How to live with a gourmet
Chapter 1. - How to get it
One could easily get the impression that living with a gourmet is something you order in an e-shop and you have a delicious woman with refined food at home by snapping your fingers. Or the other way round. I'll brake you right here and take away most of your hopes from most of you. To acquire such a woman, you must be born as an enjoyer of the highest caliber. I don't mean the fucking idiot of mafia parents with a golden band around his newborn's neck. I don't even mean a small thickness of two slightly grown-up fat, who will save everything that a fast-paced diet of fast time will bring to him on an aluminum tray. I mean a complete enjoyer of life, with everything that everyday twists and turns bring to each of us. Someone whose eyes glow over scrambled eggs at the age of three, a little boy in love with ordinary toasts with garlic, Easter dinners from his grandmother or just in kindergarten on a tray of served bread with a kind of spread. "Please add!". This was the phrase that made the future lucky winner of the inventive gourmet famous in the then still socialist facility for preschool children. It's still with me, and the metabolic god knows why I don't weigh three hundred pounds and I'm not writing a blog about food tightly tied to a bed in a facility for those who love food too much. It's a miracle. My absence in such a facility, as well as the miracle that I met her. It is said that it is the tuning of the brain that you bring what you need to life. What you are constantly thinking about will one day materialize into your everyday reality. Some conjure a Porsche, others a cancer. I honestly don't love Porsche at all, and with the hysteria of my own I try to survive on this planet as long as possible. That's why one day she came. Tell me, what kind of inheritance, personal history, and natural nature would you come up with to get the gourmet out of it? Some foundation, shake, do not stir, drip something restless Hungarian blood, a little thoughtful Czechness, a bucket of Slovak nature. In her youth, alone at home, reluctant to eat bluffs, alone with memories of her grandmother's hospitality, alone with the desire to prepare those ingenious goodies for someone. Then he comes, me. And he finds out that the best sirloin is not from candles, but from love. That behind each plate is a clock by the hob and thousands of small experiences, riddled with mistakes, anger, mistakes and the search for new ways and the search for the desire to start something again that has failed seven times. So I'm sitting here, I have before me, if God gives me, another portion of life, I have food in front of me, for which I would deservedly pay non-Christian money in the most honest restaurant, and I have it next to me. Sometimes it is moody and I immediately remember the necessary admixture of a nation with the most incomprehensible language, except perhaps Icelandic. Sometimes it is sincere when my eyes jump out of their sockets and I remember that without the Slovak nature, the mixture would lack some important ingredient. Sometimes she is pensive, and I realize how those pensive Czech mudrlans often roll the whole widescreen world with their ideas and performances. So you already know that. I have it at home and I enjoy my jackpot, which I won without betting on security. But I emphasized this at the beginning, it's all about being able to be born.
Chapter 2. - You can't eat that!
You've probably seen this before, for example in the movie. The disgusted painter, the master of the brush, looks at the jewel he has in front of him, which he drew from the depths of nothingness with art and passion to the surface of the canvas. Is he looking at what hordes of babrals would tear his hands apart and sellers from gold-plated galleries kissing bare feet and he? With a painful grin on his face, he stares at the horror in front of him, his stomach almost rising. How on earth could anyone create something like that, such disgust! He climbs from the ladder, tears the masterpiece with an angry hand and thus deletes his next entry in the Hall of Fame of Human History. So is my gourmet. Fortunately, he doesn't climb the ladder, but otherwise it's the same in pale green. "Well, that's awful!" He throws something on the table from which they could sit on their backs at least half the better pubs in the area. The mistress stumbles and does not fall off the table. It looks good, but I'm afraid to say it. Who am I that I should make such reviews. Who am I to argue with HER. I spit with a slight dose of self-confidence "it looks good". "All right ?! See! ”“ But it's not supposed to look good, it's supposed to look great! Plus, I salted it. ”I taste it. It's divine. I won't say it out loud. "Well, disgusting, isn't it?" I shake my head, "I like it a lot." "Well, that's clear, you'd eat everything." Basically, he's right, but that's not out of the question, is it? Just because I'm able to eat slush doesn't mean this slush is. He grins, obviously disagrees with my unspoken opinion, takes away the bowl and tries to do something about it. The next steps will only make the problem worse and I have to agree there, now it is impossible to eat. "I threw away a lot of great ingredients because of that." I am a little hungry and I would like the original content of the sad bowl, but it no longer exists. However, the new variant of the contents of the bowl is no longer just a recombined horror due to desperate interventions, it is no longer a slurry in the original exaggerated meaning of the word, now it is a slurry with artistic inclinations and it really is not possible. "I'd rather throw it out the window!" The goddess rages, and for a moment it looks like a three-story range bowl will whistle down in the yard in a few seconds. He throws it in the basket and takes out the sausages. "If those sausages stink last time, I don't know." Not only because of the sausages, I pray for the condition of the sausage and I prepare the mustard and horseradish on the table. The sausages eventually escape and the situation is over. Do you feel that this can be endured one day? In exchange for everyday treats of an unusual nature? You are partially right. The exchange really is here, but it is not true that this situation is repeated too infrequently. That's how you sit at work and suddenly the phone. "Do you know what I cooked today? How do you like that meat with rice and the kind of sauce I did last time. We just added cardamom there today. ”I smile at the phone and my forehead sweats a little. I nod that I'm looking forward to the afternoon, and as soon as I tap the phone, I hurry to see what cardamom is and whether it fits at least a little into "the meatball I like so much." , but this time I have to cut a deep compliment to my goddess from the kitchen and admit that this idea was again a masterpiece for a change. Yum. Just put it somewhere, so you know next time how she did it. Yeah Al that sounds pretty crap to me, Looks like BT aint for me either.
Chapter 3. - Blog
It is said that times are bad, but I think that some of the conveniences of electronic progress have definitely benefited us. For example, such a housewife of the last century, if she wanted to keep all her recipes in one place, with pictures, accompanying texts and still want to entertain listeners and spectators, would have to hang pictures of her treats around the fence of her own farm, thus obscuring the view of carrots, chives and onions. , she would then shout loudly at the observations in the village square or by the campfires, and the spectators would probably let such a housewife - a journalist - disappear somewhere in the woods under a needle. Today we have other options. The gourmet woman bounces between coq au vine, calf thymus and reducing demi-glation to a computer monitor, logs on and is already in her literary cinema. At the very beginning, he throws in a photo of how the preparation went, then describes it, humanity of recipes eager to appreciate the dramatic search for unavailable ingredients, the second photo of a bleeding finger, a description of how it happened, footage from the hospital, no, I'm exaggerating. It is true that one cannot bear everything in one's head. That if you want to repeat the pate, exactly the one you tuned to perfection for the tenth time, it's really good to have everything recorded together somewhere. Even with the difficulty of circling the markets, with the fingers cut and the photos of which the hottest roe deer smells the wildest of all the pâtés in the world. The right photo smells. Rum is punished around the Christmas table, chunks of bacon sizzling with excitement that we are already taking them out of the oven. When the gourmet sits with her feet on the table and deservedly blows away after a busy day and together we look at the culinary adventures embedded in the templates of the virtual world behind the computer, I always remember those housewives buried in the dark woods and express gratitude for something of the few deserves at least a slight applause. But not honestly, when I think about it now, I'm actually double lucky. Every look between the pages of my goddess' blog returns to me the experiences that I was lucky enough to have over the aforementioned wine cocker last May. Thanks to the blog and photos of cut fingers, you too can experience at least half of what I experience. Is it pride I'm going through now? I know, I should be ashamed. The pen is giggling between his fingers.
