#panisse

[philoursmars]

Une longue série sur la bouffe, deuxième service ! Passons aux spécialités. Ici, la cuisine provençale et marseillaise (et donc, que dans des restos phocéens) :

un aïoli (je ne me souviens plus du resto)..aïoli ou ailloli ou aioli ou hayllaux lits...

des pieds-paquets chez "Madie-Les Galinettes". Pieds-paquets ou pieds paquets ou pieds et paquets ou...

Madrague-de-Montredon, "Chez Aldo" : aïoli pour Christine

voir 2 mais cette fois, des panisses avec du ris de veau

Vieux-Port, resto "Le Soleil" : bouillabaisse pour Philippe (et plancha pour moi)

[a-wonderful-christmastime]

Panisse Bruschetta

[nancydrewwouldnever]

RANDOM MUSING: For anyone who might be a "foodie."

This week I bought some used books at my local public library resale corner for $1 each. One is a soft cover version of Alice Waters' seminal Chez Panisse cookbook. I already have a hardback version, but want to replace it with an easier to use softback. I didn't really look at it when I picked it up at the library. When I got home, I opened it up to flip through. On the flyleaf I see:

For Ron. Alice Waters.

Handwritten in big black Sharpie.

LOL. So, for $1 I got a Alice Waters signed copy of Chez Panisse. Thank you, public library.

[odettecarotte]

Louise Glück, NYT

Louise Glück, photo by Charles S. Hertz

b. 1943

The Nobel-winning poet was pitiless to herself, yet fiercely generous toward her students.

By Amy X. Wang The New York Times

She stood barely five feet tall — slight, unassuming, you had to stoop low to kiss her cheek — but whenever Louise Glück stepped into a classroom, she shot a current through it. Students stiffened their spines, though what they feared was not wrath but her searing rigor: Even in her late 70s, after she won the Pulitzer and the National Humanities Medal and the Nobel, she always spoke to young writers with complete seriousness, as if they were her equals. “My first poem, she ripped apart,” says Sun Paik, who took Glück’s poetry class as a Stanford undergraduate. “She’s the first person whom I ever received such a brutal critique from.” Mark Doty, a National Book Award-winning poet who studied under Glück in the 1970s at Goddard College, felt that she “represented total authenticity and complete honesty.” This, he recalls, “pretty much scared me half to death.”

Spare, merciless, laser-precise: Glück’s signature style as a writer. It was there from an early age. Born in 1943 to a New York family of tactile pragmatists (her father helped invent the X-Acto knife), Glück, a preternaturally self-competitive child, was constantly trying to whittle away at her own perceived shortcomings. When she was a teenager, she developed anorexia — that pulverizing, paradoxical battle with both helplessness and self-control — and dropped to 75 pounds at 16. The disorder prevented her from completing a college degree. Many of the poems Glück wrote in her early 20s flog her own obsessions with, and failures in, control and exactitude. Her narrators are habitués of a kind of limitless wanting; her language, a study in ruthless austerity. (A piano-wire-taut line tucked in her 1968 debut, “Firstborn”: “Today my meatman turns his trained knife/On veal, your favorite. I pay with my life.”) In her late 20s, Glück grew frustrated with writing and was prepared to renounce it entirely.

So she took, in 1971, a teaching job at Goddard College. To her astonishment, being a teacher unwrapped the world — it bloomed anew with possibility. “The minute I started teaching — the minute I had obligations in the world — I started to write again,” Glück would confess in a 2014 interview. Working with young minds quickly became a sort of nourishment. “She was profoundly interested in people,” says Anita Sokolsky, a friend and colleague from Williams College, where Glück began teaching in 1984. “She had a vivid and unstinting interest in others’ lives that teaching helped focus for her. Teaching was very generative to her writing, but it was also a kind of counter to the intensity and isolation of her writing.”

