I have to get some pictures of broccoli, and for that matter pictures of--no matter how much they resemble a changing diaper gone bad--pictures of bechamel up. And why? Because I get ten hits a day looking for none other than pictures of broccoli. I feel guilty--no I do--that folks searching for bechamel and for "pictures of broccoli" get my site. It ranks high. Not highly, that would be absurd. I rank high in broccoli pictures and I have not two, not one, but none. For the bechamel...I should appeal to Bakerina, fair Bakerina, I should appeal--a simple link to the best, the most simple, the most elegant bechamel the Bakerina has to offer. I think she would cooperate. I should ask her. She could host this most basic recipe at her site. I could link to it. That's the idea of blogdom.
I don't know why--ok, that's kind of a lie--the spiders of Goodely Oogle send all these folks my way looking for wisdom in a milky, floury--not flowery, and it really better not be floury or one has done something wrong--sauce, but for god's sake, can't there be more pictures of broccoli than my none? Really, in the next two weeks--sooner than that I am too busy with school--but sometime within the week after next I will just put up a shit load of broccoli pictures. For fuck's sake, if that many people want them, it is my civic duty to provide. I may, I will, I think.
Oh, I should holler at the remarkable Bakerina about the bechamel. I had a recipe, buried in a post, over a year ago which included sort of, hmm, erm, somewhat slap-dash instructions? for bechamel. More of a poem about a sauce than a recipe. There was the milk and a bay leaf, a sliver of onion, a puff of nutmeg--that sort of thing. The truth is: bechamel is a handy sauce. Add some shredded cheese--molnay!, I think, anyway. Erm, but anyone, a persistent link. Somehow I need a persistent link obvious to those many few who sadly find my site looking for pictures of broccoli and bechamel. This that pitter flat spalat shat tat, ok, Mary just asked me from where I got the noodles for the soup--which she is now home from work and eating--
"Is it good?" I asked, no really I just asked this seconds ago.
"Yes," she said demonstratively, definitively, declaratively, deluctably, what-ever-the-fucktably? "I love it."
And so, there you have it.
Chicken soup, for the feeling sick your girlfriend, your lover.