Chapter 4 - Food from kindergarten
You would see the repertoire of women, gourmets, in a very distorted way at first sight, believe me. Surely you imagine that we have at home for Sunday lunch a purple cube trembling with fear or consistency from side to side in the rhythm of a virtuoso swing, with each inclination threatening to fall into a splash of exotic fruit sauce, where splash doesn't really mean a plate full of sauce but a smudge on a plate as if he stumbles over a miniature clown in a manege and his feet, soaked in the color of a manga, slid across the floor. When my gourmet and I eat at home, we eat what we eat again, steaks in three-ball rather than fillety mignon, potato soup with mushrooms rather than shrimp bisque, and cheesecake tend to top the pestéis de nata. This is important for you to remember. Gourmet does not equal snob and extravagance is not the same as creativity. And I, who I am and who I am, I am not who I am, perceive gourmet as a subtle ability of ingenuity, improvisation, use of experience and combining tastes more than as the art of shocking audiences with color, consistency, flavors or combinations. And once my gourmet completely knocked me out when she said, "And still, the best meals we had in kindergarten are. I say, "Wait, how's that?" "Normally." You'd expect something that sounds French, too, and she'll say, "Like kindergarten." "It simply came to our notice then. When we were in kindergarten, the teachers were the old ladies who cooked from the broth, there was either no maggi or they only put it on the table for the teachers, the meat was meat and the banana had the taste of a banana. ”I imagine the grandmothers in kindergarten and it forces me to think and re-evaluate. So gourmet would then mean for the chef, above all, honesty in the selection of ingredients, adherence to recipes and established procedures, the unstoppable power of simplicity and beauty of food served with love. Maybe my gourmet is right. Today, everything is being recombined and neither the stomach nor the eyes nor the taste buds are curious anymore. As for the food from the kindergarten, my doubly dear half took my breath away one day when she cheerfully declared: "I cooked you a milkshake!" The first outburst of breath caused the statement, at that time a maximum of three percent of children and one percent of adults could have eaten the milkshake at that time. The second loss of breath came with the plate on the table, it was magnificent. The creamy milk jug with bear's garlic and Job's tears warmed and surprised with every twist of taste. Butter, bear garlic and, finally, for people who like hail and similar floating delicacies, for example, the common teardrop, sometimes referred to as Job's tears, the Chinese Yi yi ren and the Japanese Hatomugi. That you should also learn. She's great. Teardrop and the soup. And the gourmet.
Chapter 5. - Don't take her to restaurants
Please take the title of this chapter seriously. Suppose you are lucky, you have a gourmet at home, you enjoy heavenly treats every day, you rub your hands until they smoke from you, and then one day you notice that your person hunched over the hob is kind of tight. He steps on his plate and to the chopping board back and forth, cooking with love, not that not, but the zeal, or as the French would say esprit, as if he had sublimated a little. I tell her, "Dear, aren't you sick?" She doesn't and continues to click with her knife on her back to me. "Are you sad about anything?" And he shakes his head again and steps on the plate and the board again without enthusiasm. Well I would take it. I get up and go to hug her and secretly read her from the face, where the dog is buried. "If I have to cook anyway!" He blurts out suddenly and stops treading. And you know it's bad. As the gourmet begins to collapse, she may also fall apart completely. You are ashamed that it never occurred to you before and you suggest a visit to the restaurant in the heat of enthusiasm. Let him choose. Where you will go and what you can. Let the master knives be pampered, let them be pampered by the scents of gurgling pots without their own effort. That would be a kite so that her eyes wouldn't shine. If you have the impression, dear reader, that this is where the trouble ends and the situation clears up, you are making a huge mistake. Festively dressed, we set off towards gastric experiences, a piccolo bows in the doorway of the famous company, we watch the disappearing bites at the surrounding tables and we sit comfortably like dust on the furniture under construction. They bring us a drink for half an hour and thus give the gourmet a place to watch the others on plates. "Look, the steak looks good. You saw the sirloin, a decent slurry. But the broth smells quite like they carried him around. ”On the dining room, we choose the spinach and the goulash. Before, one serving of broth to try it when it smelled so beautiful. The clock is ticking until dusk. Clouds draw and the angels behind the split windows of the renaissance house darkly hum their last requiem. They already carry it. Pikolík smiles and he shouldn't. "I wish you good taste." He leaves. We eat for about seven seconds. "How can anyone cook spinach without garlic ?! Well, that potato dumpling is possible. It's stiffer, but it works. ”He cuts the meat. I already suspect that her eyes will not shine today. "And it's terribly salty. That's not possible. What's it like for you? ”I try the broth and it looks uninteresting. Then I taste the goulash and it looks average. He gives me a taste of her food. I let her taste my food. We agree with each other. We went home in a moment. The sky remained cloudy long after we had paid and what my gourmet had kept, and when the piccolo proudly asked if it tasted good, she answered truthfully but without exaggerated indignation. I'll say it straight away. Since then, we have been to the restaurant about four more times and once, once we were both satisfied and it was still a Nepalese restaurant. I don't want you to get the impression that gourmets have their noses up. I don't know about the others, but definitely not mine. She just doesn't like the bloated dishonesty and deliberate deception of the taste buds of expensive customers. I'm looking at her. Turn two steps towards the plate and back. He cooks spinach and pastries. In a moment he carries the plates. "So tell me!" I have to hug her. I think the sun is peeking slightly behind our clouds behind our windows.
Chapter 6. - In the pepper paradise
Chili peppers enter a person's life like pieces of jalapeno on hot pizza and then control him like the mighty queen of Moruga, gradually and irreversibly. Writers tend to be the type who gets excited about something, and the rest of the family then has to raise their eyebrows and do other more challenging things with new enthusiasm. Gourmets, along with such an author, tend to be struck by a desire of discovery and happiness. Where can it be put? What is it not suitable for at all? Does it burn a lot? It's burning. But I will not cultivate it for you. (Cultivates). Do you think that could be done? (It could). Tyja, this ground one is completely divine. (It was). "I added a little of that to the stew, I don't think it's edible." The beginnings were uncertain, careful, but one was playing with fire. And even though it doesn't have to be hot, my joyful shouts of "you, it tastes like some fruit!" She took it so seriously that she overcame it and wasn't afraid to taste it. Such gourmetness is not only pointing the finger what and what not, but also discovering. And to omit a raw material such as chili pepper from the repertoire would mean a certain and considerable restriction. And so my dear has already added chilli to everything. Pumpkin soup. Goulash. To shredded pork. Butter chicken (pecka!). Roasted ribs. Indian meat party balls. Or a torn boar's back. Everyone who knows us is already afraid to taste something from us, if there is no killer pepper in it. When my gourmet pulls out a strudel, the whole street runs away. When he bakes the biscuits and puts them on the table, his fellow diners seek the priest to recite his sentences to drive out the demons. Special cases take place at our meetings of chili lovers. Most of this party cooks goodies on their own, so we give each other a taste and most of them don't die of a little caroline reaper on sunflower seeds. To give you an idea, the hotness of the caroline reaper compared to the Slovak paprika is like running your foot over a scooter and a Tatra 815. But back to cooking and my dear half. I have to tell one story for good. I'm still at work, she writes to me that she is cooking sauce and that he throws a pepper big red mama into it (a tractor with a flatbed over his leg). But that he'll wait for me to taste it when I get home from work. At that time I was traveling by train and I received a message on the train: "So I tasted it. By mistake. ”I immediately call her to see if we have enough milk at home to save her throat. If I have to call the fire department. If he lives. And how did it happen ?! She's really cute when she tells me, I eyes on top of my head as she cooks like that, gurgling sauce, pepper inside, stirring, gurgling, stirring, gurgling, stirring. And as you have experienced automatisms, you do things that you just always do in this order. So in England you get under a broken taxi, even though you looked to the left. You nod Bulgarian yes, even if you think no. And then people lick railings in the winter when you tell them they shouldn't. Well, my dear stirs, cooks, stirs, and suddenly she has a mixer in her mouth, and the realization that she just put her foot under a falling rock comes a little late. Fortunately, there was not much and she survived. We have peppers this year as well. We are already tasting more after the taste than after the fire and we have also started growing tomatoes. So maybe it won't get along and we won't be surprised by the fiery tomato on bread and butter.