Glück’s own poems became funnier and more colloquial, marrying the control she earlier perfected with a new, unexpected levity (in her 1996 poem “Parable of the Hostages”: “What if war/is just a male version of dressing up”), and it is her later books, like the lauded “The Wild Iris” from 1992, that made her a landmark literary figure. Teaching also coaxed out a new facet in Glück herself: that of a devoutly unselfish mentor, a tutor of unbridled kindness.

A less fastidious writer and thinker may have made their teaching duties rote — proffering uniformly encouraging feedback or reheating a syllabus year after year. Glück, though, threw herself into guiding pupils with the same care and intimacy she gave to her own verses. “There was just this voraciousness, this generosity,” says Sally Ball, who met Glück while studying with her at Williams and remained close with her for the three decades until her death. “Every time I moved, she put me in touch with people in that new place. She enjoyed bringing people to know each other and sharing the things she loved.” And as a teacher, Ball says, “Louise was really clear that you have to make yourself change. You can’t just keep doing the same things over and over again.” In that spirit of boundless self-advancement, Glück also taught herself to love cooking and eating. She once hand-annotated a Marcella Hazan recipe and mailed it to Ball, with sprawling commentary on how best to prepare rosemary. “She’s very beautiful and elegant, right,” Ball says, but “we’d go to Chez Panisse and sit down and she eats with gusto. It’s messy, she’s mopping her hands around on the plate.”

Paik recalls spending hours each week decoding Glück’s dense, cursive comments on her work. “I was 19 or 20,” she says, “writing these scrappy, honestly pretty bad poems, and to have them be received with such care and detail — it pushed me to become a better writer because it set a standard of respect.”

“She was 78, and whenever she talked about poetry, it felt like the first time she’d encountered poetry,” says Shangyang Fang, who met Glück when he was at Stanford on a writing fellowship. Glück offered to edit his first poetry collection, and the pair became close friends. “She would talk about a single word in my poem for 10 minutes with me,” Fang says. Evenings would go late. They cooked for each other sometimes, spending hours talking vegetables and spices, poetry and idle gossip. “By the end, I couldn’t thank her enough, and she said: ‘Stop thanking me! I am a predator, feeding on your brain!’”

[camilledecussac]

[studioahead]

Alice Waters and Fanny Singer: Northern California Legacy Spotlight

Alice Waters needs no introduction but we'll introduce her anyway. In 1971, back from travels in the UK, France and Turkey, and channeling the counterculture, she opened Chez Panisse in Berkeley. The restaurant quickly became an icon of the farm-to-table movement with its menu of seasonal ingredients sourced directly from local farmers. Waters has remained at its forefront, expanding the movement through projects like Edible Schoolyard and the Chez Panisse Foundation. Despite her global success, Waters is for us one of Northern California’s true visionaries of the local, and it is hard to imagine our regional cuisine without her.

We spoke with Alice alongside her daughter Fanny Singer, an accomplished art critic, writer, new mom, and founder of Permanent Collection, a line of handcrafted homeware that tells the stories of the people who make each piece.

Studio AHEAD: How do you sit?

Alice Waters: I sit at the table and I like to sit in a chair. I love to be in front of the fireplace. It’s very important to be seated at a table. It can be oval or round. It doesn’t matter as long as everybody’s there together.

Fanny Singer: Sitting is something I either do a lot of or very little depending on the day. I have a one-and-a-half-year-old and spend a lot of time cajoling her at dinnertime into her seat. It’s become a new topic of conversation: How do we sit? How do we actually eat? How do we commune over this meal, because that was a very significant part of my childhood.

But the last year-and-a-half of having a baby, you’re standing eating out of the refrigerator, and not taking a moment to sit because you’re in between things. Recently we’ve made a real point to sit together with [Fanny’s daughter] Cecily, who loves to eat thankfully. We sit on either side of her and light candles, which she loves. She goes “candles, candles, candles” if we forget. So after a year-and-a-half of very frenzied never sitting down for a proper meal, we’ve reintroduced a real sense of ritual in how we wind down from our day and enjoy this moment of communal eating together.

