Magic Realism

What a moon. So much light I thought it was morning. The moon appears often in the work of Thomas Hart Benton, and Carter's work is hardly complete without a sliver. Probably means more than the passing of time. And the way figures are enjambed into the foreground. Again, with that implied narrative. You could put together a powerful show of Benton and Carter. I should have gone back to bed, but I spied the second bag of pistachios and got a short drink, rolled a smoke. I think about the anti-modern movement, how Benton and Carter should have gone into those ancient caves with Picasso and Braque. Eight ounces of pistachios is a serving size. I'm making a pate for the "Cream Of The Crop" opening, a forcemeat, actually, and I'll put them in that. Shallots, butter, wine, nuts, various spices including a pinch of a new green powder from New Mexico that reminds me of a period of time when Marilyn and I made different mustards almost every day. That's probably another story. Some slightly kinky things. The base of the pate will be the big three: equal parts chicken livers, mushrooms, and ground pork. All cooked separately with garlic and butter, and watercress, if I can find it, then processed together into a paste, smeared on crackers. In truth, a lot of people don't like this, but the people that do like it actually clamor for more. I'm promised single-malt scotch and a particular California zinfandel that my closest friends know makes me salivate. The problem is it trashes the kitchen. Every cast-iron skillet, the blender, all the bowls, it's a fucking mess. Takes me maybe two hours of solid attention to make this 'spread' and at least another hour, and five gallons of water, to clean up. What I think of as a dear product. I'll make it for myself maybe once or twice a year, and there are half a dozen people I'd make it for on request, because they'd have a duck, or just killed a pig, or had something they wanted to eat that they didn't know how to cook. Enough butter and I can make a spread from anything. Probably not that healthy, but I'm from that school that says it's probably better to occasionally indulge yourself. Let your hair down and tie one on, at least once in a while. Enjamb yourself into the foreground. Pistachios are not a meal, it's not brain surgery, nonetheless. We know we're going to die anyway. Paint that. I'm on a deadline here, it's already tomorrow.