Chapter 7. - By the water
In certain regions, such as ours, it is common for a person to be able to hold activities typical of that period at any time of the year. It should be full summer outside as I write this chapter, but it is not. The children are waiting by the water with circles wrapped around their waists and freezing. Moms paint the kids' backs so they don't get burned, and lo and behold, she sticks the kids to the evening table, pale and greasy with cream. True, hardmen don't mind that they don't have to break as many icy bushes as they do when swimming. So at least someone feels the advantage of summer weather without summer weather. However, my gourmet is stomping her feet anxiously. She likes water. Of course, we also go to the water for swimming. But there is one big "but". The majority of the population has forgotten that such trips to water bodies also carry with them the obvious culture of enjoying goodies hidden in a basket. By that I don't mean scenes of waterfowl wading on the beach in trampled PET bottles of lemonade, beavers climbing ashore with bags of potato chips on their heads, and little carp frolicking at the pink twilight with a box of liver pate. I remember once after two or three swims we climbed to the shore of a pond, to a sandy beach, to our proper blankets for rolling, and I clapped as if I had something. And I would also thank the liver pate and a bag of greased potato chips with a little lemonade to drink. I think she saw it in my eyes and frowned slightly, but only really lightly, she raised her eyebrows rather imperceptibly. I smiled innocently. She pulled back the towel, covering the cupcake, and the entire beach leaned three millimeters toward her. So far, she had just casually pulled out a box of meatballs. Three species, of course. It smelled so that the pilot of the glider spinning over the pond immediately began to land. The second box hid a selection of seventeen vegetables. Small cucumbers cornichon, tomatoes that you would confuse with cherries, sliced strips of peppers in different colors, you certainly had to choose to play all shades, cucumbers named snack, small yellow mysterious Jewish cherries, leaves of Chinese cabbage, classic cabbage, and so on . When she took out a bottle of homemade melon lemonade, the first half of the wives fainted on the beach, and the second broke out of envy. When I bit into the first of the meatballs, the Indian-style one, a muscular gentleman stopped tensing his muscles in front of a veined blonde, got up, punched Ray Ben with his sunglasses, probably accidentally stomped on them, three times, and started walking towards suicide by running over a truck. We always have a snack, not too much, so that we do not sink to the bottom during the next swimming activity, and then we look forward to the second part of the goodies again as we move forward. I admit that I swim quite uneasily. After all, I'm watching to see if any manipulated child is running and stealing our picnic baskets. I would do it in his place.
How to Live with a Gourmet - Chapter 8 - The Dice Story
At the end of the nineteenth century, a cube from the Maggi brand stunned the world. The producer cooked animal and vegetable delicacies for so long that the dried result could be made into cubes. It wrapped itself nicely and the enthusiastic housewives at home threw the cube into boiling water and wonder of the world, all the goodies, smells and nutrients were at your home. It was a miracle, and a bag was dumped with the makers of similar cubes. Housewives jumped, producers jumped, and a quick cube under various names conquered the world. Have you ever seen an advertisement for a dishwashing detergent? Year after year, campaign after campaign, you learn how this version is more effective, fragrant, more gentle, you could almost drink it. Do manufacturers realize that one day we will realize what their original product must have been, a non-functional, fragrant, unruly, eh slush? And now the incomprehensible thing. Manufacturers of fast kitchen cubes went in the opposite direction for incomprehensible reasons. Today's offspring of a miracle has little in common with the original herb broth. Don't worry, we're already with her. In the light of the information just outlined, my gourmet cannot understand why on earth someone would kill their food by throwing something like that. It will probably be true that something in the magic cube was probably tuned so that one wanted to throw the cube into anything, just so that your taste buds would get to the mana with the most beautiful chemical names you can imagine. Then I have to keep my gourmet so that she is really nice to the really nice lady of the house, who, when we come to visit her, puts a great spread in our mouths right on the doorstep, we have to taste the supernatural soup straight from the pot on the line, the sauce gets to word on the table and we then take the dessert home. And .. everything tastes the same. Cubically. Surely you are raising your hand as you read, asking for the floor and wanting to say that some of the products you have known recently are just pure broth. Or a cube full of herbs from Grandma's garden. Possible. Manufacturers have already appeared who already know. That housewives should not be embarrassed. My housewife recently bought a flag on a pole. It has the order of a golden wooden spoon and a sword shading the head. Every Tuesday and Saturday we go to barricades. Here we address young girls in a public space so that they do not mix ketchup into sauces, here we bring a young cook to her knees, gulping a werewolf's thirsty puddle of spilled soup with a universal liquid seasoning for 12 Czech crowns. It's a tough fight. Crowds of universals, understand the proponents of universal tastes, throw hostile glances, the sharpest words, and sometimes butter-flavored vegetable fat packs. My gourmet and I will not give up! For Rettig! For Trejbal! And maybe for Julius Maggi! I have the impression that I saw him roll a dice with us once on the barricades.
kapitola 8. – Příběh kostky
kapitola 9. – V čem to budu vařit
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 9 - What will I cook in?
If you're as attentive as I am, food appears from the stove to the plates. Women, whether in the form of kitchens, housewives, wooden spoons, frying pans, patlalek or perhaps gourmets creative to an ordinary eater, obscure the view. They wiggle in intimate connection with their own idea, embodied there somewhere in the territory of no one in front of them, from where smoke, smells or cries of surprise rise. Sometimes a boiling woman turns for a second, just to cast a glance, a taste, or a nice word. But otherwise he embraces his kingdom like a hen of his own rolling children. Of course, I washed the dishes as a child. Even as an adult, it has already happened to me. Only the mist of ignorance escaped the obvious and obvious connection between the vessels of strange shapes and the goodness that had just made me happy. Just to my inattention. I know now. Unfortunately, realizing anything has a Socratic understanding that the more I know, the more I find out how much more I need to know.
"Do you know it's going to stick in this?" You can't put this in the oven. This is for garlic straining. These holes are for cheese, these are for cucumber. "
My gourmet throws magical objects on the example of circus artists, the bowls click, click, fit into each other, sit lightly on the stove. Oh God, when you see the Mother Nature Theater giving random things to the supernatural order in the territory of the Great Stove, when you were allowed to see it, you feel like a researcher staring in horror at a huge astronomical telescope. An unidentifiable object arrives from the constellation of the pans and eats the diced onion and a piece of butter. The Fragrance Nebula is formed, spreading unstoppably through space.
"Hmm, it smells."
He tells me, "I love the smell of onions, too," throws up my hair, and flies off to drive space travel again.
I, as a man in the space program of kitchen properties of the faint mind, poor experience, shallow view, I can not understand all those materials that no longer need other greasers, tools with holes for dripping excess liquid, steamers, juicers, crushers, throttles, mashers, rakes, cutters, molds. Something must be flexible to smear, something hard enough to crush stones on itself. Well, not stones but spices, for example. Have you ever thought that kitchens used to be close to torture chambers? Where else would you find a nutcracker, an egg slicer, a stick mixer, I'd rather not talk about meat cleavers ?!
