How come? Because I had to pick my teeth. That is to say, I was looking for a toothpick, and they are, in this, my abode, to be found in the same cupboard as the spices. Will you tell me now what happened when I opened the door of that cupboard (I love that word: cup-board)? No? Then I will tell you: The wonderful smells of all the spices in there burst upon my nose. Wonderful. A world of spices, and all the varieties of cooking that are made possible thereby.
I love cooking. It is a creative process, and it starts with how you prepare the ingredients. In any case, the main ingredient should be love. And the second main ingredient should be fearlessness: once you have attained a basic feeling for cooking, you are free to experiment! Yes, you are. Just try, it’s fun! Try, discover! It’s wonderful. It’s better than reading science fiction books. You want new worlds? Start cooking. You may cook three pieces of shit, but for that you will discover, on the fourth, a wonder.
Just today I made a dish that tasted okay, but I’d not make it again. And I am considered, by my friends at least, to be a good cook. Hey, I tried something new, and I almost got it right. Next time I’ll knock your tastebuds right out of their socks.
Listening to Glavnoe, Rebyata, Serdtsem Na Staret from Leningrad.

Mushrooms, non-magic

Pfifferlinge. Butter. Salt. Pepper. The four necessary ingredients for Happiness. Butter in the pan, middle heat, cut the large pfifferlinge in half, the middle sized and small ones you leave in piece (haha little word play there, pff). Butter melted in the pan, pfifferlinge cut? Well, don’t stand there like a damned fool, toss the pfifferlinge in the pan! And when they’re in the pan, continue tossing them: I mean, with the pan. Don’t you dare take a fucking spatula in your hand, you son-of-a-bitch. Toss them in the pan, take the pan in your hand and toss those little fuckers. Oh dear, you’ve burnt your hand. That was a misunderstanding, my God, are you that drunk? You are, of course, supposed to take the pan by the HANDLE. Jesus. So anyway, now you put some salt on the pfifferlinge, and you grind some pepper on to them. I particularly enjoy a mix of white, red and black pepper. Freshly ground it must be, though, otherwise it was all for nought. If you have, at this juncture, established that you have no pepper grinder and no pepper corns to grind, you can toss the whole in the garbage (but not the pan, perhaps you will have occasion to use it in the future). If you have, however, fortunately, pepper to grind, then you’re well on your way to Happiness. If all has gone well, apart from your burnt hand, those little pfifferlinge are already done! All that remains is to eat them.
I, personally, am eating them to the tune of Money, as rendered by the The Flying Lizards, accompanied by a glass of wine.