Mad apples and English profs
Oct. 3rd, 2006 05:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
radfrac_archive_fullIt's my 33rd birthday in a month. Am I obligated to make that same-age-as-Jesus-when-he-died remark, or can I skip it?
Quince and Mad Apple Tart
"Mad Apple" because I used a combination of three or four different varieties from the stalls at the Moss St. Market, with the quince on top. I sauteed the quince in brown sugar and the apples in maple syrup. The quince was perfect; the apples could have been done just a little bit longer.
It turns out that quince sauteed in brown sugar and butter is sliced-up heaven. I can't say exactly what it tasted like. It tasted like quince. Tart. Notes of passionfruit, lemon, sharp apple. The farmer said it would turn pink when I cooked it, but it turned a deep gold, like proper custard powder when you pour in the milk.
The tart turned out brilliantly. It is possibly too much tart for two people who aren't daily pie eaters. I made it with custard, after the winter pear tart in the Moosewood Sundays cookbook. I mixed the custard part when I was drunk, so I was worried it wouldn't gel; but it is, if anything, a little extra firm, like I imagine a blancmange might be. I didn't want to distract with ginger or cinnamon, but I think it needs one flavour to bring the apple and quince together. Next time I will try nutmeg.
Or make me some less obvious suggestions. Saffron? Vanilla bean? Cayenne?
I'm going to be away for the Moss St. Market this weekend. Is anyone going? Can I put in a request for anyone who is to buy me every ripe quince they can get hold of? I will repay you in tarts of gold.
On Thursday, the titanic Sedgwick discussion with my professor takes place. In the lounge at the university cinema, in front of the popcorn stand. I'm trying to ignore how inauspicious that seems. I finished the 63-page introduction, but only by wanton skimming.
Speaking of the prof, Gay Men Read Books (Surprise)! is alive. There were six of us last night. Must be startup excitement. I was as usual the youngest by fifteen years. My professor is still resisting the tyrrany of shelves.
It was mostly an administrative meeting. Whether to meet once a month instead of twice, that kind of thing. We're reading Brokeback Mountain (extraordinary, but I have already read it) first, then Fresh Men (also already read and sort of boring), and then hopefully a novel by a Vancouver writer, The Age of Cities.
It's all very pleasant, but it makes me want to be back in school doing proper reading.
Ce prof has loaned me The Age of Cities and American Studies, a queer academic novel. I am loaning him Mauve Desert and Two Strand River.
I paused for a moment afterwards to arrange Thursday and ended up leaving something over an hour later. The excellent thing about a conversation with him is that you don't have to say anything. In fact you shouldn't. It just gets in the way of the torrent of knowledge that is yours to aspirate.
I did make an effort, but he went from American Studies to 18th-century printing methods to the mechanics of the Internet libraries database without taking a breath, and my observations were hopelessly quaint by the time I had the opportunity to make them.
Also, he is alarmingly learned. He caught me out a couple of times nodding and laughing with comradely erudition when I had no idea who he was talking about. Now I must make the quince face: :x Dead embarrassing.
Then he showed me his etchings. No, no, real etchings. From the 18th Century. I was quite giddy by the end of all that older male professorial attention. I made a terrible mess of looking at the etchings, I'm afraid. I completely failed to recognize the Rake's Progress. Ironic. He has this one, and the ink looks as brightly black as if it were printed yesterday. I exclaimed entirely involutarily over its beauty when I saw it; I hope that makes up for not having a clue what it was.
I was learning-intoxicated and bloody tired by the time I got home, as![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inlandsea and stitchinmyside can verify. My head would be completely turned were it not for the suspicion that any late visitor or hatstand would have received the same attentions.
Something very cool: Excellent Author Provides Inexpensive Opportunities to Become a Literary Patron. I kind of really really want to order a poem. From the livejournal: "elisem has set up a John M. Ford Memorial Endowment to buy books for his library in Minneapolis."
{rf}
Quince and Mad Apple Tart
"Mad Apple" because I used a combination of three or four different varieties from the stalls at the Moss St. Market, with the quince on top. I sauteed the quince in brown sugar and the apples in maple syrup. The quince was perfect; the apples could have been done just a little bit longer.