We got a container for honey from a good lady here, she is said to be very handy. You have a glass jar, something like a cut egg sits in it, it has a cap with a lever on top. Mystery. The container came across everything, but not handy. I'd rather put a Rubik's cube blindly than figure out again how this clever honey thing makes people's jobs easier. I had my hands outstretched above the line, honey was glued to everything around me, attempts to wipe the honey ended with gluing other things to the line, carpet, tea towel and microwave oven. "Such an oven to look at!" Said my kind gourmet as she entered the honey kitchen and freed me.
Since then, I have been sitting at a respectful distance from those places. I draw the smell of onions into my nostrils, eavesdropping on the secret conversations of gurgling sauces and crying with peppers that resist heat treatment. But now I have a slight idea that there are millions of jars, tools and improvers that are needed as an intermediate stage between the raw material and the finished dish on my plate. Praise be to science and gourmet!
kapitola 10 – Na nákupech
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 10 - Shopping
We enter the supermarket as the finish line of the tractor race. Three or four pairs will fight for the turnstiles and the wiser will retreat, so we are the first in the shop. The vibrant world of ads, tad, we're here. My gourmet and I arrive at a pile of boxes of discounted strawberries in the light of Hollywood spotlights. Most of the strawberries are improved by smaller or larger brown spots compared to the picture above them. Hm. So apparently something went wrong somewhere. We were on our own anyway, so we don't need strawberries. As for arugula, it fits into sandwich salads, which we often make. They do not have arugula, probably the majority of the population eats healthier food. Aaa, here are the apples, you can choose waxed, a color reminiscent of a poisoned fruit from an evil queen, trying to kill Snow White with a single bite, or a battered overpriced look reminiscent of nothing known in this world. Some time ago, my gourmet swore that she would remain steadfast, nervous, and try to cross these tiny deliberations of the universe with a wave of her hand, and I must admit that she is doing quite well so far. However, I saw tiny flames shooting out of the corner of her right eye as a bundle left her half-naked asparagus for eighty crowns, and I also noticed the tiny twitching of her lower lip. There was no intention in that, he just jerked alone. Which may seem even worse to me. In the vegetable department we bought four carrots, a bunch of radishes, one iceberg lettuce and a little dill. I noticed that the dill on one side began to die slightly, so I secretly replaced it with a fresher one on the way to pasta and purees. She didn't notice and the corner stopped twitching. The corner of the purees was the only one of the entire product shelves in this department empty. She smiled, but I swear there was a little bitterness in the smile. The pasta was supposed to be at a discount and the price tag under the bags with all kinds of pasta proclaimed a proud and discounted 35.80. I preferred to look somewhere at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. They had oil. Everything is fine with the pastry. I think I whistled a little. On the other hand, the saleswoman did not have her day at all, and when asked if my gourmet could show the leg, she cut something and refused to unwrap a piece of pork from the transparent food foil, into which the leg was neatly tangled. Probably not to catch a cold in the cool box. "I want to see the meat. I don't know why I should buy something I can't see. " In sign language, I signaled to the saleswoman that in this case it was more sensible to retreat. Of course, I thought about her life and health. She probably hadn't seen me, but across from the frozen spinach and the pizza prepared in the stone oven, the manager flashed, and the saleswoman's eyes flew up, she made a face worthy of a thirteen-year-old brat, and unpacked the cup. The leg unraveled like a torn reddish tread for the king, and in addition to us, thirteen other people left the mass counter. We headed around the refrigerated counters with fish products towards the dairy department. All boxes of fish have retained their price despite the general rise in price. I was happy to take note and learned that for the same price, the same fish had such a big house less than a month ago. From a distance, the cheeses called us in colorful packaging. Inside, small pale, unhealthy blocks crouched, which seemed to be washed and left to dry in the unsmiling radioactive sun on the outskirts of post-apocalyptic Rotterdam. But helemese, there is a beautiful yellowish cheese, with cheerful eyes, a crust certainly crunchy, just toss it tenderly carelessly on bread and butter! I haven't called it out loud yet, the cheese probably had a price tag from the sports car department by mistake. In the market we go to, they usually have excellent German jerves for a reasonable price, which create an unexpected symphony on the bread together with the tomato. They had it, we take three and we are slowly approaching the cash registers. We don't stand at the cash register for too long, as soon as one bites, I don't pay any longer, and we pay in surprise, as if we took all the goods that we didn't take in the end. Next time, I can't look after the Scotch whiskey department. We went outside, jackdaws swaying in the branches of the trees in the parking lot, giggling with disappointed human faces coming from the maw of the supermarket. When we came out from under the roof and the afternoon sun dazzled both of us at the same time, we stopped and my gourmet and I exhaled in a low voice for a moment. We headed home, the journey was quiet, but I would swear that my dear half lowered my dear half slightly but steadily.
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 11 - Everything can be fermented
I always thought that bacteria is a bitch that causes very inconvenience. Some bacteria fully fulfill this idea of mine, some I would like to apologize for the change. My gourmet misled me. She bought Chinese cabbage, repeatedly rinsed it, salted it, rinsed it, salted it, let it sleep overnight, and went to look at it at night. In the morning, she rinsed again, befriended him with several vegetables, ginger, brown sugar, fish sauce, rice flour, and also ground chilli. It created such a strong bond between Chinese cabbage and all that that it all longed to stay together promoted in a loving bond in a glass for several days. The room temperature and the love between the ingredients and our conspiratorial peeking awoke the friendly bacteria, which must have already accepted my apology and bubbled a magical process in the glass. We peeked through the whole ritual with a spy between the doors, hoping that there would be no catastrophe not unlike the nuclear tests on Bikini Atoll. When it's all too wild, you let it cool in the fridge and wait. When we first tasted home-made kimchi, a Korean salad made from fermented vegetables, we almost died of delight and didn't understand how we could live so many wasted years without kimchi. It's great. It's a fact that rude bacteria probably fart a little, so we have to emphasize to uninitiated visitors that it's a culinary process, not the rude of the host. And it's really divine and we eat it for everything but cocoa. We've been bubbling so many times at home since that first batch of kimchi that I can't even count it. Where occultists have their eyes, ears, fingers and other magical properties hidden in mysterious jars at home in mysterious jars, we have beets, kohlrabi or cucumbers in their jars. You would not believe how amazing the color and taste of water from fermented radishes. You wouldn't believe how extraterrestrial segedin tasted from hand-fermented fresh Crimean cabbage. Peppers stuffed with cabbage, all fermented to death, taste better than bacon. Well, not to exaggerate again. But we've fermented almost everything, so I'm waiting so slowly when I wake up crammed into a glass, with a gourmet rolling a large rock on top of the jar so I don't run away. Maybe it would be fun, I would make new friends, we would fuck in the water and we would laugh. What can one want more from life?
