LesGensFaims

Love in Your Dish?

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." And so begins Leo Tolstoy's, Anna Karenina, a masterpiece that relayed and exposed certain universal truths about the human condition, even in its opening line. 

Fast forward a few centuries later to late 19th century Burgundy, France - where Brillat Savarin that gastronomic sage and gourmand astutely observed and concluded that, "The way in which mealtimes are passed is most important to what happiness we find in life." I think Tolstoy would agree that how a family breaks bread is not only connected to their physical well being, but also their happiness both as individuals and as a collective unit. 

The table does come first as Adam Gopnik's latest homage to France and its long-standing traditions both haute and basic observes - as long as it welcomes a meal which includes participants - whether its newlyweds, an old couple, or a raucous family (I am thinking of my own lovely lot). If they can learn to dine with one another, they can learn to enjoy the food and each other's company.

It is fair to say that some meals are painful - I have been there and have chosen to block them out of my own memory. But for the most part, they have forced me to forget myself and to remember others, to learn how to listen, to talk with both adults and children. My family is far from perfect, but one thing I have observed is our enduring ability to still have a proper dinner and to talk and to laugh. There can be great magic at a meal- if you choose to truly participate. Like a Babette's Feast it can enliven the shyest soul ( sometimes with the aid of a glass of wine), enable that irritable grumpy self to shine, and instead, listen, talk, observe, as we eat and drink. 

It's a pause in the day's endless montage of busy nothings. Such a meal is freeing, but more importantly, I think -no, I am convinced as a veteran of the family meal, teaches us how to love - both food and people. To separate the two will only lead to unhappiness - like any divorce or familial separation, nourishment is dependent on two variables - nutrition and the nurturer. Their connection to one another is invaluable and certainly a life-giving force. To separate them goes against the grain. 

To conclude, "breaking bread" is no fire and brimstone stunt. It has real stock value and demonstrates that sharing food with one another, whether it is a simple bowl of soup, a hunk of crusty bread, and a glass of wine can truly nourish the soul. It is civilizing, but more importantly stimulating - both our need for love and our capacity to give it. It is as MFK Fisher beautifully asserted, "Love in a dish."

There can be no warm, rich home-life anywhere else if it does not exist at table, and in the same way there can be no enduring family happiness, no real marriage, if a man and woman cannot open themselves generously and without suspicion one to the other over a shared bowl of soup as well as a shared caress. 

I concur. Santé. 

 

 

In Vino...

I once casually drank a bottle of 1998 Barolo wine. The sanctity of this esteemed vintage slipped past my lips and palate only to quickly quench my thirsty desire to sustain my immature buzz. I had stumbled across the bottle in my parents basement hidden between the forgotten pool table, cobwebs, and WWII military helmets collecting dust. I don't even think I looked at the label and instead hustled upstairs relieved that "there was still wine in the house." I was 21 and at age where quantity took precedence over quality. Barolo was on par with a case of Bud Light, when in reality it was the foie de gras of booze. My then boyfriend and I - both ignorant of taste guzzled it down with buttery popcorn over Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (attempting to imitate Sean Connery's accent - I credit the Barolo here). 

 

The next morning my Mom informed me that that lonely bottle was in fact my father's prized possession. I gasped knowing that my Dad hardly bought himself anything nice aside from the cigars that perfumed his car and at one time my all girl's boarding school dorm. My guilty hangover prompted me to look more deeply into this Barolo matter. Soon, I began researching the "Italian king of wines" slowly discovering its true market and historical value, while I cringed at my Dad's potential reaction. Fortunately for me, he barks but never bites and quickly forgave me and now I buy him a Barolo every year for Christmas or his birthday.

 Four years later, I found myself ironically attending graduate school near Barolo headquarters in Piedmont, Italy. I had an entered a new phase of life - one inspired by taste and driven by a thirst to study why and how it is so inextricable to our lives. 

 At 21, I was still a Philistine half-heartedly making "gourmet meals" and stocking up on cheap French wine from the local Harris Teeter. My palate was ignorant and sullied by the weight of collegiate excesses. The Barolo incident was my first experience of true taste, but one whose significance had gone unnoticed. Interestingly, it had taken place during my last semester of college foreshadowing the exit of  my semi-destructive phase of gross quantity ushering in a new era, one rooted in the simple elegance of fine food and wine. Barolo had been humble that evening and I would argue, a tad sly, coyly hidden in our murky basement as it patiently waiting to be uncorked to meet an unromantic demise at the mouths of two wine amateurs. Its value and perhaps, lesson later arose in an "enlightened hangover." Although I wish I could remember my first taste of Barolo, I am sorry to say, I do not. But the memory of the delinquent act still persists and occasionally haunts me - proving that like a fine wine, taste also improves with time.  

