Note to my fan(s) I'm sorry, but I can't write a column for you this issue. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I don't care and my very close friend Rob Pilatus of Milli Vanilli has recently passed away, off into that dark dark night where we can only hope that the angels are not lip-synching... I'll be back next issue with a jeremiad, three invecives and a spit-take, rest assured. Until then, I leave you some of my earlier work, from when I was the Letters Editor for the now-defuct magazine Cooking with Heat. As nobody actually read the magazine (the whole thing was a tax-dodge masterminded by Rupert Murdoch=Moloch 666), it was my job to make up the letters, much as I did later during my watershed years at Penthouse. Anyway, as the French say Aubergine! B.G.D.
I've been reading your magazine for ages and I think it's just swell! I thought I would send you a recipe! So here it is! If you're looking for a meal ideal for candlelight, why not try this with your sweetie?!
BAKED THING
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted and salted
1 tablespoon plus 3 drops of Kansas pygmy essence
1/3 cup of freshly grated parmesan
1 thing
3/4 kilo jumbo-tiny shrimp, shelled, de-veined and scolded
9/10 cup dried bongo (available at specialty shops, or behind the fridge)
In a large bowl, stir together the melted butter and pygmy essence; discard! Sprinkle parmesan about floor; consider your mortality, then sweep! Set the shrimp free down the toilet! Pre-heat oven to 350û! Place the thing in a pan, cook for 2 hours or until it stops struggling! Use the bongo as a varnish! Make sure the candlelight is really low so that your lover won't notice what she's eating.(!)
BASIL LIPSNOT!
Trackless Wastes, Georgia (C.I.S.)
Your article in May of 1993 on the new Parisian restaurant Sneezy's was brilliant and well-timed. How wonderful to see the respected chef AndrŽ Gouache cooking again after that most unpleasant accident in 1988. (Editor's note he was paralyzed by clams in a rouŽ disaster.) Also, I would like to come out of the closet.
LOUISE MANGOBOY
MOLLUSC, VIRGINIA
I have found that if you heat things, they change. They get mushy, or crispy, and sometimes both. The insides change color sometimes, too. And they smell different. And stuff. But I can't remember what thing does what. Quel interresante, hein?
JEAN-LOUIS FREEBIRD-WILSONNE
HOPITAL DES ENFANTS, FRANCE
I know my bitch girlfriend is reading this column because she always cooks me gourmet shit with endives in it when I just want fried chicken. So here's a message Velmaweeze, if you don't get your ass out of that motel where you and my so-called friend Larry are bumpin' privates all the time, I'm gonna blow away your kneecaps with a shotgun.
Here's a &#@* recipe.
BREAD (GOD-DAMMIT)
1 Wonder Bread
1 car
1 bitch girlfriend who's screwing behind my back
Get in your god-damn car and get yourself some bread, and eat it. If my bitch girlfriend were here, she'd made me a f**king pot pie. But she ain't... so I'm eating dry Wonder Bread. God-dammit.
BENZENE SUCKER
MAGOG, WYOMING
I am writing to warn your readers. If you have a bottle of 1983 Boar's Stomach Vineyards GewŸrtztraminer (CuvŽe ReservŽe AlldeedŽe), don't drink it. It is full of goat piss, and drinking it will make you look like a nitwit. Somehow, all the bottles were filled with goat piss. I can't believe it. And they wonder why the Japanese are mocking us in our schools, homes and churches and synagogues and stadiums and, ah, whatnot.
GARTH BROOKS
OWNER, BOAR'S STOMACH VINEYARDS
FONG, CALIFORNIA
Keep Those Canards & Letters comin' in. . .
Luv, Danzig