Studio AHEAD: I love that both of you have fire—Alice with the fireplace and Fanny with the candles. It’s warmth. Fire always has that effect of calming.

Alice: I light candles, too! It’s the beauty of the light. When you light a candle at the table it’s like a ritual. You all are there. And in candlelight everyone looks good.

Studio AHEAD: Do ideas of space—of people being together in a room, whether at one of your restaurants or at home—influence your approach to cooking? To laying out a menu?

Alice: I love the connection between the kitchen and the dining room. It means that the people who are dining [at Chez Panisse] can see where their food comes from, and they can watch if they want to go into the kitchen. Just take a peek before they sit down. They're welcome. It’s not like you’re trying to hide something. There’s a big fireplace in the kitchen, so most people do want to take a look.

Fanny: I’m so fascinated by that question in terms of thinking about it relative to what is cooked. Permanent Collection recently launched a new project called the Platter Project. Most of the products that we make are kept in stock. We reissue them. The idea is to keep good design readily available. But we thought it would be nice to work in a more limited-edition capacity with artists and artisans to make something that stood apart from a design perspective or just felt different.

When I was thinking about the form that this idea could take, the platter was the only idea that made sense. There is something about that shape, generally oval or circular or round, that has this sense of generosity and compatibility with food. It’s the way we plate and the way that plates then convey accessibility: a round plate can be reached into and served out of from every side. There's always a family-style relationship to service and dining in our families and also at Chez Panisse.

I mean even the downstairs, which is more formal, doesn't feel like there's not a permeability. There’s an invitation to taste and share that’s always been the philosophy when I cook, too. My tables and those spaces in which I've cooked have varied widely over the course of my life, from graduate school kitchens—tiny, fluorescently lit spaces that my mom suffered through visits to, but always brought candles—to the home that I live in now in Los Angeles. I feel like platters and those shapes that we bring to the table are transcendent. There’s always a beauty to be found in how we bring food to the table.

Alice: I always love a big bowl of usually a fruit in the middle of the table. Whatever is in season. It’s full of oranges right now, apples. You’re probably going to eat some of it at some point but it’s so nice to see something beautiful when you sit down.

Studio AHEAD: I love at Chez Panisse you have the copper plate with the fruit for dessert. It’s an invitation to sharing. It’s changing boundaries.

We recently did an interview with Nobuto Suga who talked about different trees suggesting different objects to make with them and being true to the local wood. Fanny, I think this relates to Permanent Collection with your focus on the people who make what you sell.

Fanny: Absolutely. It was the raison d'etre of what we do: to bring the people who craft the things that we make into the foreground. It’s what distinguishes not just Permanent Collection, but any products that are artisanally produced and not mass manufactured. It’s evidence of the hand that makes the things.

The Japanese ceramicist who makes our beautiful green ceramic plates… the plates are immaculate, but there's always some slight difference. There's not a sense of them being pressed into a mold by a machine and turned out in perfect uniformity.

It’s the wabi sabi approach to setting the table and thinking about the things that you're putting into your mouth and the context in which they are delivered to you—the ethos around production for us absolutely stems from that. You want to understand the hand that's behind the carrots as much as you want to know the story of the hand behind the dishes.

Alice: Of course, the color of the dishes is always important to me. What I'm putting on the plate is enhanced by the color of the plate. It’s great to have all different shapes and cups. I like those charming irregularities.

Fanny: That’s always been the defining philosophy of Chez Panisse: that very, very little needs to happen on the culinary side of things if what you're cooking with has been grown by people who are working in concert with nature, and that that connection between the people who grow the food and the natural world is something that you can taste, becomes manifest on the plate.

Studio AHEAD: Fanny, you have a PhD in art history. Has this guided how you choose which craftspeople to work with? The sculptural quality of the pieces is undeniable. I'm also curious about the name Permanent Collection, because so much of what the farm to table movement pays attention to is seasons. It's the opposite of permanent.