kapitola 11 – Zkvasit se dá všechno
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 12 - Celebrations
Integral, if not daily, part of human life become different occasions to run celebrations. Due to the reason for their origin, celebrations can be profiled as juchace, welcoming, mourning, birthday, or other. My gourmet and I are always looking forward to many weeks until the day we have a celebration. Even at the moment when we buy various ingredients for the planned goodies a few days in advance, everything is in the spirit of looking forward. But then that day comes and the gourmet begins. He begins to doubt that the chosen combination of yummy is perfect. She begins to believe that she certainly did not buy some of the raw materials needed for that combination. He starts to panic that this or that will not work out in perfect tuning. Frightened, he peeks into the refrigerator to see if the maturing goodies in the glass have matured to death. Then comes the soothing intermediate stage of the pre-storm. Then he lets himself be convinced that the chosen combination is a supercombination, a thorough control of the ingredients reveals that the ingredients have all been properly procured, the culinary preparations suggest that what was planned is going in the right direction, what should mature at a certain pace, matures exactly. If your home celebration preparations have phases of a similar nature, please enjoy the second pre-storm phase as much as possible. Then comes the hailstorm. The spreads already finished do not have the right density and taste good, the meat is dry, the dips lack something, the meatballs have exchanged some spices, there is something left in the salty sticks. There are a few tens of minutes left until the start of the celebrations and the hairstyles have decided to untangle, the clothes don't fit, the shoes suddenly don't have a pair. Sometimes at this moment I forget my name, I lose my sight and hearing, I sail on a perfect spread river to the realm of Fantasy. When you lose faith in the faith of events, it is best to disconnect, stop, exhale, and gain time to take another breath. Not everything will always work out, but mostly yes. Especially when you know, you know, and your taste buds speak the language of the gods. I touched the spread river right in the middle of the sea of celebrations, where everyone laughed, rejoiced and clapped in the intoxicating intoxication of ingenious goodies. I joined them. The dear gourmet has long forgotten all the fears and insecurities and smiled noticeably at the sight of happy diners. I also.
kapitola 12 – Oslavy
kapitola 13 – Dobromila
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 13 - Dobromila
When you get into the gears of gastronomy, everything changes. You meet other people, you enter other shops, you look for other things. And you read books you didn't know existed. That's when I came to the kitchen like this and we have such a sitting there. Dobromila lay in the sitting. Carelessly, deferred, submissive. I became offended and began to frown. "What is it ..." But in the meantime I came to her. My gourmet, meanwhile, leaned something in a saucepan on the stove and pretended she didn't know about me or Dobromil. I believe she was giggling toward the goulash as I coped with the situation. I glanced at Dobromil and wondered if she should be fired immediately. Not good, it's clear to me that you understood a long time ago that it was a book. Home cook - Magdalena Dobromila Rettigová. She lay there as if nothing, unopened, new, unforced. I sat down next to her, picked it up, and put the book over my legs. He opened it so that it wouldn't be said, and then I don't remember anything from the world around me. All I know is that in my new world, I was looking for slugs to bake them, hunting snails in sauce in the garden, and connecting tables to a 30-course festive menu. But my gourmet was already there with me. I tell her I have no idea how to pluck a pheasant, and she says I don't have to worry about it. She was right, with my ability to grease bread incorrectly, I don't have to burden my head with feathered game. However, we talked very interestedly about the veal thymus, the cerebellar warts, the fresh cucumber sauce. We came to the surprising conclusion that Czech gastronomy was not as flat and unhealthy as it is, probably rightly, presented today, when it is presented to us as a model of all world cuisine. Connect me as a boarder of a writer with my gourmet my omniscient and connect us with the ingredients and recipes of the expensive Czech Dobromila and you will see that perhaps at a snail's pace, something world-class will definitely come out of it. Well, I'm going to soak veal patties in melted butter, as a slight intermission I will have sorrel with fried liver and because it's hot today and my gourmet and I don't have sweet desserts in this weather, we only capture the previous delicacies with the poor rabbit's black ancestor. Blessed be the Dobromila!
kapitola 14 – Zaručené zprávy
How to Live with a Gourmet - Chapter 14– Guaranteed News
When you live with a gourmet, if you don't want to, you sometimes have to meet other people anyway. I can say for myself that the worst thing about people is not even their very existence, perhaps not their constant readiness to communicate their great advice, rather than that most of this advice is worth a cracked cat. Maybe you're not offended now. Of course, I'm not talking about you at all. Perhaps.
We learned, for example, that one restaurant cooks well. They have a dining room and a restaurant, nicely next to each other. Because at that time we had the urge to run through all the Pilsen canteens and find at least one decent one, we settled in the canteen. Did you know that garlic is not added to spinach in the dining rooms and the dumplings are collected at the hockey stadium and painted beige? We already know that.
There are several restaurants near the main square, where they are guaranteed to cook perfectly. The pub at this place was already two hundred years ago, so the experience of the place plus great food equals the result guaranteed. As we left, I wondered if my gourmet would ever enter the restaurant again. They don't even have as much salt as we ate in a few bites in a coastal village, where they use the sun to steal the white raw material of the sea.
You know, my gourmet has beautiful eyes. He can look at me in such a way that I forget about the hardships of public catering, I forget where else the hurt happened to me and it is so beautiful that I want to marry it. Not just because of them, of course. So we found a forest restaurant. We park near it when we go mushroom picking. In it they do wedding ceremonies, food for it. One nice day we decided to try the dishes in this considered restaurant. A lot of people say they cook well there. I'll cut it short. If we get married in this restaurant, we will order a ceremony without food and we will bring our brewery with cuttings and hide them on the edge of the forest.
In short, a thousand people, a thousand tastes, and moreover, it seems that most people have lost their taste and do not intend to find it. And since you wouldn't even ask the path of a clearly blind person at the crossroads, the next time you get a guaranteed message from someone who is guaranteeing you for the first time, in terms of probability, I recommend thanking you and walking in another direction.
kapitola 15 – Na návštěvě u vegetariánky
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 15 - Visiting a vegetarian
One should immediately say that we at home are not negatively defined against any deviations in other people's lives. Furthermore, for potential translators into world languages, I would like to point out that in Czech we have different words for deviation and deviation. Just for the introduction. I don't like touching other people. That is, emotionally and negatively to it.
My gourmet was known in the nearest butcher in Nové Zámky as the little girl who wants a meat for Christmas, breakfast, a briefcase and a backpack. Lots of meat, just meat. I can fully see those glowing eyes and stretching hands. No doll. In fact ... if the adults of that time had imagination, she could play with the doll in the meat. But it would seem inappropriate. I gained a positive attitude towards animal food much later. The various flasks and chewing gums from the school canteens just couldn't cheer up a young man.
I'll skip a few years and approaches to eating. At a certain stage of one's life, one understands that the gallbladder has only one, that Gout is a rather unpleasant friend, and that the world is amazed, even in a world that is not fat, there are many magical tastes. From the above, a bright reader will understand why we went to visit our friend, who does not kill animals to eat, without prejudice, without judgment, but also without feelings of guilt. But also without the hope of any culinary discovery. So far, I have not admitted to anyone that we had steaks, a piece of Hungarian salami and steamed ham in our backpacks in our backpack in case of famine.
The visit was, as usual, friendly. As if it wasn't an exotic encounter of carnivores with herbivores at all. As if the food chain didn't exist at all. As if there was no fundamental philosophical contradiction in our heads. As if. And then a friend said if we could taste it. The first faint attempt to make a call to pollute the planet failed, my gourmet chuckled hysterically and began sipping hard from the mineral water she had drunk half a minute ago. I folded my arms across my chest and unfolded them again. The gourmet said we'd love each other, and surprisingly, my friend didn't go to the garden for a meal with a scythe and a knife, nor did she cut the houseplants and then mix them with the morning dew. She pulled out a pan and began to fry something. Fry! That sounded good. We prayed it wasn't a daisy or a cactus. But after a few minutes it started to smell. It smelled like I began to suspect my friend that she was secretly biting sausage sandwiches in the evenings, or that she hadn't looked for a while, and a tiny piece of beef had fallen on her daisy pan. Or that my dear half in a crisis situation unnoticed in a basketball way towards the stove successfully threw a piece of Hungarian salami. She hadn't thrown away, and I've seen her rise in her chair to get a better look, and I've heard her carefully ask what it smelled so good. So I also stopped praying and looked and listened in the same direction. The ringing vegetarian's laughter and the smell of fried health flew straight to our table to the sounds of angelic wings. What I'm going to tell you, I've been staring like spring. And all I had to do was taste it. Something that looked like chevabchi and something that looked like a tartare. A warning flashed through my head about soy sausages and burdock ham, and the first drop of sweat ran after my sleep. The gourmet tasted it and said it was fucking good. Or so she said something. After all, something can't smell like this and taste bad. And yet SHE isn't wrong. So easy and so much. The vegetarian tartare was so good that we've been buying it ever since. The seitans soaked in it were absolutely great. Understand, the vast majority of vegetarian attempts to imitate carnivores are and will be a disaster. Damn, stick to your hooves and cook your stuff in your own way, why imitate carnivores ?! But this worked, and I still believe that the god of all meadows, herbs, and culinary wizards was with us that night, and it all worked out wonderfully. We didn't even eat the crisis package from the butcher on the way home.
kapitola 16 – Pokouším se vařit
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 16 - I'm trying to cook
I would like to warn all regular readers of Gourmet that this episode will not be as funny as some of the previous ones. Here we get into a situation that could be compared to its severity to poking a screwdriver into an electrical outlet or digging a stick under a stone, where a viper killer probably climbed.