 

 

 

The Easter Bunny

My earliest memories of Easter took place on a farm. It was my Grandfather's farm, bought with his retirement pension from the U.S. Military. His skills on the polo field were one of the many talents of Colonel Arthur Wilson. He also had a knack for names and his racehorses were evidence of this. From Nothing Bad to Secret Oak - both great racehorses to Ayatollah who was a complete  jerk and suspected in the murder of my Mom's cat, to even, Miss Nuna who later destroyed my Mom's beloved vegetable garden. There was no Whitey because he was all white; or Oreo because he was black with white patches; or Peanut Butter because he preferred it to a salt block. No, my Grandfather had a little  more original thought and his farm's name of Twin Orchard's was in sync with its four-legged hoofed residences.  

Snug between two pear orchards, the Colonel-cum-naturalist created the name, which was chiseled on a stone slab at the entrance. The pear orchards, however, remained hidden behind the ramshackle barn. The farm's main attributes were its southern-style open air porch, not one, but two sets of staircases, and a cottage where both a German and Russian lived during and after the Cold War. I spent my early childhood there cultivating an invisible friend, making mud-pies, and I believe annoying my older cousins to no end. 

 One Easter when I was seven, my second of three younger brothers, Will arrived. I remember my Mom slowly working her way down the staircases with my Aunt Anne urging her to head immediately to the hospital. As she walked out to the car, the latest batch of Gretchen's puppies were hot on her heels - some even nibbling at her bathrobe. It was her baby entourage. They knew what was coming.

My brother James and I resolved that Easter would be spent parent-less, but assured ourselves that the arrival of a new family member was far more important. Although I pined for a little sister whose hair I could braid, possibly boss around, my brother Will came with white fuzzy hair and lots of drool. 

So did Easter morning and rather than sit around glumly and wait for the mad dash to Church, James and I gingerly tip-toed down the backstairs only to encounter an Easter mroning surprise.

The Easter Basket was already fair game by the time I was seven. I had my own basket that came filled each year with the usual suspects of jelly beans, pastel-colored Peanut M&M'S, and one giant chocolate Easter bunny. I enjoyed the Easter rituals and reveled in its pagan like Halloween qualities. The hunt for eggs was good fun, too. One year a few went off the reservation only to be found by my Grandfather's dog, Gretchen a few months later. We presumed she had been skunked, as the smell of rotten eggs perfumed the air. Her mouth, however, covered in a rainbow of light pinks and blues indicated that she had discovered her own pot of gold. 

 This year Easter was different. Will was born, Gretchen was incapacitated from her own recent litter, and my Easter basket received a significant upgrade. 

With my Uncle Mike and Aunt Ann in Free Union for Easter things were different. James and I were not left in the care of Uncle Jingles and Gradfather, the two county bachelors, otherwise known, as the odd couple. Rather, we were in the hands of seasoned parents of five grown children. In particular, my Uncle Mike, a second generation Italian, a graduate of West point, Vietnam veteran, and well it may be unfair to say, one of my favorite Uncles had morphed into the Easter bunny overnight. Uncle Mike loved Easter and chocolate, and when the two came together, it was a match made in heaven (pun intended).

James and I could not believe our eyes. Our Easter baskets were bursting with chocolates - piled high as if Uncle Mike had been shoveling candy all night. And although I should have been off my head with joy for my new brother, my mind - nay my stomach was elsewhere.  With no parents around, an unsupervised feast lay before us so we gorged on chocolate all morning experiencing a high and then a low around mid-afternoon. 

The Easter egg hunt was a daze with the puppies running around as Uncle Jingles diligently grilled chorizos. My Aunt Anne continued to sip copious amounts of tea while James and I high on chocolate skipped around completely unconcerned about Will and our Mom. We were deliriously happy and now looking back, I am surprised we did not get sick from our chocolate binge.

