Thursday, September 24, 2009

Sanded snow

It took me quite some time to think of a proper name for this blog -- I'm terrible at naming my creative writing (as exemplified by the stark naked titles in my "Writing, etc" file folder). When I decided I was finally ready to really start working on this project, I asked my friend Lauren for some ideas on names. While I didn't go with any of her suggestions, I think they are funny, and certainly deserving of some online attention. I told her:

Also... I'm trying to start a blog, if not as a road to Fame and Fortune, so much as a way to keep myself writing every day, but I can't think of a good name for it. Something food related, perhaps literary. You're always so clever with things like that. Any suggestions?

And she replied:

i am really into the job you gave me. when i am on the subway i try to think of good blog names. I don't really know what blog names are like which might put me at a disadvantage. i keep thinking of food and literary ones but then i dont want your million readers to think it is a daily thread about that. This is what I have come up with so far:
Over Easy
Fresh Out of the Oven
Shitake Scout
Jolan and the Giant Truffle
I Say Nah BA Kahv You Say Tomato
Poached Prose
Major Major Major Blog

Not going with "Major Major Major Blog" was hard, and perhaps the only reason I didn't pick "I Say Na BA Kahv You Say Tomato" was that I don't say Na BA Kahv. I say NA Ba Kahv, which is wrong, I know, but I figure he's not going to correct me.

I did, however, go with something from him, from one of my favorite pieces of food writing -- from a man who was not, by any means, a food writer.


from Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle, Vladimir Nabokov

Van drank a glass of milk and suddenly felt such a wave of delicious exhaustion invading his limbs that he thought he'd go straight to bed. "Tant pis," said Ada, reaching voraciously for the keks (English fruit cake). "Hammock?" she inquired; but tottering Van shook his head, and having kissed Marina's melancholy hand, retired.

"Tant pis," repeated Ada, and with invincible appetite started to smear butter all over the yolk-tinted rough surface and rich incrustations -- raisins, angelica, candied cherry, cedrat -- of a thick slice of cake.

Mlle Larivière, who was following Ada's movements with awe and disgust, said:

"Je rêve. Il n'est pas possible qu'on mette du beurre par-dessus toute cette pâte britannique, masse indigeste et immonde."

"Et ce n'est que la premi
ère tranche," said Ada.

"Do you want a sprinkle of cinnamon on your lait caillé?" asked Marina. "You know, Belle," (turning to Mlle
Larivière), "she used to call it 'sanded snow' when she was a baby."

"She never was a baby," said Belle emphatically. "She could break the back of her pony before she could walk."

"I wonder," asked Marina, "how many miles you rode to have our athlete drained so thoroughly."

"Only seven," said Ada with a munch smile.


For those of you who are not fluent in French, as I am not, the following translations come from Vivian Darkbloom's notes:

tant pis: too bad.

rêve etc.: I must be dreaming. It cannot be that anyone should spread butter on top of all that indigestible and vile British dough.

et ce n'est que etc.: and it is only the first slice.

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