We are talking about my attempts and a serious approach to the plate, which is not my place of basic security. I feel much more confident with a book in hand, in conversation with small children or even with the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner. Still, who among us wouldn't want to cook something good for our partner. Which partner would not want to come to the table with her dear partner? Plus, when you focus on it, almost all the men around you cook. And he's not ashamed to say it out loud when you meet you and her.
"So I cooked the birds for Petra again, she clapped." My gourmet sighs lightly. I just twitch my eyes nervously. Two blocks away, another friend said, "So I was watching what you cooked again, but I'm making steaks today." Another friend, whom we haven't seen for half a year and who was making soup, will come down from the depths of the street and she will be roasting in the evening. The gourmet has little secret tears in her eyes and I strongly decide inside that she has to taste something from me. When they cook this intestine, so do I. But.
But when I get to the hob, all memories of any cooking from my past suddenly evaporate. How many women (mom, grandmother) have I helped in my life. What I sliced, mixed, kneaded, combined, guarded, tasted. Suddenly nothing. I'm standing there panicking in front of a brothel.
I found the recipe, he made the extracts, the gourmet is sleeping. I will surprise her, and the smell of divine food will pull her out of bed and straight into the arms of happiness, love and warm household. Chicken pieces on curry. In addition to the basic recipe, Mr. Ind shows two improvements in the instructional video, I prefer to do the basic version. The cat comes and starts screaming. I say "it's cooking here and secretly, so don't shout!" I cut piles of vegetables, a well-known cook said somewhere that if you prepare everything in advance, you don't have to confuse. Well, you don't have to, but you're confusing. The onion itself will not tell you when it is golden, glassy or in another desired state. Surprisingly, the meat lying on the pan is most fried down, where it is not visible at all. Some vegetables have a great ability to stick to dishes, pieces of meat can smell the moment before they burn, sauces never have the desired density, and if so, you have added so much thickener that it is no longer the originally intended sauce. It is true that I am not a gut and the dish finally smelled and enticed. She came and was curious. She tasted it and said it was good. Understand, she wanted to support me in the godly plan to cook for her. Somewhere above all the roofs, however, there are also mischievous gods who have decided not to buy a high hat yet. Gourmet's stomach probably doesn't like to process curry mixes, in which, in addition to yellow turmeric, there is also a mysterious thing. Well, her stomach hurt and instead of a warm household, we were seriously considering visiting a doctor. She survived, but the experience was at least contradictory. Today, I'd rather keep quiet about how I baked the rolls of the most expensive flour we had at home and about the Asian-style sour soup I ate myself the next day. I'm already looking forward to meeting a friend who fry the steaks.
kapitola 17 – Pošlete ji na kurz
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 17 - Send her on a course
Nobody can do everything. Almost everyone will admit it to you, the wise will always do it. My gourmet is the other way around. On the contrary, she claims that she can't do anything. He says, “Look at how TA cuts onions! Do you see HO mixing it with ease, knowing how much to put in there? ”It's no science to show the only thing a person can do on a TV show, but most of the time I don't succeed. He keeps his own way, casts miracles while you wait, and he doesn't believe he does. Some time ago she discovered the principles of fermentation and since then she has not fermented just a bus, otherwise everything. However, the world of fermentation is a worldwide phenomenon, it is such an extensive portfolio of information, approaches and raw materials that it seemed real to me when she said: "There is still more to be learned in that!" So we ordered a course. She was looking forward to it. It must be said that the course was postponed for some time for objective reasons, which sheds some light on some subsequent phenomena.
Even as I took her away, she asked if she should take them to taste the fermented radish. I had to push her (gourmet) out of the door so that the radish would stay at home and she would not carry wood to the forest. I have to admit that the radish was really quite successful and I often regretted myself on the way to the culture house where the event took place, that we did not take it and that the organizers should not boast of that goodness. I stopped dreamily on the right street. We found the house of culture, and as she saw it, she ran out, grabbed some two older ladies in front of the entrance, and disappeared. I stood there like a father in front of the kindergarten and my attempt to wave to the lost child faded into space. Next to the pub was buzzing, one of the regulars who inhaled nicotine with ingredients outside raised his hand to answer my greeting, but then he realized.
The course lasted several hours. I had come to pick her up a moment earlier, so I heard the end through the half-open windows of the first-floor hall. The trainer stood leaning against the window frame, inhaling free-flowing oxygen, taking notes in a large notebook at times, and my gourmet standing at the projector with pictures ready, scattering her hands. She jumped on the students in the first place, threw the tip of her pointer towards the original tutor, and asked him another of a series of insidious questions. When the time for the course had expired, the trainer staggered first, ran into the first car, which I didn't think was his, and left, leaving his notebook on the curb, he could have seen himself somewhere at home. Then came the first few, the main development, carrying my gourmet. came out later. They shouted "glory!" And their eyes shone with enthusiasm and acquired knowledge.
Good good. It is clear to me that you probably did not come to me for that variety-dramatic conclusion, but I still did not lead you too far from reality. The course program was designed so that even complete beginners could learn something, and there were more experienced students a little ahead. And even among the more experienced, she probably knew the most. She returned home excited, and for the first time she felt that she seemed to know objectively and knew much more than she thought. Concluding remark: this attitude lasted her for about three days. She came here and said, "Look, maybe we didn't do this there at all." I'm going to see if they happen to be taking a fermentation course for advanced students or those who "can't do anything."
kapitola 18 – Vánoce
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 18 - Christmas
Christmas with a gourmet begins long before Christmas. Yogurt or mayonnaise? A living tree or one from the closet? Television or church? Over the years, I've learned that the most erroneous answer on my part is, "It doesn't matter, darling!" I understand that in a woman's mind, it means, "I don't attach importance to the things you do." that doesn't sound nice at all. So it didn't sound. Now I react with deep thought and, according to the current view of the matter, I will say "" Dear man, this year I would just have mayonnaise, under a living tree, and then we will go to see Santa Claus among the people. "He smiles slightly. All right, all right, he nods, a smart one, he looks suspiciously but can't say anything out loud. But don't think, I haven't won yet. She's already looked at these Christmas tricks. However, I publicly declare in my defense that I mean my Christmas views in a consistent manner. Howgh.