Easter had risen well above the ranks that year. Soon, I began to worry about next year's Easter -knowing nothing could match Uncle Mike's baskets. Perhaps fate would grant us another sibling summoning Ann and Mike down to the farm? It was unlikely, but one thing did change and that was my childish obsession with the Easter bunny. I had always suspected that my parents had had a hand in it occasionally spotting stowaway jelly beans on the car floor. As long as I received the Easter basket, I was content and would go to Church without fuss. But now a crucial player had entered the game and I thought to myself, as long as Uncle Mike is around, I do not care. 

Happy Easter. 

 

Frog in Your Throat

The witches of yesteryear often talked of the fountain of youth. Pounce de Leon searched in vain deep in the jungles of south Florida, but the only water he found was swamp water and it was loaded with alligators.

 Where I'm from,we have our own fountain of youth and we call it well water.  And well, it comes from a well dug in the ground  - to be exact, the ground of Albermale county whose soil is rocky but the view of Blue Ridge is handsome and the sound of the bard owl's perpetual hooing question, "who cooks for you" echoes in the woods. It's home. Free Union, Virginia with a modest population of 193 inhabitants, a post office, a local country-store called Maupins where the moonpies, twinkies, and slim jims are are as old me, a local garage mechanic, and lastly the resident witchdoctor, Bruce Campbell's Family practice. 

 Well water has a sharp aftertaste which can be mistaken as blood. You may think you have your bitten lip, when in reality it's the soil's iron dense nutrients entering your system. As you lick your mouth, you find no wound and can't help but smile. 

 There once was a frog stuck in our well and it caused a big brouhaha on the farm. The thought of a slimy amphibian loitering in our water supply weirdly delighted me. I remember my Uncle Jingles ever the recipient of unpleasant tasks descending into the misty cave. He lifted the black tarp that masked the well's entrance and threw it aside and soon descended into the murky labyrinth. I was in awe and contained my delight by scampering in between the main house and the cottage waiting for a frog to jump out. It never did and I think it sunk lower into the muddy waters of the well. The only thing that emerged was Jingles' head and he looked distressed, addled, and annoyed.  

 My Grandfather barked, "Well, did you see it? Where is it?"

Jingles shook his head and suggested to my Grandfather they go the stables to feed the horses. 

 The black tarp resumed its post and soon the frog was left to its watery grave or perhaps haven. Although the frog stayed and his whereabouts continued to remain a mystery evolving into local folklore, our water supply did not alter. I smacked my lips each morning wondering if I I was drinking "frog water," and told my friends at Free Union Country Day that there was a frog  in our well. It was not until I was in high school, when I heard the expression "frog in your throat" that the incident came back to me flooding my mind with memories of my unruly agrarian upbringing came flooding back and without thinking, I blurted out, "Oh we once had a frog in our well." 

The perfect perky pony tail sitting in front of me at 12 o'clock turned around.

"What?" said my St. Catherine's classmate raising her eyebrows.

 I replied, "Oh, we had a frog in our well - well my Grandfather's well because we used to live on his farm when my Mom was writing her dissertation…."

My classmate ignored my mindless clatter and zeroed in on my original comment, " You said you had a frog in your well?"

"Yes, we literally had a frog in our well. Maybe it slid in….but it's funny since you said you had a frog in your throat…."

" That's disgusting. We only drink bottled water at home. What does well water taste like? Is it safe?"

I shrugged my shoulders. " Of course, it's safe. I mean it tastes a little bit like blood, but that's because of the iron in the soil."

"It tastes like blood! Was that because of the frog in your well? Did it die?"

I laughed.

"Why is this SO funny? I think it is gross." continued my classmate.

"Oh come on, it is funny given the saying 'frog in your throat,' when we had a frog in our well.' It did not die and probably lead a very cozy life in our well. Furthermore,  well water is probably the best kind of water you can drink. It comes from the soil right in your backyard and is loaded with nutrients from the ground much like the food in your garden."

But it is was too late. I had upset my classmate with this hillbilly tale.

She looked at me and replied, "I think it it is disgusting! I can't believe you drank from a well. I can't believe there was a frog in it."

"It was fine," I said. "Probably not much different than bottled water you drink and in fact better."

She snorted, "Are you sure?"

I thought to myself, " Yeah, I am sure and it's because of that damn well water slash frog pool that I am better Latin student than you."

I decided to end the conversation but the reappearance of that perky ponytail tied with a pink ribbon tied hinted that it was already over.

