Cauliflower with chick peas, spinach, apples, and Spice Islands Curry Powder
Recent commentarian speculation leads me to observe that I am widely perceived to be dead. Not true! It’s just a flesh wound.
Chump that I am, earlier this week I wrote, but neglected to actually post, a post. This post was to have announced that I would be frolicking in the woods, dressed like a Grecian urn, with a pan flute—Bacchanalian revels, etc— nowhere near any internet, for several days, and not to expect any posts. Tragically, that post exists now only as a glimmer of a half-recollected dream adrift in the sands of time, which is a shame, since it was extremely scintillating, and would likely have entered the literary canon as one of America’s greatest contributions to Western civilization.
Unless you strike the back button instantly, you are stuck instead with this post. It is more or less about the Hollywood Mexican art thriller ‘Frida’, which I watched yesterday while internalizing the above-pictured cauliflower curry.
Although it was very pretty and lurid, I could not enjoy this movie ‘Frida’ at all, and not just because I was fatally distracted by the exquisiteness of the cauliflower dish, or because there was too much Diego Rivera and not enough paint. What ruined it for me was mostly the curious absence of even the slightest hint of a mustache on A-list celebrity hottie Salma Hayek.
It is not often that I spend two hours repeating the phrase “what the fuck?” but that is precisely what I did last night, so mesmerized was I by the strange and unnecessary impertinence of portraying Frida Kahlo as a 21st century patriarchy-approved international supermodel. I would like to ask young Salma Hayek how, having depilated one of the world’s most celebrated and iconoclastic upper lips, she can sleep at night.