The Taste of Failure

I have made several photogenic dishes this month. Unfortunately they’ve been unspectacular at best, downright bin-able at worst. It’s discouraging, but not the first time I’ve tasted failure. 

One of my more memorable disasters was a Persian inspired stew served on a bed of kasha. Visions of genies and magic carpets danced in my head. I made it for a team of friends who had graciously given up their weekend to help us build a deck. Mike sampled it and decided that “It tastes like camel dung”. An odd appraisal from a nice boy from Burlington.

I enjoy the challenge of planning meals around ingredients left over from other dishes. What to do with half an eggplant, the last cup of buttermilk, a few tablespoons of mascarpone nearing their best before date? What about a bowl of green tomatoes? Harrowsmith Magazine promised me that they could be turned into a convincing imitation of an apple pie. My then husband reacted as if I was playing Livia to his Augustus. (Rumour has it she fed him plums painted with poison.) I assure you, he is alive and well. Somewhere. . .

Sometimes I go overboard trying to make everything from scratch, which brings us to The Lasagne of Infamy. How I laboured on it. I even made the pasta. I was attempting an authentic Italian meal with a pasta course before the secondo.  I froze it ahead, baked and served it up to my six guests. Of course, I was the last one to sit down. I had a forkful in happy anticipation. Why, I asked, had no one said it was still frozen in the middle? “I thought it was supposed to be frozen.” Years later the lasagne popsicle is still not trending, #CanadiansR2polite.

I’m endeavouring to learn French from Duolingo on my iPad. Every once in a while the little green owl logo pops up to remind me that “You’re learning when you make mistakes.” Bien sur. Thank goodness, with the addition of a little time, failure tastes funny. 

A smorgasbord of essays and a murder

Daphne Merkin’s The Fame Lunches has something for everyone as hinted by the subtitle: On Wounded Icons, Money, Sex, The Brontes, and the Importance of Handbags. Merkin is admirably honest and has an impressive knowledge of history, literature, pop culture, and herself. Even essays with the most seemingly superficial premise pack a punch.

Gyles Brandreth’s Oscar Wilde and The Candlelight Murders is the first in a series of six books featuring the real life poet Robert Sherard as Oscar Wilde’s Watson. I made it all the way through Richard Ellmann’s encyclopedic biography of Wilde (he even tells you the price and colour of some drinking glasses Wilde bought for his rooms at Oxford). It is a wonderful piece of scholarship. The Candlelight Murders brings Wilde to life. It’s an utterly convincing portrayal of this maddeningly mercurial man. I will be reading all six.

P.S. A Halloween Bonus

Saturday I stumbled on Michelle Paver's latest book Thin Air - I haven't read it yet, but for Halloween may I recommend to you her wonderfully creepy Dark Matter.