (the rest are totally illegible).

Also stricken through are the words:

Confessions of a Grilling Addict

The text so far is simply a series of titles, as if for section headings in an article or chapters in a book:

Grillers All! If the Whole World Grilled, We Could Save the Planet, and US

The Positive Benefits of Grilling versus Other Methods of Cooking Food

To Build a Fire: How a Good Fire Recaputulates while also Regenerating a Healthy Environment

Why the PLANXA rules

To Beef, or Not To Beef: Meats and the Ethical Griller

All Veggie Grilling: Of Course You Can!

Healthy Grilling Techniques: Don’t burn that FAT, it’ll KILL YOU

Grillman leans back and mops the rivers of sweat running down his face with a threadbare bandanna, the last of his official Big Yank bandannas brought from the New World eons ago. He reaches for his pencil then tosses it back on the table.

Enough. There will be more to say. I’m late for filming the next episode. Damn. Luna’s probably already there waiting for me.

In his rush to get moving he absentmindedly slaps a hat on his head and is out the door in two seconds and so neglects to pull the typescript out of the typewriter.

Complications could ensue from this, little does Grillman realize.

Meanwhile, over on the Cooking with G. & L set, Luna is putting the finishing touches on the aubergines and says:

“It’s pretty simple, really, but you absolutely must have the freshest and as young and not over-seedy as you can find. Lucky for us, right now is the beginning of the local season for aubergines and other summer veggies, so this is the best time for cooking them on the grill. We got these this morning at the épicerie on the Place de la République and they are not the least bit spongy. Just wash and cut into circles about as thick as a gent’s thumb. Grillman tells me that if the slices are much thicker, it takes too long for them to cook on the grill, making it hard for the griller to guage the final result. Medium thick cooks quick, he says, so that’s what we try to do. Then you sprinkle salt on both sides -- not too much but a good sprinkle -- and let them drain on some paper towels for an hour or so (well, okay, thirty minutes if you’re in a hurry, but that’s minimum).

Across the way, Grillman pauses in his rush to the set for a drink of water at the kitchen sink. But don’t forget, he is thinking:

The fire, the fire! Unless it is done properly, all the ethical planning of all the grill philosophers of the ages will go for naught.

He replaces his water glass on the shelf and rushes from the room, headed for the terrasse and the grill, his tried and true Weber, which always brings a flood of memories when he sees it standing there patiently, such as the image he gets of the first Weber, a a little two-burger Smokey, that he and Luna used when they had that old building downtown in H’burg and the only place to grill was on the sidewalk out front late in the afternoon after downtown cleared out, yeah, that was the Smokey that was stolen still redhot when Grillman had taken the burgers inside by a couple of hobos from the encampment down by the Leaf River, near the Petal Bridge, but that’s another story.

Grillman reviews the main points while he is setting up the fire. What are the two reasons for chosing the Weber over the more traditional local style rectangular, topless, open-grill BBQ.

One, the Weber is round, which makes it easier to use a planxa. (Don’t forget to explain about the planxa).

Two, having the dome lid enables the griller to control the airflow through the adjustible vents in the top and bottom. This gives the griller better control of the fire and the smoke.

Three. With the vents, the griller can shut down the fire altogether at the end and thus save the unused charcoal.

Thus the Weber empowers the Ethical Griller to achieve greater economy (salvage charcoal) and experience untold health benefits (grilling with a planxa, while fine-tuning the cooking and smoking process).

(to be continued . . .)

The Ethics of Grilling: To Build a Fire

olive tree beside the train station, St. Paul, with the Gorges in the distance

Grillman leans over and picks up a handful of twigs and drops them into the floppy white grocery sack he uses for collecting fire-starting materials for his grillade projects, a sack which he found beside the road one time, one of those such as they sell at the supermarkets (Carrefour, Auchan, Champion) and are inscribed with photos of green mountain streams captioned with hearty slogans like “Mother Nature Loves You for being so thoughtful.” Under the olive tree behind the train station are piles of sticks left when the city crew pruned the tree earlier in the year. The twigs and thumb-size branches are thoroughly dry now and in prime condition for use in igniting his next fire.

“There’s an ethics to it,” he mutters as he goes about his work. “If the goal is to leave the smallest carbon footprint as possible when grilling, then you’ve got to use the simplest materials: toilet paper rolls and deadfall twigs and sticks, or driftwood if you live by the sea.” He pauses to snap a particularly weathered twig in half with a cheery “crack”

“You all right?” Luna calls gently from the shade of the giant conifer in the middle of the children’s playground where she is taking pictures. She has not seen the Tall Guy for a while and wonders if he has wandered off, a habit if his once he gets into one of his fugue-like states (which are more like the musical than the psychiatric definition, she reminds herself).

“Fine over here,” he replies, standing erect so that she can see him. “I’m finding just what I need, a good supply, should last us for weeks.”

A minute later, Grillman and Luna stand in the cool shade of a towering platane and compare notes. Luna is curious about the kindling and, just to play the devil’s advocate and get him going on the subject, she says, “Wouldn’t it be a lot easier just to use a couple of those firestarter cubes they sell at the Champion? They’re cheap, right?”

“Not if you have PAY money they’re not. These sticks are free. But most important, Ethical Grilling-Wise, is that you’re not contributing to the Greenhouse Effect by burning fossil fuels, which the cubes are, being made of parrafin.”

“Firm thinking. So the liquid stuff, that’s equally verboten in your book?”

“Oh, the liquid stuff is even worse. Plus you never really burn it off, not really, so you end up eating the residue . . . inhaling the fumes . . .”

“Munching the toxic waste, so to speak.”

