børked, børked, børked.

Once again, it's made clear that I'm no longer the culinary master I once pretended to be.

It started out with an encouraging mix of inspiration and circumstance. Ever since moving to the Hat, I go a little "import crazy" when I'm in a large city. Arabic lemonade, Italian pasta dyed black with squid ink, Lebanese couscous... it's a cultural mosiac in my larder by the time I'm done. Unfortunately, sometimes that leaves me with a freezer full of marlin belly, and a pantry full of instant goulash. I had no idea how I was planning to cook the marlin belly, but the goulash mix helpfully suggested it could be used in a fish soup. Really... you don't say.

The first thing I learned about marlin belly is that it stinks. Imagine if octopi were hairy, and didn't leave the house very often. It was an illuminating discovery, if not enjoyable... as for subsequent lessons, they were considerably less important. So in an effort to dull the approaching disaster (which I was anticipating to resemble fish-based pork rinds), I tossed in a package of rice noodles. The aroma of octopus-belch persisted, but the noodles had mellowed enough of the flavour to make it slightly palatable. After the trial bowl, I tucked it away in the fridge, content in my accomplishments.

I returned to it after an extended absence (much like this blog) and found that its quality had declined considerably (much like this blog). The soup had solidified, gelled, receded into itself. I cut into it, and it quivered, possibly enraged with its own existence. I created a soup with just enough sentience to despair.

Or, perhaps I used too many rice noodles. Either way, happy meals and happy posts should resume this week.

Thanks for your patience.