My Three in the Morning

Individual Spanish Tortillas for Fred and the Militant Existential Lesbian Feminists
(with whom he dines each Wednesday evening). Total Count? Twenty-five.
This week's culinary offering from the Doyenne of the Manor features collard greens,
mushrooms, red peppers, celery, and eggplant in a standard spicy potato and onion Tortilla Base, with
Notes of Basil, White Pepper, and Oregano as the Uppity-Sounding Flavor Profile.


So what were *YOU* doing in the wee hours, hmmm?

In the Spanish Omelet afterglow, I allowed myself the pleasure of several chapters from The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook*:

October 3  Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.

October 4  Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.

October 6  I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of a cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but my journey is still long.

October 7  Today I agian modified my omelet recipe. While my previous attempts had expressed my own bitterness, they communicated only illness to the eater. In an attempt to reach the bourgeoisie, I taped two fried eggs over my eyes and walked the streets of Paris for an hour. I ran into Camus at the Select. He called me a "pathetic dork" and told me to "go home and wash my face." Angered, I poured a bowl of bouillabaisse into his lap. He became enraged, and, seizing a straw wrapped in paper, tore off one end of the wrapper and blew through the straw. propelleing the wrapper into my eye. "Ow! You dick!" I cried. I leaped up, cursing and holding my eye, and fled.

*Sartre's Cookbook Courtesy of the fertile mind of Paul Vincent Spade, Professor of Philosophy (Emeritus) at Indiana University, Bloomington (spade@indiana.edu)




Previous meditations on the Militant Existential Lesbian Feminist Wednesday Night Feasting Phenomenon:
Wednesday Night Suppers;
Writer's Block and Its Detritus
Coconut Milk Confessions
and the incomparable Vent: Saving the Day.