“Hey,” says Grillman, giving his partner a sharp glance. “You’re not taking the Mickey out, are you?”

“Jamais.”

-30-

BREAKING NEWS: St. Paul Broadband Restored to Service

QUICK! Get that post posted before the ADSL stops again! What a whirlwind life this is, not knowing from one minute to the next with what or with which or for how long you'll be connected. Could not contact Blogger.com, says the message under this typing window. Saving and publishing may fail. Retrying . . .

Is that the mantra of techno times we live in, or what?

Vite VITE!

-30-

A Peace Tree for the Fenouillèdes

Peace Tree, St. Paul de Fenouillet, France (Pyrenées-Orientales)

"Not to replace the earlier-named Peace Tree of the Fenouillèdes (No. 1) or other previously-named Peace Trees but rather to enhance its value by locating the most prominent and stately of such Peace Trees, we the undersigned do hereby attest to the following:

"This conifer growing in the middle of a children's playground with a wishing well at its base (giving nourishment with all the wishes for peace) on the grounds of the train station of St. Paul de Fenouillet, the capital of the Fenouillèdes region of southern France (eastern Pyrenees) has been named a PEACE TREE by Grillman and Luna with the support of the whole gang at G. & L. Studios in honor of John Lennon and Yoko Ono and all those who have watched peace grow from tiny seeds.

Done this day and blah, blah, blah. "

Grillman bends over and whips out a pen and signs hands the typed statement and hands it to Santos Dumont who initials it and passes it on to the reporter and so on around the table. When Luna has initialed the Peace Tree Nomination, she stands and says, "Imagine."

-30-

To beef . . . or not (to beef)

taureau camarguais

Luna holds up the photograph of the taureau camarguais (Taureau of the Camargue) that she took a couple of years back, when she and Grillman were living in an apartment overlooking the fishing port in Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. She has just read an article in the Guardian on the ethics and the ecopolitics of eating meat, beef especially, given the destructive effects on the environment and world health of beef as a major food, and she is thinking.

Given the rising concern -- and for good reason! -- about beef as a food for the masses, should I look forward to preparing a good daube de taureau once again, or never? Well, yes. I think so. When we go back there to viisit again. Cattle raised in a nature preserve -- which the whole Camargue is -- and totally part of the regional way of life which hasn't changed much in centuries with the herds restricted in size by the number that can be raised on the available land, much of which is good for nothing else anyway, this is okay. This meets the tough standards of slow food, a food source that stands up to ethical scrutiny.

"Whatcha frowning about?" asks Grillman, looking up from the papers spread out on the table across the room.

"Nothing. I was just looking at this picture of the Camargue taureau and thinking about beef and what it's doing to us."

"I think that unless you've met the animal personally, you shoulsn't --"

"Let's plan a week in the Camargue as soon as the summer rush is over."

"For the Fête du Riz in September."

"Yes, like the old days."

 

"Get us an apartment overlooking the port."

"You bet!"

"Get us some taureau cuts from the boucher in Saintes-Maries."

"Now you're talking. We've always talked about doing an episode of the cooking show from there."

"And . . . fire up the grill?"

"You kidding? Phone 'em up and get us booked!"

-30-

PS. For the curious and exacting, the taureau camarguais shown in the photo is technically le dompteur, (also called simbeau or dountaïre) a castrated taureau who is given a bell (le redoun) to wear around his neck and serve as the leader for the rest of the herd, a kind of bovine guide, which is especially helpful to the Camargue cowboys (les gardiens) during roundups. Most of the time, however, the taureau herds are left to wander freely across the marshes and flatlands with little supervision or fencing. What a life.

(Source)

George Carlin Lives

I'm completely in favor of the separation of church and state. My idea is that these two institutions screw us up enough on their own, so both of them together is certain death.

George Carlin

Everybody has taken a seat around a table under the platanes at the Café and ordered a glass of wine or espresso and each one is just looking around and nobody is smiling. Santos Dumont is fiddling with a paper napkin, folding and unfolding it into ever more complex shapes. The reporter from THE WORLD has pulled out his notepad and is scribbling in it with his Bic. Luna begins adjusting the aperture and shutter speed settings on her camera. Grillman pulls a file folder of papers out of his satchel and begins thumbing through them with a nervous, nearly frantic intensity.

Wine and coffee arrive. Sugars are stirred. Sips are taken. Still nobody speaks.

Finally the WORLD reporter pipes up. "The good thing is, he will always be with us."

"Like Socrates," says Luna, "but better."

"How's that?" asks Grillman, pulling a printout from his file.

Santos Dumont answers. "Socrates we get by way of his student, Plato, who probably gives us his teacher more or less true, but still we've got to trust somebody with his own axe to grind.  With George, we've got him in his own voice and his own face with the records and the videos and the CDs."

"If," Luna adds, "we've got the courage to watch and listen."

For a moment, eyes are cast inward. A camping car from Belgium rumbles past, with a clamorous gang of kids on bicycles in its wake.

"Grillman passes photocopies around the table. "Many obits and essays of praise have been written and printed and posted. Here is one of the best: John Nichols, "George Carlin: American Radical," The Nation.

About that time the WORLD reporter stands up and addresses the group. "Well, for me, his best humor wasn't the overtly political."

"Like the baseball-football bit?" asks Grillman.

"Good example," replies the reporter. Then he sits down.

-30-

Life's a Parade . . . of Vignerons

In the shade of the platanes on the Place de la République on a hazy summer morning what else but the parade of vignerons headed out to the vineyards to spray the vines with bordelaise to stop the mildiou. The parade also includes tourists from Holland and Spain and everywhere in France. If you want to get to the Gorges de Galamus, you've got to pass through here.

Allez!

-30-