There is always something going on in the kitchen at home. Christmas just blunts this hustle and bustle. Crispy gingerbreads rest in the fridge where the cat used to sleep, in the box on the cabinet where the cigars froze, the most fragrant vanilla rolls in the world get wet, and inside the Gorenje refrigerator, a wasp's nest filled with alcoholic liquid is opened every time the door is opened. We have spruce twigs tucked into the various gaps of our kitchen in a romantic indulgence of the effervescent forest, one last year I had the impression for a moment that I saw a squirrel blink, but I would not put my hand in the cockroach. We also light fragrant mixtures, on the evening windowsill the flames of candles perform their gentle kung fu and on the wall the shadows counter social jiu jitsu. "Let me have some carols," she says, her elbows revealing hard activity on the stove in front of her. I tune the radio and after a while I turn it off due to clever versions of classic holiday songs. We release the carols from the board and you see the Lada for a while, whom we used to see more everywhere before. My gourmet snuggles up to me, and Santa Claus is just getting ready, and we dream together for a while. At the same time, we eat a few rolls, drink seven wasp nests each, and we are already slightly licked. Did you know that Christmas kissing is the healthiest thing in the world right after Korean kimchi and the most intoxicating right after Colombian chewing coca leaves? I can confirm.
When we go to the tree that incriminating day with the golden pig and our cats, I always wonder who applied all those packages under our tree. We stand there and have a Christmas Eve dinner in our stomachs and tiny tears in our eyes. At that tree, one somehow realizes a little more that the rate of falling flakes is more pleasant for the family than the rate of falling value of shares on the stock exchange. That hand in hand of the dear man is more memorable than other organs omlomr entwined in a moment of passion but without love. That life should be enjoyed, second by second, somehow gourmet.
kapitola 19 – Hudba je lék
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 19 - Music is a cure
I don't know if you have it the same. A purely pragmatic person will say that music is something extra, something that no one needs for life, such as bread or screws. If there was no music, the man says, the world would not collapse. But without screws and bread, it would soon fall on our heads. I have to agree with the pragmatist that such mundane essentials as things made of iron or flour cannot be debated, and when I really give him, go around the corner and start blabbering. Our world without music would be like water without fish, sky without birds or landscape without looking into the distance. It would all work, but somehow without shine. Without volume, without tension and relaxation, like words without meaning, like a breath without hope that another second makes sense.
My gourmet loves music. I don't know if the music would win in the cooking ring, but it would last at least a few rounds. And the best thing is ever when the two don't compete and meet somehow at the same time, in one place and time. The stove bubbles and creates a smell, and while the birds fly or the strudel wraps up, he plays a kind of chikibum chikibum from the speaker, the drum rippled the membrane and rippled the gourmet, and I suddenly stop reading and wonder what's going on. I look up at the kitchen counter and have to smile. Slight movements in the hips to the rhythm of the music are becoming more and more noticeable or careless, apparently the gourmet loses the notion of time, place and purpose and dances. Gourmet dancing, believe me or not, evokes pleasant smiles on your face, bliss in your chest and thus connects excitement and peace in every way.
Music, in my opinion, simply belongs to cooking, to the kitchen, to gourmets, to their admirers, to life in general. Some physicists say that our world is made up of waves. It is hardly surprising then that there is a beneficial connection of sounds, dance and culinary miracles into one wave, into one key, into one wonderful everyday integrity. And here I stop blabbering around the corner, a man, formerly pragmatic, comes to me, I think he cried a little, he doesn't want to let it be known, but he still doesn't hide anything. The man tastes a little strudel and some scattered birds, soaked in that moment with dance and music and the love of life, and the man has no words. He already sees landscapes instead of empty horizons and sees fish swimming in the current. Chikibum, chikibum, screws and bread and more. That life can be really nice.
kapitola 20 – Ochutnávací magnetizmus
How to live with a gourmet - Chapter 20 - Tasting magnetism
We each attract different situations into our lives, probably depending on what we are attuned to, what we think about, what energy circulates through our brain threads, tense muscles and blood capillaries. There is a need for people who are attracted to disasters, and if there is a single pit in the whole street, they will certainly fall into it. Another attracts success itself, pleasant surprises and joyful coincidences. Someone should do biological research on these individuals, and then I'll come for a blood transfusion. My gourmet attracts random tasting to life. "Hello, 10 rolls, that bread over there, and what's that baguette over there?" "You have to taste it, it's delicious" And he's already serving the gourmet a piece of baguette. I smile. "Hello, 20 blankets of debrecen, two slices of light sausage and this salami, is it good, does it look nice?" "Wait, I'll give you a taste." I smile. This is how it's a shop. A special chapter is food demonstrations, trade fairs and similar dining meetings. In the stalls, little men vibrate with foreign raw materials, fry, dry, stir-fry, pitch. There are thirty people in line, and the brown man pulls the brown sausage out of the grill, sprinkles it with a mysterious mixture, frowns artistically to sprinkle the sausage really specially, and throws his outstretched hand at the gourmet: "You have to try it, you enjoy it." Of course I will smile, so somehow it was to be expected, I would actually be surprised if it didn't happen. Yeah, I also have a bit of a taste for magic sausage, but it should be noted that the gourmet will halve most of the offered goodies, so I'll get to the miracles too. We're going for a beer. In fact, she could stand with her back to the salesman, close her eyes, not talk, and still have "we have complete news here, will you taste it?" "Do you mean me?" I expect this trend to intensify in some way. If, for example, we walk down the street in a few years and an eager little man making street snacks chases us down a gloomy street, he throws pieces of cheese at us, crunches the best French wine at the nape of his neck and throws magical sausages into our combed hair. In my opinion, everything is very damaging, so I hope that this trend will not gain momentum. But again, you will admit that it would be quite blasphemous to reject such a gift altogether. Today we will go to the queue for the best smoker at the farmers' market. If he throws something at us.
kapitola 21 – Po schodech
Když býval hitem song, který zpíval Richard Miller, s tématem chození „po schodoch, po zvukoch“ a i on poznával „čo sme kto za ludia“, přišlo mi to vtipné, s dobrým postřehem pro každodenní zvuky vycházející z bytů panelových domů. Zajímalo by mě, jestli už tehdy autor písně přemýšlel i o tom, jaké z jednotlivých bytů vycházejí vůně. Jestli ne, chybu udělal, minimálně pokud měl po ruce gurmánku a její zostřené čichové vnímání. Mohl se dozvědět, jací lidé žijí za dveřmi s oprýskaným kukátkem, či u botníku, hlídajícího vchod s imitací zebří kůže na svojí ploše.
Samozřejmě i zde velmi záleží na tom, kdo a hlavně co, vaří. S tím souvisí i akce gurmánčina a reakce jejího průvodce, totiž mne. Pokud jste si totiž mysleli, že gurmánka spokojí se pouze s konstatováním toho, co asi která rodina vaří, pletli byste se velmi. Ona je to totiž situace v mnohém připomínající zpomalené barevné videozáběry z televizního pořadu kanálu National Geographic. Malé něžné lvíčátko hopká po schodech a jeho drsná moudrá lvice – maminka kráčí důstojně vedle něj. Klíčovou dírkou, rozuměj křovinou, zavoní cosi a lvíčátko div nedrcne do maminky, která s napjatou šíjí a pnoucími se nozdrami nasává, větří, kroutí hlavou a mezi zuby procedí „asi svíčková“.
Lvíčátko koulí očima, nasává a cítí jenom vlhké stěny činžáku. „Domácí knedlík asi“, procedí mezi zuby matka lvice. „Já nic necítím“, špitne malý a cítí se lehce méněcenný. Jde se dál, o dvě patra níž matka opět nechá nozdrami proudit závan savany a opět pronese něco jako „vývar, hmm, to voní“. Tady už to cítíme oba. Horší situace nastane, když kuchařinka za dveřmi vaří nedobroty. Rozuměj používá umělé přísady nebo nedbá na množství spáleného oleje například. „Cítíš to“, ptá se matka lvice a stane se, že tady i malý poulí oči a zvedá se mu kufřík. Ono ostatně některé brutálně smažící akce zanechávají na hostech znamení málem ďábelská.