Fanny: I think I would quarrel with that or at least say there isn’t an exact one-to-one correlation in terms of how we think of the permanence of what we have on the table versus the perennial or the always changing nature of nature and agriculture.

There’s a deep sustainability infused in both, to have things that are heirloom quality that will last forever in your home. Objects that can be passed down from generation to generation are truly in tune with nature in the same way that tending the land and caring for the land displays that same respect and reverence for not wasting, not extracting totally.

That said, how could my PhD not play into it? I mean, I spent the better part of my professional life thinking about art and writing about it. Not just in my PhD, but also as an arts critic and culture reporter. It's part of what drew Mariah Nielson and I to one another. What first started Permanent Collection was this idea that we had really honed our sensibility and also sensitivity to what makes good design and good art. There was something in all that cumulative time of observing and learning that gave us maybe not a talent per se but an openness and an ability to discern what makes something feel like it might be timeless or it might resist trends or fads. That’s where the permanent in Permanent Collection comes in. It was meant to echo that ethos that governs how things are brought into the permanent collection of museums.

They have to stand. They have to prove they will stand the test of time and that they will be good examples of design at a certain time. They will teach us about what people cared about in that moment. 

Alice: I think about what I’m using in my everyday life and people think that there are some things that are too precious to use. You put them in a cabinet over there, you never drink out of those beautiful glasses or one of them might break. I just feel like it's such a shame to not remember the person who gave it to you.

I'm just holding this sterling spoon. It was given to me by a friend in Ireland, and every time I use it, I think about her.  The same way with my cafe au lait bowls; they're all different, but they come to me at different times in my life from different people. They always bring me a kind of sense of comfort and connection. I love that.

I think what Fanny's doing with Permanent Collection is helping to make that available to people in their everyday lives: the colors that they choose… to bring that beauty back to the table.

Studio AHEAD: Can you share a memory you have with a specific kitchen tool?

Alice: I think it’s a mortar and pestle for me because I make, every day probably, a vinaigrette. I always take a little bit of garlic and use that Japanese mortar and pestle that's grooved. Then I put my vinegar in, let it marry, calm the garlic down.

Fanny: Of course mine is the same tool. We made a mortar and pestle called Alice's Mortar and Pestle, which was an homage to the ones that were ever present in my mother's kitchen. The one that we make for Permanent Collection is made by a wonderful potter in Northern California called Colleen Hennessey.

I make salad dressing in it on a daily basis. It is also a tool that has this relationship to the huge mortar and pestle of Lulu Peyraud at Domaine Tempier who is my mom's mentor and a kind of surrogate grandmother to me. She used her mortar and pestle every day, too.

It was a much more rustic, almost molcajete-looking mortar and pestle, and she would use it to make aioli. She would pound the garlic and then bring the whisk. I think she would use the old school technique of whisking the olive oil with a little piece of potato on the end of a fork. [Alice laughs.] At least I remember seeing her doing that when I was little. There were so many other sauces that she would make in there, whether it was pounded anchovies or black olive tapenade. Or the monkfish liver, bready, aioli-y, delicious sauce that's made to add into bouillabaisse.

Studio AHEAD: Alice, you’ve spoken many times about the influence the Montessori School had on you. How do you follow recipes while also being open to experiment and imagination?

Alice: I have to say that I'm not somebody who follows recipes. I mean, I learned to cook from French cookbooks, but very, very simple ones like Elizabeth David's and Richard Olney's books. I liked knowing I could look at a longer recipe if I wanted to, like Julia Childs who could make it work.

But I'm looking mostly at the ingredient and what it needs to make it really something special at the table. Maybe it's just a tomato and needs vinaigrette, but maybe it wants to be stewed or made into a sauce. I'm sort of just letting the food speak to me.

Maria Montessori’s greatest gift was understanding that our senses are pathways into our minds. When you're not touching and tasting and smelling and looking at beautiful things… she wondered why the children who lived in poverty and hunger back in the 1880s didn't learn the way other children did in school. She created a way of learning by doing, a way of engaging children at a very early age with smell and taste and touch.