Later that day, I found myself by the vending machine perusing the usual suspects of sodas, fruit juices, pretzels, potato chips, and candy bars. Adjacent there was a whole machine containing bottled water - Dasani to be exact and I noticed how many girls came back an forth buying bottled water. It was 2001 and bottled water was all the rage. It had never crossed my mind to buy water except on long road trips, but my recent conversation had left me wondering. Was well water weird? Was my family some bizarre species who rather than distill moonshine in the mountains guzzled well water?  And furthermore, when we buy our tenth bottle of the day is out of pure necessity or rather is it simply a by product of the current status quo's mindset concerning superior hydration? 

 Today, 60 million bottles of water are used daily in the U.S. - or to be more precise are thrown away. Not everyone can have the luxury of a well, but the majority do have running water. When I lived in Italy, I was shocked by the numerous bottles of water people drank and the plastic bottle graveyards I noticed on my biked ride to and from school. 

 During those initial months, my sore stomach proved that the water supply was sub par and I soon purchased a filter. I thought about my Grandfather's farm, Twin Orchards and its well water, and my awakening in high school about the bottled water cult. I wondered what had initially provoked it, how many suppliers of bottled water existed in the world, and what was their marketing strategy and overall appeal. 

 Our thirst for purity whether it's water from the Alps of Evian or the thermes of San Pellegrino or even the lowly iron rich well water of Free Union, Virginia brings to the fore our current confusion with need and want. How much water do we need to clear the 'frog or future frogs in our throats'? How many bottles does it take and whose is better? Where is this so-called fountain of the youth?It is a ploy or was it always in the backyard - a simple canal of hydration and future insurance towards a good life. Maybe the frogs knows.

 

 

Well Water

There are few individuals with whom I can dine. I say this without hesitation or a hint of snobbery. It's simple: People have different tastes and how they measure up over a meal can either make or break and an evening. There is one individual with whom I can always break bread. We share what you could say are similar aptitudes of taste, desires, needs, and random cravings. So when we have the rare occasion to dine or casually nibble and imbibe, I scan a wine list without fear as she scans the list of  amenable canapes or what we call in North America,"Appetizers." I have a sneaky feeling that we will reach a mutual agreement about our choice poisons and dish du jour without second guessing. There is no pleasing the other - no momentary caution of, "oh she doesn't eat this" or " I know she would really like this, but hell I hate tomatoes in winter,"  and so on. 

In the game of life, what we eat does determine to some extent what we are. Brillat Savarin's anecdote still wrings true and occasionally haunts me when I stop to think what my insides might resemble after an indulgent occasion - they might be glistening like an iridescent  extra terrestrial alien egg or perhaps they're wrapped in a moomoo covering up their wobbly bits. Without straying too far -  what we eat does determine many things, but who we eat with can determine a number of outcomes. How you enjoy food is to some extent an intimate and individual act, but I cannot think of anything that inspires more joy than sharing food with someone. It's an intrinsic part of our human existence to eat together. But, how we enjoy it and how we share that enjoyment is a whole other thing entirely.

My friend and I have some interesting common traits that  have played a subtle role in our palates' development and ability to share and always enjoy food together. It's called well water and yes, it comes from a well dug in the ground - to be exact, the soil of Albermale county where it is rocky  but the view of Blue Ridge is handsome and the sound of the bard owl's perpetual hooing question, "who cooks for you" echoes in the woods. It's home. Free Union, Virginia with a modest population of 193 inhabitants, a post office, a local country-store called Maupins where the moonpies, twinkies, and slim jims are are as old me, local garage mechanic, and lastly the resident witchdoctor, Bruce Campbell's Family practice. It's a cheerful place and one where honey suckle perfumes the air each spring and fireflies make their starry debut every year on my mother's birthday, June 1st. 

Oddly and unfortunately, Miss Gerrow and I did not cross paths during our mud pie making days. I am confident that if we had, we would have had  quite a dirty tea party that would even make the Mad Hatter blush. But, we have made up for lost time ( or so I would like to think so) and during my year in San Francisco, I noticed more and more how our taste buds were alike - from slices of piquant salami to late nights of making a mouth-watering home cooked meal wine in hand to lazy Sunday afternoons of splitting dessert at Tartine Cafe over a glass of sparkling white wine. Yes, you could say we were soul mates when it came to our choice gruels and would cackle with delight as we bit into our flakey buttery croissants over bowls of lattes. I can never watch the Godfather without thinking of that soggy Memorial Day weekend when we watched all three over spaghetti and meatballs and homemade chocolate chip cookies, and yes wine. It was a merry year of good eating, cooking, and the constant discovery of new tastes, recipes always spiced  with a sense of mutual appreciation. We would both say, "It must be that well water," and would laugh. But there is something to the weird country voodoo that lives at large in Free Union's untamed woods. It cast its spell on me and Abby at a young age.

