An elementary school student's self-illustrated variation on a pudding-based British folk tale. Community-published in Ipswich, MA, 1970s. 

The Elephant and Butter contended with an emu egg a few weeks back. The placard next to the egg at the grocer recommended using a power drill to crack through the obdurate shell, which seemed like a direct provocation. So I amassed a range of implements, including some good people, a chef's knife, a 16-inch plumber's crescent wrench, and a Ryobi 14.4-volt power drill, to see just what it would take to penetrate the ovate spheroid. Turns out, not much; the blunt edge of the knife sufficed. Which is too bad, because I was really hoping to wrangle the drill. Anyway, the brunch proceeded thusly:

emu egg | {1, sunny side up, with goat cheese and chives}

sauce gribiche | {cornichons, capers, shallot, lemon, etc.}

potatoes | {cubed & fried with curry, rosemary}

ham | {stripes, fried}

coffee | {elementary}

Around this time, I devised a new motto: "Gout By Tomorrow!" That era, however, is over. Now go watch this:

I'll tell you what: when the indignities of existence start to pile up, when you have nothing but untoward pebbles in your shoes, when your well has run dry and you begin to miss your water, there is a pretty good thing you can do: smell saffron. That's what I do. I have a small, corked bottle of crocus stigmas I open and smell when the occasion calls for it. The sharp red air clears out all that needs clearing. It's pretty good in banana pepper risotto, too.

Surveillance from the hard boiled egg detective's office downtown. If I remember correctly, which I seldom do, this was a lunch. Sourdough rye toast, egg, and sparrowgrass. 

The Elephant and Butter, as you may know, has co-founded a film festival. Confounded a film festival! Confab a flimsy vestibule! Cuffed a fish Vesuvius! Co-funded Vin Diesel! 

Tickets are running out. They are priced quite anti-capitalistically.

The Elephant and Butter has acquired anchovies, yet does not really eat anchovies. There are so few pull-tab tins in my life, though, it seemed worth bringing home. It is very probable that the anchovies will be deposited furtively on the shelf of a local boutique when I tire of the tin. Dada shopping.

The Elephant and Butter has been underground lately, in the basement stacks of the local library. There resides a substantial subterranean vault cookbook section aisle, and I've been borrowing volumes one by one. The other night I took Suzanne Goin's "Sunday Suppers at Lucques" over to the coffee shop and copied down recipes. Though I was tempted to try the recipe for ragoût of morels with crème fraîche, if only because of all those attractive little grave and circumflex marks hovering above the words, I opted instead for the parmesan pudding. The savory custard very quickly took a turn toward pecorino romano, though, because that's what the refrigerator dictated.  I also cracked pepper and scattered some thyme on top. Custard in itself, you see, offers few surface effects. The taste of this savory version, though: salvific. 

Probably, everyone has a nemesis word. By this, I mean a word that lurks in one's life, easy to misspell or easy to mispronounce. Until very recently, one of mine was Renaissance. For some synaptic reason I will probably never understand, it took me far, far, too many years to stop imagining that word having a helluva lot more Ns than it does. I only mention it because there's a pretty great collection of Renaissance kitchen illustrations here. And to convey the fact, dear reader, I had to spell it.

Food preparation with Little Richard, as sung in 'The Girl Can't Help It':

If she walks by, the men folks get engrossed/

If she winks an eye, the bread slice turns to toast.

From The Blood Oranges, by John Hawkes:

None of the bitter aged and none of that arrogant handful of the contemptuous youth have tasted the love lunch, for instance, or know anything at all about the sexual properties of my golden wheels of ripe cheese.

That John Hawkes sure knows how to pack a lunch, doesn't he? Meanwhile, after a lunch of dubious cafeteria curry, my stomach sounds like it's housing a family of pigeons. I would call it a dovecote, but that word is far too comely for the ominous din below.