It turns out that quince sauteed in brown sugar and butter is sliced-up heaven. I can't say exactly what it tasted like. It tasted like quince. Tart. Notes of passionfruit, lemon, sharp apple. The farmer said it would turn pink when I cooked it, but it turned a deep gold, like proper custard powder when you pour in the milk.
The tart turned out brilliantly. It is possibly too much tart for two people who aren't daily pie eaters. I made it with custard, after the winter pear tart in the Moosewood Sundays cookbook. I mixed the custard part when I was drunk, so I was worried it wouldn't gel; but it is, if anything, a little extra firm, like I imagine a blancmange might be. I didn't want to distract with ginger or cinnamon, but I think it needs one flavour to bring the apple and quince together. Next time I will try nutmeg.
Or make me some less obvious suggestions. Saffron? Vanilla bean? Cayenne?
I'm going to be away for the Moss St. Market this weekend. Is anyone going? Can I put in a request for anyone who is to buy me every ripe quince they can get hold of? I will repay you in tarts of gold.
On Thursday, the titanic Sedgwick discussion with my professor takes place. In the lounge at the university cinema, in front of the popcorn stand. I'm trying to ignore how inauspicious that seems. I finished the 63-page introduction, but only by wanton skimming.
Speaking of the prof, Gay Men Read Books (Surprise)! is alive. There were six of us last night. Must be startup excitement. I was as usual the youngest by fifteen years. My professor is still resisting the tyrrany of shelves.
It was mostly an administrative meeting. Whether to meet once a month instead of twice, that kind of thing. We're reading Brokeback Mountain (extraordinary, but I have already read it) first, then Fresh Men (also already read and sort of boring), and then hopefully a novel by a Vancouver writer, The Age of Cities.
It's all very pleasant, but it makes me want to be back in school doing proper reading.
Ce prof has loaned me The Age of Cities and American Studies, a queer academic novel. I am loaning him Mauve Desert and Two Strand River.
I paused for a moment afterwards to arrange Thursday and ended up leaving something over an hour later. The excellent thing about a conversation with him is that you don't have to say anything. In fact you shouldn't. It just gets in the way of the torrent of knowledge that is yours to aspirate.
I did make an effort, but he went from American Studies to 18th-century printing methods to the mechanics of the Internet libraries database without taking a breath, and my observations were hopelessly quaint by the time I had the opportunity to make them.
Also, he is alarmingly learned. He caught me out a couple of times nodding and laughing with comradely erudition when I had no idea who he was talking about. Now I must make the quince face: :x Dead embarrassing.
Then he showed me his etchings. No, no, real etchings. From the 18th Century. I was quite giddy by the end of all that older male professorial attention. I made a terrible mess of looking at the etchings, I'm afraid. I completely failed to recognize the Rake's Progress. Ironic. He has this one, and the ink looks as brightly black as if it were printed yesterday. I exclaimed entirely involutarily over its beauty when I saw it; I hope that makes up for not having a clue what it was.
I was learning-intoxicated and bloody tired by the time I got home, as
inlandsea and stitchinmyside can verify. My head would be completely turned were it not for the suspicion that any late visitor or hatstand would have received the same attentions.Something very cool: Excellent Author Provides Inexpensive Opportunities to Become a Literary Patron. I kind of really really want to order a poem. From the livejournal: "
elisem has set up a John M. Ford Memorial Endowment to buy books for his library in Minneapolis."{rf}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jesusesque
Date: 2006-10-04 01:28 am (UTC)i don't feel more messianic than usual.
Re: jesusesque
Date: 2006-10-04 03:51 pm (UTC)I might be in town at the end of October. Plans? Rituals?
{rf}
no subject
Date: 2006-10-04 08:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-04 11:18 pm (UTC)It was a grey-haired bloke who sold them, and he had quince jelly recipes to give away. He was also selling apples and I think asian pears.
(Sorry, extra text got into the previous version of this comment, so I reposted it.)
{rf}
no subject
Date: 2006-10-08 07:39 am (UTC){rf}
no subject
Date: 2006-10-08 05:39 pm (UTC)I would love to come to an apple party!
Quince!
Date: 2006-10-08 05:46 pm (UTC)I will ask
{rf}