Status Updates From Soupe de kafka jim (La) (LI...

hmmmm, zor yenen bir yemek ama yicez artık

Onion Tart
à la Geoffrey Chaucer

Then spake oure Host.
“Now have we heard from every which one
Of our fellowship with receipts to tell, but one.
Maister Graham, as knoweth many a man,
Loves best tales of cuckoldry as he man.
And thou wyfe of Bloomesbury, long of face,
Right boldly hast thou taken thy place.
God knowes well thy stream of consciousness,
For your clafoutis may God you blesse.
And thou, clerke of P

Cheese on toast
à la Harold Pinter

HURLEY. You like olive oil?
(He lays the mozzarella over the aubergine, drizzles olive oil on top, and finally adds a sprinkle of chopped oregano, before placing the ciabatta under a hot grill.)
CLACK. I don’t want none of that foreign muck.
HURLEY. Olive oil? It’s good for you.
CLACK. It’s for cleaning out your ears ain’t it?
HURLEY. (Drops a tea bag into the

Sole à la Dieppoise
à la Jorge Luis Borges

Sir Henry then seasoned the sole with salt and pepper and place the pieces in a flameproof pan. The sun had by now descended below the rooftops the through the window he perceived the tower of Westminster Abbey. The light of the gas flame took over from the extravagant sunset and illuminated Sir Henry’s irremeable countenance. He drained the mussels and re-covered them

Vietnamese Chicken
à la Graham Greene

The smell of chopped garlic clung to my hands as I mixed it together with the lemon zest, fish and soy sauces, and the peppers, black and cayenne. The chicken breasts rested on the counter and my hand moved towards them as though guided by an unseen force. It was too late to go back; she would be here soon.

Ritually I sliced the breasts into thin strips. The white flesh lay on

Fenkata
à la Homer

Odysseus bound the mighty creature’s feet and slung him over his shoulder to carry back to the Achaian’s camp on the beach of the grey sea, beneath the bows of the wooden ships.
Then swift-footed brilliant Achilles gave up his weeping and came out from his tent. He girt about his chest loins a leather apron and skinned the rabbit and cut it expertly into equal parts. Then he took the pieces

Clafoutis Grandmère
à la Virginia Woolf

She placed the cherries in a buttered dish and looked out of the window. The children were racing across the lawn, Nicholas already between the clumps of red-hot pokers, turning to wait for the others. Looking back at the cherries, that would not be pitted, red polka dots on white, so bright and jolly, their little core of hardness invisible, in pity she thought of Mrs Sorle