All the finest hors d'oeuvre spreads this season feature delicately spiced Stratocasters...

This post isn't really about food, but I'm just so happy for my friend, Paul. Writing a book is difficult. Revising and editing one is worse. And pimping it looks like the most miserable part of the whole gig. I admire a person with the ambition and perseverance to birth a major project like his novel, Gary Benchley, Rock Star.

Go Paul, go!

Clementine oranges — those sweet-tart pouches of citrus delight — are not ready in October.

Prior to Halloween, Clementines are sour, wan little fruits... even so, the excitement burbles. Customers demand access to them. The stores stock them. The growers pick them. The buyers ship them.

My neighborhood produce manager opens up pallets of sad, pre-season citrus from Spain, shakes his head, marks up the price only slightly above cost (even at wholesale, early fruit pricing is dear) and stocks the bins.

"Have to stay competitive," he tells me. "I mean, Fairway's got them up, and if we don't..."

"I don't want to sell these right now." He picks up a freckled green-yellow fruit and turns it over in his palm.

"They'll be great next month... mid-November or so. I wish I could put up a sign to tell people they're not going to be any good. They should just buy pears... or apples. The apples are fantastic right now."

"Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly."

M. F. K. Fisher (1908-1992

Yes... I realize I've been a negligent blogger. There have been technical issues. I'll be chewing on the web again next week — but in the meantime you must-must-must go see this ever-so-cute French foodporn site. Tiny people excavating watermelon seeds! Itty-bitty astronauts exploring the rocky surface of a crème brulée! Lilliputian workers mowing the kiwifruits! Swoon!

Step up and see all that (and more) right here: Minimiam

"Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know."

John Keats (1795-1821)

I was reminded as I read yesterday's poem from The Writer's Almanac (Pie by X.J. Kennedy) that the essense of the culinary arts is probably best translated through the lens of the other arts.

The pure joy of a summer peach, the sorrow of a scoop of ice cream melting into the gravel — these experiences are just too sensual, too ethereal, too emotional to express within the boundaries of AP-styled journalistic prose. This is work meant for painters, poets and composers.

My favorite food poems? Glad you asked. It's all about the love for me. I favor Lear's "The Owl & the Pussycat," Pablo Neruda's food odes (in particular his "Oda al Tomate") and this one by William Carlos Williams... so simple, sweet, and filled with heart:

This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Word on the street farm from my upstate orchard operatives: the "apple crop is 'vintage' this year as a warm summer and now cool nights have produced one of the most delicious crops recently."

Hell, yeah. All that city sweltering was worth something.

Hot off the apple wagon in the tri-state area:

Macintosh
Cortland
Macoun
Empire
Jonagold
Honeycrisp (mmm... honeycrisps....)

Now I'm wondering whether a vintage apple year translates to extra-yummy cider...