So on this fine femme's birthday, I salute her high brow taste, sharp culinary skills, and think fondly of the last time I saw her, when we split a pastry over frothy lattes at New York's Stumptown Roasters. She knows my morning ritual well and I hers. So happy birthday dear dear friend. I raise my goblet of well water to you. 

 

Wanton Women

 

 

MFK Fisher's Alphabet for Gourmets is a fine way to quell the winter blues and her chapter "W is for Wanton" could not be more apropos.

The text's description of a seductive supper relying on tactful plotting and artful skill as opposed to stiff liquor is bound to get the blood boiling whetting the appetite for the sensual pleasures of gastronomy that only the female bird can churn. 

 Fisher describes the sexual advantage of a woman who rules the roost a.k.a her kitchen well. She is right - cooking for someone is generous, caring, and down right sexy - lard me down with love and make those biscuits extra flaky! 

Even the greatest of Venetian courtesans knew how to approach and use food to their better advantage subtly pairing the stomach and mind for the ultimate booby trap.

 Therefore, I could not resist assigning this piece for my Food Literature course that took place this past November at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, Italy. Fortunately, my students enjoyed it and we had a good chuckle, remarked on Fisher's ineffable style and beautiful prose, and discussed the symbolic gestures surrounding food and how the act of cooking goes beyond nourishment.

"There is [indeed] a communion of more than our bodies when bread and wine are broken" as Fisher asserts in the opening of Gastronomical Me. Yes, we need something to feed the the wilder, more insistent hungers - and a wanton woman is too apt to curl up at home and brood. 

 

 

G is for Gluttony

Gluttony is a word that invokes immediate denial. Associated with one of the seven deadly sins, it is nothing to gloat about or promote. However, everyone has trespassed at some point in time. It is only a matter of whether the individual can be honest with himself and acknowledge the bed crumbs below his bed, empty bottles lying in the trash bin, or even see the chocolate smeared across his face. 

via lesgensfaims.typepad.com

The Pleasures of Nutrition

When the Spartan men would return from battle, the dedicated Spartan women would give them a glass of red wine with a rusty nail in it. After all of their blood, sweat, and toil on the battlefield, their men were low on iron. Yes, these almost-mythological warriors needed to refuel but they did it keeping their palate in mind. Again, the Greeks remind us of how to live, with from-the-vineyard libations at the center of it.

Iron is a crucial ingredient when it comes to the body’s well-being and overall health. Those who are low in iron (the dreaded anemic who is red blood cell-challenged) must battle with fatigue, among other ailments. However, the solution does not lie in a sleek and unassuming little pill or any other cheap, easy alternative like a hamburger with a fried egg on top. Quite the contrary, in fact; the cure-what-ails-you, however, does require a little imagination…and research into plant-based sources of iron.

I, myself, am anemic—-or at least was diagnosed as such about a month ago. The doctor’s prescription was to take iron supplements and increase my intake  of meat, eggs, and dairy…ho hum! A few days later, I received a long and worrisome email  from my Jewish-mother-of-a-father that listed the symptoms of anemia and encouraged me to eat more meat. He concluded his email with a slogan from perhaps the most-enduring meat-industry advertising campaign:  Molly, beef IS what’s for dinner.

I still had my doubts about my doctor’s proposed iron-enrichment measure and therefore consulted a nutritionist who has aligned her medical philosophy with the pleasures of gastronomy—-specifically, eating for pleasure rather than simply for health. It’s odd that the two are not unified, as if they were somehow separated since birth, running in opposite circles and occasionally scolding one another, when in reality they should align and reinforce one another’s higher attributes.