Pamatuju se, jak jsme odcházeli z restaurace, kde na přepáleném oleji smažili rodinku kuřat a prasátek pro rodinku čuňátek a jelítek a smažili to na stejném oleji tak dlouho, dokud byl olej tekuté konzistence. To nešlo necítit, ale když to nejíte, tak se to dá přežít. Nicméně poté jsme odcházeli do své oblíbené hospůdky a už na schodech, dvacet metrů vzdálených od baru, výčepní říká: „vy jste něco smažili“? Takže ostuda, hanba, propadání se pod zem a podobně.
Vraťme se na schody bytových domů. Gurmánka chodí a nasává, tedy vůně zpoza dveří se linoucí. Horší je, když nasávání touží překonvertovat do akce. V lepším případě touží zvonit na cizí dveře a pozvat nás k někomu na oběd, v horším případě shání zbraně hromadného ničení a zvoní s úmyslem ublížit. Úplně to vidím. Gurmánka 007, s povolením zabíjet, plíží se podél zdi a zpoza rohu kosí umělohmotná dochucovadla, univerzální grilovací koření a do vzduchu vykopává kastrol s přepáleným tukem. Tady se ovšem rozběhla pouze moje fantazie, gurmánka nikde nezvoní, nestřílí, nekope. Ale co vy víte, možná jednou?
kapitola 22 – Láska v době chuťomoru
Žijeme s gurmánkou v době, kdy svět svírá nemoc, která mimo jiné odebírá chuťové a čichové vjemy. Sice to není mor, ale pro osobu zvyklou stoprocentně se spoléhat na vyladěný jazýček a vyčichaný nosíček je to pohroma. Nebo ne?
Je to jako byste skvělému skokanu do dálky odebrali nacvičenou zkušenost jemně přesunovat váhu svého těla ze země do vzduchu a zpět, všechna ta léta létání vzduchem a nejjemnější nuance proudění vzduchu, přesné odrazy a dopady a najednou to je všechno pryč.
Plakající skokani do dálky sice posbírají něco mého soucitu, ale gurmánčin pohled, když vyslovovala „Já nic necítím“, to by pohnulo i vrchním dodavatelem soucitu jakéhokoliv mocnářství.
„Jak necítíš?Jak nic?“
Tiše pomlaskává ve snaze zachytit alespoň něco z toho, co pokrm v ústech převalovaný nabízí a v marnosti rozhodí rukama, že „nic“. Chvilku se v panice pokouším ve vzduchu visící informaci ignorovat, pak zjistím, že ignorovat nejde a pak mi dojde že i já osobně nebudu ušetřen následků takového smyslového postižení. Když ztratí skokan schopnost skákat, maximálně sebou plácne o metr blíže výchozímu bodu, ale co gurmánka? Jak byste chtěli vařit bez možnosti ochutnávat? Už vám to došlo?
Ano, jistě, předpisy a recepty a recepisy. Hoď do toho žejdlík toho, přisyp nůši tamtoho a k tomu rozkvrdlej lot dalšího. Jenže stejně to potřebujete vyzkoušet. Jak se chutě spojily, prolnuly jedna s druhou, jestli jedna vystupuje nad druhou a třeba jen v začátku, nebo celkově. Což jsem se dozvěděl až poté, co mě napadlo zmínit se o předpisech , receptech a žejdlících.
Možná by varianta „necítím nic“ byla snesitelnější v plném dopadu nicotnosti spíš než ve variantě, do které se nakonec vyvinula – varianta rozklad na prvočísla, tedy provočinitele, tedy prvochutnatele. Prostě si představte chuť salámu rozloženou na jednotlivé součásti dohromady neskládající slibovanou výslednou chuť. To je peklo! Hrůza. Nemluvě o tom, že jste nikdy nechtěli vědět, z jakých částí se chuť salámu skládá.
Občas na probíhající chuťovou apokalypsu zapomenu a zeptám se jí, jak jí to chutná. To něco. Gurmánka odpoví nepublikovatelnou směsí poloslov, něco jako citoslovce v sci-fi příbězích, kde hlavní hrdinka drtí hlavu zelené příšeře, a současně střílí zrádného kapitána do zrádného srdce.
Některým chuťově postiženým se chuť vrací zcela nenadále, sladce a radostně. Několikrát denně odříkávám svoje soukromé modlitbičky, aby se to náhle a radostně a již brzy stalo.
Tak co, jaký to je? Aaargh blip gork chvuuuum!
kapitola 23 – Akutní hrozba Vánoc
Znáte ten čas, kdy podzim ztrácí svoje barvy a teplo léta už je jenom vybledlou vzpomínkou, ale zima zatím jenom vykukuje zpoza pootevřených okenic a neodvažuje se vejít k vám domů?
Tehdy moje gurmánka ztrácí z očí lesk a vyměňuje ho za režim energeticky úsporného vyčkávání na příští letní horka. Co se týká jídla, sveřepě ještě pomíchá kostičky zeleniny do svěžího salátu, ale oba už víme, že čas potravinového prohřívání je dávno tady. Horký čaj poránu poslouží dennímu fungování lépe než pomerančový džus s kostkou ledu, dýňová polévka snese větší a větší podíl chilli, zažehávající v našich útrobách jiskřičky ne nepodobné těm vylétávajícím nad krbovou římsu.
Tuhle to krapet přehnala a já v práci před kolegy hořel jako vřeštící Molotovův koktejl, ale to už je jiná historie. Vím, že jsem v nadpisu „slíbil“ Vánoce, nezapomněl jsem. Je půlka listopadu, ranní mlhy jsou něco, co do přírody a tohoto období patří, ale stejně se za oknem prochladlého automobilu tvářím jako nevděčný kakabus. Vděčnost je namístě vždycky. Že jsme směli dojít až sem, že máme kolem sebe svoje drahé, máme-li je, nebo že aspoň máme naději, že ještě přijdou. Já jsem vděčný za svoji gurmánku, byť je zrovna v režimu půlročního vyčkávání červencových veder.
Nejsilnějším narušitelem zimního polospánku je čas Vánoc. Vánoce s sebou z historie nesou konejšivou peřinu romantiky ladovského ražení, v současnosti pokřivené konzumní hysterií maximalizace dárkových balíčků. Pokud dneska dítě nedostane balíček větší než je ono samo, propuká v pláč, deprese a touží po změně rodičů, pohlaví nebo alespoň zeměpisné šířky či délky.
Gurmánka nese toto období poněkud nelehce. Vřeštící nevychovanci visící za vytahanou ruku ztrhaných rodičů ji přivádějí do stavů šílenství, které nechcete zažít a ceny pytlíčků domácího cukroví za ceny výprodejového tryskáče ji nutí supět a dštít obláčky prvotřídní síry. Slovo tradiční před ní v době mezi listopadem a březnem raději nepoužívejte. Tradiční svařené víno jako výrobek masové spotřeby zkombinovaný z hromádky granulátu zalité vodou prosím ne. Lokty v žebrech a přišlápnuté palce na trhu na svatého Martina tohle všechno odstartují.
Tehdy utíkáme domů a gurmánka zapaluje vonné svíčky, zhasíná světlo, lezeme pod chlupatou deku jako do bunkru, přibíhají naši kočičí spolubydlící, a z chlupatého bezpečí vykukují naše čtyři páry očí a doufají, že neuvidí první hrůzostrašnou sněhovou vločku padat k našim dveřím.
