This photo was taken on the corner of Hoover and Jefferson, right by a north entrance of USC. It was taken with my phone, and the quality and composition is far from stunning. But I thought it was a pretty funny image, because for all we know, there were six people sitting down inside that very truck. Schrödinger's Truck...
Once the truck carrying those mobile commodes drove past, I noticed on the street across from me that the small university theater which has its premises just there, was putting on a performance of the Vagina Monologues. I have never seen the Vagina Monologues, and to be honest, I have zero idea what the Vagina Monologues is about. I'm also not sure I'm entirely interested in finding out. But, I will say that whoever named the show "the Vagina Monologues", was doing their job as a publicist or promoter. Its an extremely emotive title, and it compels a person to investigate. Which is why I personally went to investigate the small group of people waiting outside. They told me the show started in 15 minutes. I couldn't make that time and, don't bite my head off for saying this, I also detected a slight undercurrent of disdain from my naive questions in the lobby, so I left.
I didn't see the show, but the experience got me thinking about good names, and a few other things. So I decided to name this post "the Lasagne Monologue" because I think it might be compelling to an audience in its own way, partially by virtue of the fact that it is an obvious reference to "the Vagina Monologues" and also because it is an inherently absurd combination of words and images.
I have always loved Lasagne. As far as I am concerned, it is the perfect food. It is satisfying and rich, like a traditional meat and two veg, without being pretentious. I think Lasagne served with a fresh simple salad with a strong peppery herb like rocket is pretty much touching the void between heaven and earth. I still treasure the memory, of finding a very low-key Trattoria in Rome in 2006 where they served Lasagne by weight, as one of the high points of a year in Europe.
It is difficult to make Lasagne well, even though its constituents are not delicate or temperamental: A meat sauce with beef, tomato, onion, celery and carrots; sheets of pasta; and a cheesy topping, usually a Béchamel. Anna Karenina starts with Tolstoy explaining that all good marriages are the same, all bad marriages fail for unique reasons. Likewise, a good Lasagne succeeds in every part of the recipe, whereas a bad Lasagne could have stumbled due to any one of many factors, such as a poor ratio of sauce to pasta, low quality sheets, overly creamy Béchamel, or even over-complication: I remember making a Lasagne once which was so convoluted as to have corn, chickpeas, and chicken strips in it. Although it was tasty, I think it had failed in its hope to be a real Lasagne. Real Lasagne is simple in its ideology, and should remain simple in its recipe.
Lately though I have been wondering about the nature of Lasagne, and I worry a little for the future of humanity. Because the thing is, Lasagne's genius comes from the complementary relationship between its elements. It would be absurd for a person to try eat just the meat sauce, or just the pasta, or worst, just the creamy topping. They would be missing the entire Lasagne experience, where the meaty, creamy sauce is cradled by the pasta, and as trade, offers a far denser experience to the palate than the pasta could alone. But my concern is that with such a careful balance to be struck between the components, it seems easy to miscalculate and ultimately ruin the meal. And I think it brings to light a bigger concern, which is that of mixing generally. The ingredients of a lasagne must be mixed to be eaten properly, but each part is given its role to play, and no part is subservient to another. This balance is all too often not being struck in other meals. Think for example about a sandwich I saw yesterday which had smoked salmon, and avocado. These two ingredients are delicious, but I wonder if something was being lost in the complex tastes of the two. I was especially concerned about the avocado, which is a subtler taste naturally, and so is liable to be overpowered by the stronger fish. When it was finally served on a strong rye bread, I wondered which tastes would really make it through to be prominent to the taster, and what was being lost.
I think the problem stems inherently from our pretty modern desire to try and do things at the same time. We want to eat one meal which provides many different taste experiences, and likewise we want to have lives which accomplish many things simultaneously. We read on the toilet, and send emails while we're at dinner. We walk and listen to music, and we drive cars while calling our parents. And although it's a pleasure to be able to achieve so many things simultaneously, it also means that we're losing something of the simple, singular experience. I was cooking a piece of steak a while ago, and I had some potato salad in the fridge. In the end, I decided to eat the steak without the salad, and then eat some of the salad after. Not a triumph for the fates of the civilized world exactly, but I do think that it allowed me to have an overall more satisfying taste experience.
I'm not optimistic enough to think that I will entirely change my habits and stop multitasking... (right now I have tabs open about Maude Gonne and Yeats, and Facebook and Gmail, and tickets for a club in LA and yelp reviews of this club. And while I was typing this I was doing some video editing). But I am going to try and focus a little more. Because life is a lot like food. Some things should be tasted simultaneously, and we're all getting very good at that. But some things really deserve their own time and space, like dinner with friends, or reading a good book. And the thing is, even though avocado is delicious, you're really not doing it any favors serving it with chicken curry.
Lurv
Ben
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