Studio AHEAD: This leads to my last question, which is that recently in a New York Times interview you talked about the tactile richness of food. Are you telling us to eat with our hands?

Alice: I certainly am! I don’t think I can eat a salad with a fork. I'm always picking up the leaves and putting them in my mouth. But there is something absolutely important about feeling and not just fruit. Just being able to touch the ingredient, like a string bean and dip it into the aioli or whatever you're doing and you're engaged in a very immediate way. You're not letting that fork in between you and the food. I eat that way all the time, even at the restaurant when I'm a guest. I think people around the world have always used their hands in some way when they're at the table. Something about the fork can get in the way.

Studio AHEAD: I love that. The fork can get in the way. That's my new motto when I'm eating with my hands. 

Fanny: That's also Cecily’s motto!

Studio AHEAD: I was going to say. How has it been watching Cecily eat? Are you eating with your hands more?

Fanny: Absolutely. I'm not sure I ever stopped with my hands.  Our family has always been a family of picking food up and touching it and sort of getting a sense of it. The tactility of it is the most immediate reaction. To pick up a lettuce leaf and to try it, or even when you're cooking a steak you're touching it to see, Is it done? Is it too rare? I watched my mom cook by finger-feel almost more than with implements in a way. It was the intuition around whether something was properly prepared or not.

So fingers are important utensils in our house. Cecily is learning how to use spoons or what she calls "boons." I'm not trying to rush her. There's a lot of intelligence in the tactility and the feeling of texture that helps you understand whether something is juicy or dry or liquid or solid.

I think it's part of the education of how you use your senses and how you eat.

Photos by Ekaterina Izmestieva

[imtraveluv]

where the serveware at Chez Panisse is made and sold

[allwaysfull]

Chez Panisse Cooking | Paul Bertolli with Alice Waters

[thevisualvamp]

Let’s eat

[pouringforever]

Chez Panisse ratatouille with crispy capers, fried sourdough & a rich, thick and spicy aïoli.

What I really really wanted was to go to my favourite bakery on sunday and get one of their crusty baguettes - the best in the city - and have a ratatouille & aïoli sandwich, but they didn't make any that morning. C'est la vie.

[deadpanwalking]

“No, I brought my own food. I brought pieces of lightly fried whiting. Chicken schnitzels in an egg batter. Tomatoes, which I ate like apples. Fried cauliflower. Pickled garlic. Marinated peppers, though these could be leaky. Sliced lox. Salami. If plain old sandwiches, then with spiced kebabs where your turkey would be. Soft fruit bruises easily, but what better inter-meal snacks than peaches and plums? (You needed inter-meal snacks, just in case.)

[...]

One of the few things that seem to make Americans even more uncomfortable than being very close to each other for six hours in cramped quarters is when the next person over keeps pulling tinfoil bundles smelling sharply of garlic out of his rucksack. (I was kicked out of a bed once for radiating too much garlic under the covers. It was my father’s fault, I tried to explain—in America he had converted to saltless cooking, and now garlic was his one-to-one substitute; I had just had dinner with my parents. “Downstairs,” she commanded.) With the extra peripheral vision that is a kind of evolutionary adaptation for refugees, persecuted people, and immigrants, I would sense, on the plane, sideways glances of savage, disturbed curiosity. Sometimes I swiveled and committed the unpardonable sin of gazing directly at my neighbor, whereupon her eyes broadened, her forehead rose, and the rictus of a stunned smile overtook her agony.

Sometimes we ate raw onions like apples, too, I wanted to tell her. Sometimes, the tinfoil held shredded chicken petrified in aspic. A fish head to suck on! I was filled with shame and hateful glee: everything I was feeling turned out at the person next to me.

I was the one with an uncut cow’s tongue uncoiling in the refrigerator of his undergraduate quad, my roommates’ Gatorades and half-finished pad Thai keeping a nervous distance. I sliced it thinly, and down it went with horseradish and cold vodka like the worry of a long day sloughing off, those little dots of fat between the cold meat like garlic roasted to paste.