Yes, taking pleasure in what you eat does relate to your health. I am convinced of this and find guilt or paranoia in what you consume a waste of time, even if you have certain health conditions. There are iron-rich vegetarian solutions that leave your taste buds atingle and your iron quotient satisfied. The Spartan post-battle ritual is reminder of one of the key elements when it comes to a healthy body: pleasure. Their wine and rusty nail combo demonstrates they were aware of their deeper needs, both physically and mentally, aligning taste with a vital mineral that could in turn allow them to conquer the world all while throwing back a few.

The lesson here is to write your own prescription, seeking out ethical iron-rich foods while maintaining your gastronomical integrity. There does not have to be a quick-fix solution despite the 21st century’s industrious speed. Just don’t swallow that nail.

 

The Holy Trinity

My Catholic upbringing has slowly worked its way into my subconscious this week beginning with gastronomy's seven deadly sins. Gluttony is definitely one of them and I am certain that Addiction and Craving are culprits, too. Greed is Gluttony's longstanding  partner in crime reminding us that too much of a good thing may invoke the wrath of……. 

This week's New Yorker seemed to be on the same wavelength. Its weekly cartoon montage inevitably brought some humor but this time to the table with its 'The Holy Trinity' - cartoon of butter, sugar, and salt - perhaps the real reason why we say grace. Either way, it's a laugh as well as subtle reminder of the bare necessities when it comes to food: the basics. This rarely crosses the mind or enters the food publishing world. The focus tends to lay with trends: artisnal craft, wines, and where to dine. It's all good but it has to begin somewhere and if it is indeed "artisnal" then it must come from scratch and therefore pay tribute to the "Holy Trinity". Whether it's in your cellar, million dollar kitchen in the Hamptons, or your dusty pantry along with your mouse traps, we need that sugar for the creme brulee, the butter for the bernaise sauce, and the salt for that juicy hanger steak. 

This cartoon reminds us that the "Holy Trinity" is the  reason and basis for why we make food taste good. "Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor" is both an adage as well as  reminder of the Three Little Pigs and their demise by the scheming Big Bad Wolf . He knew those "pigs" had plenty of sugar to lend….fatal attraction, no doubt. But, sugar is a key ingredient for many recipes as is salt and butter. These staples can take you far and aid you in those culinary endeavors that may seem too lofty. Plus, they add warmth and ambiance and even endearing clutter to your home. I am only sorry that olive oil and garlic were not included. Perhaps, they are lingering in purgatory. I am confident they will get there soon. Both are healing as well as taste enhancing.  Plus, they are both good for the skin, nausea, and the occasional hangover. Yes, roasted garlic and olive oil can give you that jolt that the watery coffee across from your office cannot. 

 Either way, cross yourselves, and think about the gastronomical basics and their ability to uplift your palette. Amen.

 

 

G is for Gluttony

 

Gluttony is a word that invokes immediate denial. Associated with one of the seven deadly sins, it is nothing to gloat about or promote. However, everyone has trespassed at some point in time. It is only a matter of whether the individual can be honest with himself and acknowledge the bed crumbs below his bed, empty bottles lying in the trash bin, or even see the chocolate smeared across his face. 

No doubt, it is a subjective word and entirely depends on your own lexicon of taste. Admittedly, gluttony is a word that I have come to know in the past year. I knew that studying food would require a voracious appetite plus my stomach needed to expand and my palette needed to improve. Fortunately for me, my university was conveniently located in Piedmont Italy, home to some of Italy's best wine varietals as well as only miles from the anchovy belt of Liguria. 

 The pleasure of eating well is a key element of Italian culture. However, it, too has its own roots in gluttony. After all, it was the Romans who set the bar high inventing vomatoriums so they could ride the wave of gluttony. It is not certain if this was the reason for their downfall but it certainly fell in line with the late Empire's lesser attributes of rampant corruption, incest, and other weird voodoo perhaps making the  Gothic barbarian invasion more inevitable and the Romans more vulnerable and a little soft.   

So yes, gluttony comes at a price but it also reveals some truths about human nature....we are bound to fall, to be tempted and to bite, and in this case, overindulge until both our physical and spiritual sensibilites can take these  bilious excesses no more. 

Gluttony can be tragic in the Roman sense or comical - an element that seems to escape much food writing today. I am not sure if it was or can be romantic but I am sure Shakespeare has a sonnet or two with the "G" word. Either way, gluttony, as I have learned can function as a source of gastronomical enlightenment. It teaches you many a lesson, gives you some historical perspectives, a burp, and occasionally a laugh or two.