I often feel like I’m born in the wrong time, I love old books and movies and often although I’m considered young I feel old and unaccepted in today’s society. My two absolute favorite movies are it happened one night and Casablanca but then who can not like these two movies, one of my dreams would be to actually watch these two movies on the big screen. ❤
Cod is an amazing fish; the possibilities with this fish are non-stopping.
This are a quite traditional recipe, and very, very easy to prepare.
this recipe serves 4 persons
4 cod fillets
1 yellow onion thinly sliced
1 carrot thinly sliced
2 bay leaves
150 g butter
- Bring to boil a large pot of water, it needs to cover the fish
- When the water boils add the onions, carrots, peppercorns and bay leaves. Let boil for 5-10 minutes
- Add the fillets and let boil for additional 5-10 minutes
- Peel and grate the horseradish
- Melt the butter until its golden brown in a pot or pan
- Serve the fish with potatoes, browned butter. Garnish each cod filet with horseradish, lemon wedge and dill sprigs
one of my favourite books, a true american classic is Winesburg, Ohio. its the place i disappear to when life gets though and i want to escape, i enter into the fictional town of Winesburg.
Winesburg, Ohio is a town whose inhabitants, living in the early 20th-century Midwest, ache for fulfillment, passion, and meaning, and the way their stories are told by the great Sherwood Anderson never goes out of style. The collection starts with the story “The Book of the Grotesque.” An ailing old writer is contemplating his life, all the people he knew, and the “notions” they all had in their heads about life. He has written a book about them, but it hasn’t been published. But we, the readers, get to read it anyway in the haunting chapters that follow (and which go back to what might be called “the beginning,” though the book does not really follow any chronological order–it is not going to be confined that way). “It was the truths that made the people grotesques,”Anderson writes. “The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.” The rest of the revealing narratives revolve around “Hands,” “The Teacher,” “The Thinker,” “Loneliness,” “A Man of Ideas,” “The Philosopher,” “The Strength of God” and more. These people are farmers, store keepers, newspaper writers, wives, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, and preachers. They all reside in a small town circa 1919, but these stories are timeless.
The stories are told in third person, but are related through the narrative voice of George Willard, the town reporter, who shows up in most of the tales, sometimes taking an active role and at other times just telling a story. Who better to keep tabs on the townspeople then the young reporter who captures everything in his trusty notebook?Andersonnever lets the reader know if George is the old man from the first chapter, so we are left to decide for ourselves if he ever became a “real” writer, which was his dream–George, as others, exercises big dreams in his head. He does not have any easy life. His parents own a shabby hotel and have a terrible relationship with one another. His mother ends up being a recluse in her 40s (much older than it is now), never leaving her room. A couple of the chapters focus on her and how she loves her son but is powerless to express herself as she chooses.Anderson, though capturing the male psyche well (somewhat expected), does a great service to women and his depiction of them. One character was not suited for motherhood and Anderson is brutally honest about how that would play out in a time when that’s what women were expected to do.
There are a few “loose” women and several who are wound up tight, but they are all fascinating. Anderson lures the reader straight into these characters’ heads, engrossing us, making us feel empathy, anger, pity, elation, and scorn for these characters (insert your own emotion when you read it). I will never forget the frustration I felt for the young female character who waits ten years for a man (who readers know to be something of a snake oil salesman) to come back to her, putting her life on hold, having taken his promise seriously. The story of the preacher who spends hours peeping at a neighbor who reads in bed, just for the chance of a glimpse of white skin, is also excruciatingly painful to read. These are but two examples of the complex characters Anderson draws.
When the book was published in 1919, it was considered a scandalous piece of trash by many critics, and as with many revolutionary writers, appreciation of their work took some time. The themes include physical longing (and hints of premarital sex), a male teacher getting fired on suspicion of pedophilic behavior, unwed women having children, violence, the use of alcohol in excess (and a man’s strange connection with a young girl in the midst of that state), a religious zealot who considers making a bizarre sacrifice to God, and other social issues that weren’t discussed as freely then. But Anderson was telling his own truths, and the reader will not doubt at any time that these people were certainly based on real characteristics he encountered. His superb collection of characters is a relevant and insightful study of human behavior, and the book is one that deserves to live on.
I’m not the biggest fan of pie, although, I’m very fond of the pie crumble dough. It’s amazingly delicious. A while back, I had a slight obsession with the TV show “cake boss” (guilty pleasure…) and in one episode the bake crumb-cake. It looked amazing, since it was like a soft cake but with pie crumbles. I’ve been wanting to try for a while, but haven’t come around to do it. The other day we had some beautiful peaches at home, and I decided to try to make an Charlie Crumlb Cake, a little different, but delicious. The bottom layer was moist and juicy, the peaces added sweetness and the crumbs were crispy and added texture. A hit that I’ll definitely make again!