I am the one who fried liver. Who brought his own lunch in an old Tupperware to his cubicle in the Condé Nast Building; who accidentally warmed it too long, and now the scent of buckwheat, stewed chicken, and carrots hung like radiation over the floor, few of whose inhabitants brought lunch from home, fewer of whom were careless enough to heat it for too long if they did, and none of whom brought a scent bomb in the first place. Fifteen floors below, the storks who staffed the fashion magazines grazed on greens in the Frank Gehry cafeteria.

I was the one who ate mashed potatoes and frankfurters for breakfast. Who ate a sandwich for breakfast. Strange? But Americans ate cereal for dinner. Americans ate cereal, period, that oddment. They had a whole thing called “breakfast for dinner.” And the only reason they were right and I was wrong was that it was their country.

The problem with my desire to pass for native was that everything in the tinfoil was so fucking good. When the world thinks of Soviet food, it thinks of all the wrong things. Though it was due to incompetence rather than ideology, we were local, seasonal, and organic long before Chez Panisse opened its doors. You just had to have it in a home instead of a restaurant, like British cooking after the war, as Orwell wrote. For me, the food also had cooked into it the memory of my grandmother’s famine; my grandfather’s black-marketeering to get us the “deficit” goods that, in his view, we deserved no less than the political VIPs; all the family arguments that paused while we filled our mouths and our eyes rolled back in our heads. Food was so valuable that it was a kind of currency—and it was how you showed love. If, as a person on the cusp of thirty, I wished to find sanity, I had to figure out how to temper this hunger without losing hold of what fed it, how to retain a connection to my past without being consumed by its poison.”

Boris Fishman, Savage Feast: Three Generations, Two Continents, and a Dinner Table (a Memoir with Recipes)

[philoursmars]

Marseille. Le Quai du Port : l’Ancre d’Odessa, le Resto “Chez Madie” avec de délicieux poivrons grillés et des ris de veau avec des panisses ! (miam !!). Ensuite les arcades des immeubles de Pouillon, et sur l’Hôtel de Ville, une évocation des rafles, déportations et dynamitage des vieux quartiers de Saint-Jean en 1943....

[dandelionmoss]

what if instead of "chez panisse" it was spelt "chez penis". lol

[whiteshipnightjar]

Does art make a difference?

Aw, sure. Of course there are degrees of extremity to the potential change that art can effect, depending on how many people are able to engage with it. The Beatles made a huge difference in the world. But Henry Darger, Jeff McKissack, Karen Dalton, Pauline Oliveros, Kenneth Patchen – there are so many folks who have made great art and not gotten massively famous for it, yet I think there are all sorts of ways their work informs and shapes other people’s work, and brains, and decisions.

Should politics and art mix?

Well, everything mixes, the New Statesman! That’s like asking if a knee-reflex hammer and a quadriceps tendon should “mix”.

Is your work for the many or for the few?

That’s for the many/few to say. I just crank out the hot jams.

If you were world leader, what would be your first law?

Gravity. I feel like we need to tighten up the constitutional protections that particular law enjoys. It’s a ticking time bomb, if you ask me.

Who would be your top advisers?

Cute angel on one shoulder, cute devil on the other.

What, if anything, would you censor?

Maybe we could all agree to not bust each other’s chops all cut-dang day.

If you had to banish one public figure, who would it be?

Don’t know, banishment might be a little extreme, but I’d sure like to take that Stephen Hawking dude down a notch or two. Right? Are you with me?

What are the rules that you live by?

Basically, “bros before hos”. I feel like if you stay true to that, everything else just kind of falls into place.

Do you love your country?

