One man’s Tapas is another man’s life
You sit up, as sure as chew on your Bouillabaisse, with the thought that this is about your next gastronomic delight. The soupe du jour is seafood. The soupe du jour is always seafood.
But there is no talk as much, with so little a grasp, of Elohym as in the contemporary, self-constructed and ubiquitously self-absorbed, chatter around an à la carte at the Pax Americana.
Is it the “God” of your harvest? Is it the “God” of your anointing? Is it the “God” of your bounty? Or is it the “God” of small things that you pray to about the speck in your eye (when most need help with a log)?
Have you much ado about some banality at the physician, or even some not-so-triviality yet still something that was not your turn and not your time? Then you have stolen from another.
Have you hoarded produce, stored more than you need, to satisfy an existential angst? Then you have taken the food of another.
Sound travels in water and musical chairs is played at sea, yet even the Wall-Street shark has the good sense to leave something on the table for the next guy.
But the mainstream pelagic: the tuna and the mackerel?
Not so much.
Here, it’s a case of more Cantabrian anchovies on toast.
Grill. And garnish with a small amount of olive oil, and cracked pepper.
(Move along now, I say. Go and swim the seas about the Land of Nod.)