0.8 cups / 2 dl of sugar
0.8 cups / 2 dl of flour
a little more than 3 ounces/ 90 grams of butter
1 tsp of lemon zest
0.5 tsp of vanilla extract
3.5 ounces / 100 grams of butter
0.4 cups / 1 dl of oats
2 tbsp of sugar
1 tsp of cardamom
0.2 cups / 1 dl of flour
1. Preheat the oven to 350 F / 175°C
2. Butter a springform
3. Mix all the ingredients for the cake.
4. I en mixer, mixa ihop smuldegen.
5. Put the cake batter in the bottom.
6. Cut the peaches in slices.
7. Add the peaches on top of the batter.
8. Distribute the crumbs
9. Bake in the oven for about 25 min, or until a little golden on top.
10. Let cool, serve with whipped cream.
Donna Tartt likes to start her books with a death. In The Secret History (1992), the victim was a college student called Bunny. The prologue made it clear that our narrator had blood on his hands and the book’s structure – crime first, explanation later – suited the narrator’s obsession with classical notions of predetermination and fate. In Tartt’s second novel, The Little Friend (2002), the opening image was of another body. On Mother’s Day in Sixties Mississippi, a nine-year-old boy is found ‘hanging by the neck from a piece of rope’.
In The Goldfinch, Tartt’s first novel for 11 years, the plot-enabling disaster is an explosion at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Our young narrator, Theo, manages to survive the blast, but his beloved mother is killed. The writing is wonderfully atmospheric here and the image of Theo staggering through the wounded museum, searching for an escape route among ‘dim oils’ and ‘dulled gilt’, ‘galleries of Oceanic art, totems and dugout canoes’, encountering the banal horror of a woman staring ‘blankly at the ceiling … the top of her head missing’, reverberates throughout the rest of the book. It will take Theo many years to begin to come to terms with the loss of his mother, and also to decide what to do with the other burden the event has left him with: a small Dutch masterwork called ‘The Goldfinch’. The authorities assume it has been destroyed.
After its opening explosion, The Goldfinch settles into a calm account of Theo’s development as a teenager. This lasts for about half of the book’s 784 pages. In its calm first-person hindsight and careful tracing of an orphaned boy’s development from innocence to experience, from manipulated child to manipulating adult, encountering along the way eccentric lawyers with names like Mr Bracegirdle, this part of The Goldfinch strongly recalls Great Expectations, a book which, in a deft touch, Tartt has Theo narrowly miss out on reading. (His half of the class get stuck studying Walden instead.)
As the novel follows Theo’s path into the world of work and pursuit of a girl named Pippa – the protagonist of Great Expectations made feminine – it morphs into a very different beast, resembling at its best the kind of darkly intelligent suspense novel that made Patricia Highsmith’s name. Theo is slipping inexorably into drug addiction and the New York art underworld. The prose dutifully fragments to reflect his mental disintegration, images coming in shards and definite and indefinite articles increasingly abandoned (‘Blood smear on my cuff. Big fat drops’; ‘Itching, itching. Skin on fire’; ‘Cordite smell and deafening echo that drove me so deep inside my skull’). Occasionally the imagery becomes wilfully obtuse (‘White wings of tumult. Running jump into the infinite’) and at other times it seems to reach for the pulsing paranoia of Don DeLillo (‘in a modern city, this half-invisible grain of terror, disaster, jumping at car alarms, always expecting something to happen’). In any case, Theo by now has good cause to be paranoid. The authorities have begun to realise that the painting may have survived the blast after all.
As Theo’s secret starts to slip from his grasp, he learns the ropes in an antiques shop, selling clever fakes that involve splicing old furniture with new. Tartt seems to have some self-reflexive fun with this. ‘I knew’, Theo tells us, ‘how to draw people’s attention to the extraordinary points of a piece, the hand cut veneer, the fine patination, the honorable scars, drawing a finger down an exquisite cyma curve … in order to lead the eye away from reworked bits.’ He also advises that it’s sensible to place the strongest pieces in the well-lit front of the shop, hiding the cruder work in the shadowy muddle at the back. The early Met museum explosion remains the book’s best scene and, as the story starts to stretch plausibility, Theo’s post-traumatic stress disorder offers a decent reason to track back to it.
The ‘exquisite cyma curve’ of the furniture Theo sells is what Hogarth called ‘the line of beauty’, and there’s more than a little of Alan Hollinghurst’s Nick Guest in the adult Theo, pleasure-seeking and unhappy, addicted to surface grace. Dozens of other possible references to novels pop up in the course of the book. Theo thinks of exchanges as ‘scripted’ and moments as ‘staged’, and characters are described in terms of their resemblance to other characters in other books. The most surprising of these allusions comes when a childhood friend of Theo nicknames him ‘Potter’ on account of his apparent physical similarity to J K Rowling’s boy wizard. Forget Great Expectations, the novel seems to say. This is the story of a bespectacled, gifted, orphaned boy grieving the tragic death of his parents, growing into a risky new maturity, seeking to overcome adversities in a world not quite his own… Ring any bells?
You have to admire Tartt’s sense of play here but, by the end of the book, when the plot begins to creak and Theo gets into gunfights with big-league art criminals, it’s not altogether helpful to have Daniel Radcliffe in mind. The painter behind The Goldfinch is interested in ‘tak[ing] [an] image apart very deliberately to show us how he painted it’, and so is Tartt. But the self-consciousness sometimes obscures the more interesting questions this big and pleasurable book has to offer, namely whether ‘the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow’, and whether the greatest paintings and novels ever have a hope of healing real-life wounds.