I love William Faulkner, Dolly Parton, fried chicken, Van Dyke Parks, the Grand Canyon, Topanga Canyon, bacon cheeseburgers with horseradish, Georgia O’Keeffe, Grand Ole Opry, Gary Snyder, Gilda Radner, Radio City Music Hall, Big Sur, Ponderosa pines, Southern BBQ, Highway One, Kris Kristofferson, National Arts Club in New York, Ruth Crawford Seeger, Joni Mitchell, Ernest Hemingway, Harriet Tubman, Hearst Castle, Ansel Adams, Kenneth Jay Lane, Yuba River, South Yuba River Citizens League, “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”, “Hired Hand”, “The Jerk”, “The Sting”, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, clambakes, lobster rolls, s’mores, camping in the Sierra Nevadas, land sailing in the Nevada desert, riding horseback in Canyon de Chelly; Walker Percy, Billie Holiday, Drag City, Chez Panisse/Alice Waters/slow food movement, David Crosby, Ralph Lauren,San Francisco Tape Music Center, Albert Brooks, Utah Phillips, Carol Moseley Braun, Bolinas CA, Ashland OR, Lawrence KS, Austin TX, Bainbridge Island WA, Marilyn Monroe, Mills College, Elizabeth Cotton, Carl Sandburg, the Orange Show in Houston, Toni Morrison, Texas Gladden, California College of Ayurvedic Medicine, Louis Comfort Tiffany, Saturday Night Live, Aaron Copland, Barack Obama, Oscar de la Renta, Alan Lomax, Joyce Carol Oates, Fred Neil, Henry Cowell, Barneys New York, Golden Gate Park, Musee Mechanique, Woody Guthrie, Maxfield Parrish, Malibu, Maui, Napa Valley, Terry Riley, drive-in movies, homemade blackberry ice cream from blackberries picked on my property, Lil Wayne, Walt Whitman, Halston, Lavender Ridge Grenache from Lodi CA, Tony Duquette, Julia Morgan, Lotta Crabtree, Empire Mine, North Columbia Schoolhouse, Disneyland, Nevada County Grandmothers for Peace; Roberta Flack, Randy Newman, Mark Helprin, Larry David, Prince; cooking on Thanksgiving; Shel Siverstein, Lee Hazlewood, Lee Radziwill, Jackie Onassis, E.B. White, William Carlos Williams, Jay Z, Ralph Stanley, Allen Ginsberg, Cesar Chavez, Harvey Milk, RFK, Rosa Parks, Arthur Miller, “The Simpsons”, Julia Child, Henry Miller, Arthur Ashe, Anne Bancroft, The Farm Midwifery Center in TN, Martha Graham, Alvin Ailey, Jr., Eleanor Roosevelt, Clark Gable, Harry Nilsson, Woodstock, and some other stuff. Buuuut, the ol’ U S of A can pull some pretty dick moves. I’m hoping it’ll all come out in the wash...

Are we all doomed?

If we keep our expectations pretty low I think we might be fine. I mean, we’re definitely all dying at some point. There’s no getting around that. But between now and then, things might start looking up!

— Joanna Newsom for The New Statesman, 2008

[france-cinema]

César, Marcel Pagnol, Raimu, 1936.

Dernier volet de la Trilogie marseillaise, le film bénéficie d'un considérable succès populaire. Unique long-métrage de la trilogie à être réalisé par Marcel Pagnol. Il succède aux deux volets du triptyque après Marius sorti en 1931 et Fanny sorti en 1932.

Synopsis : Fanny, abandonnée par Marius, épouse Panisse qui adopte Césariot, l’enfant de l’amour, et l’élève comme son fils. Aujourd’hui, Césariot est adulte et Panisse se meurt. Fanny révèle la vérité à son fils qui décide alors de partir à la recherche de Marius, son père…

[importantwomensbirthdays]

Alice Waters

Alice Waters was born in 1944 in Chatham Borough, New Jersey. In 1971, Waters opened Chez Panisse, the first farm to table restaurant in the US. In 1992, the James Beard Foundation named her the "Best Chef in America", making her the first woman to achieve this honor. Waters also established the Edible Schoolyard Project, which has created food education programs in over 5,000 schools.

Image source: US Department of State