‘Who Cooks For You’ by Holly Goddard Jones
|November 28, 2012|
Cooking Food in a Terracotta Pot, from Admiranda Narratio, by Thomas Harriot, 1590. Illustration by John White
Ann’s old friend Theresa seems to have gone a bit crazy. She shows up on Ann’s doorstep after six — she promised when they made these plans that she’d arrive in time for lunch — and is bedecked in garb that Ann, in their fifteen years’ acquaintance, has never seen the likes of: a loose poet’s blouse cut low enough in the front that her large breasts are thrust obscenely forward; skin-tight, trendy-looking bluejeans that flare at the bottom over an expensive pair of fawn-colored cowboy boots. Her hair, once a rich, wavy chestnut brown that Ann coveted, is frosted and straightened, and it crackles with electricity when the women hug. Theresa has an iPhone in one hand and a colorful alligator-print satchel in the other, and Ann is trying to ask her about the drive south from Kentucky, if the construction on 24 was what had slowed her down, when the phone buzzes and Theresa starts tapping out a reply with a manicured thumb.
“Hold on, sweetie,” she says. “This is the fifteenth text I’ve gotten from him today.”
Ann nods and waits and pushes Critter back into the house with her foot when the cat tries to slip past her leg. She doesn’t know who “he” could be. When Ann last saw Theresa at Phil’s funeral, she looked and acted much as she always had: like Ann’s older, wiser, and eminently dependable friend, made vague and fragile by grief, perhaps, but still more or less the person Ann came to know during their waitressing days at Rosco’s. That had been fifteen years ago, when Ann was still finishing her Hospitality Management degree at UK , and Theresa, in her late thirties and quietly glamorous, commanded the respect of even the crass male line cooks, who never dared to yell at her or make passes at her and who sullenly complied when, on slow nights, Theresa insisted they give Ann the quick cooking lessons she had taken the job hoping to get. So it was at Rosco’s, and not at college, that Ann learned how to tell the doneness of a piece of meat by pressing it with her index finger, how to sharpen and wield her knives, the way to gauge the temperature of a cooking oil by its sheen, and a thousand other methods and recipes. And it was Theresa and her husband who did not so much as blink when Ann told them she was looking for investors to help her cover the 30 percent capital injection required to finance the Misty Mountain Café, her restaurant. Ann owes her career, such as it is, to Theresa, and she tries to remember this as her friend reads another text and thumbs another response, both of them still standing in Ann’s doorway and Ann now an hour late to work. She tries to remember that Theresa, so recently a widow, is entitled to a dye job and its accompanying kookiness, and the time has come for Ann to be the supportive and patient one.
“Just—one—more—” Theresa jabs the screen with finality, smiles, and shoves her phone down into the bottom of her large purse. “Hug me again, pumpkin. Are you ever a sight for sore eyes.”
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
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