Tracy Bayntay and Winston Dufaux.

I have decided to link my recipe descriptions to other blogs in order to promote other individuals and expand on the repetoire of interesting links.  I am still going to maintain my own secret stash of recipes for use in the cookbook that will be written by a fictional character, Tracy Bayntay, from my first novel American Zen and the Noise of Fusion.  She even plans on keeping a travel journal as she makes her way around the world in search of spices.

Oddly enough, when Winston was on tour with the band around the Gulf Coast, he heard of this electrafolk outift from Brooklyn, Jon Sheldrick and Luke Smith.  A buddy of his had actually burned the mp3's to disc and recorded then onto cassettes.  That was his first exposure to Awning.  A rather lo-fi way to go, but highly enjoyable. He threw on the old walkman and strolled the empty beach at Dauphin Island.  There was no sign of seagulls.  He sat on a pier and imagined briefly the startling glimmer on the waves and felt as Borges had explained in his story "The Aleph."

I come now to the ineffable center of my tale; it is here that a writer's hopelessness begins.  Every language is an alphabet of symbols the employment of which assumes a past shared by its interlocutors.  How can one transmit to others the infinite Aleph which my timorous memory can scarcely contain?

He was drawn to the craft of mime at first to practice from the unspoken codex of silence.  The more he considered paradox is when he joined the band as a frontman.  Introduce the band.  Introduce some songs.  Pull out the door jam and hulu hoop, toss tennis balls into the crowd.  Speak loudly and clearly like you just emerged from prolonged understanding.  But above all speak out loud and break the code of silence with rounded and sharp syllables.  He had read the Borges quote on numerous occassions and even once clumsily narrated in Spanish.  More practice, more practice.

Tracy has a thing for potatoes.  Admittedly, the pommes frites she had at the farm were by far the most sumptuous.  Tossed in a small amount of truffle oil, some fleur de sel.  Lately though, her favorite has been potato cakes, though the difficulty and expense of authentic wasabi forces her to resort to the mass produced product.  Either way, she prefers to use a lot of it.  Throwing some smoked salmon on it, a variation of crème fraîche  delicately drizzled from a spoon.  Micro-greens.  Bread crumbs.  She had some down home barbecue style potato cakes when she visited the ranch.  Full of smokiness, bacon bits, pungent green onions and sharp Vermont white cheddar.  Fire roasted tomato and garlic jam infused by a hint of cinnamon.  Chipotle balsamic reduction.

Winston stood up as the sun set.  He remembered the old saying, "kids will be skeletons."  Since he cultivated such a keen sense of symbolism, he knew the saying was really a song by Mogwai.   He flipped the tape over to E.P. (2) by Awning and followed his future footprints down the shore.