As an un-closeted elitist, I have sometimes engaged in the wicked past-time of the upper classes, that delightful sport of regaling others (often captive dinner party guests who bring along incapacitated pets) with places you have been and dinners you have had. Perhaps you are familiar with it: the big ‘Walks I Have Taken, Meals I Have Eaten by We Who Traverse the Globe’ routine. As a proponent of the literary tradition of author, text, reader (ATR), I think it important to consider who is on the other end of this drivel—for example, there might be children in the audience. That is why I refer to the following almost anecdote as When Mayonnaise Barfed.
Prior to my dining experience at the divine Bistrot Bofinger in Paris, I had a singular dietary restriction- a mild dislike of capers. Or so I told people. My companions were the variety that ‘suggest’ delicacies from the menu before you have read it yourself. Your will to resist being told what to eat depends on whether you’ve had a long day of sightseeing or chosen to swill Poire Williams beneath Victor Hugo’s apartment. When the waiter/War Criminal came round, I dutifully enquired about le grand aioli, which up until then I had imagined as merely a condiment for paella. He assuaged me with words only used by wait staff in France: “ce n’est pas dangereux”.
Wrongy. In France, this cold emulsified sauce made of olive oil and garlic is typically served with fish soup consisting of five different fish, in this case all of them white. The celebration of summer took the form of a hurtling montage of gastro-poo. In short, the dish made a potage look like an orgasm. Now, bend your mind a bit more to imagine the prolonged cleansing effect such dreadful gobs of garlic can induce when consumed in one sitting. Perhaps a trou normand* or three would settle the stomach and extinguish the fumes? Alas, one can only labor so long in an effort to mask the anti-social nature of such a dish.
*palate cleanser, often Calvados or sorbet- or as they say in Mexico, the most civilized country in the US el hueco jaliscience a.k.a. tequila.
My name is Muire Agridoux. By way of formal introduction let me say a word about context, a.k.a. my epistemological grounding or put in a wildly less affected way—where I’m coming from, people. FeverInduced is a forum for my worldview, an anxiety-quashing laboratory, if you will. It is in no small part intended as an act of violence against Yelpers…a universe in which seemingly every toad is a writer who verbosely critiques décor and hors d’oeuvres. My blog is an acknowledgement to dear friends and enemies who have repeatedly told me to write a book, perhaps because I am too much to take in person.
At the heart of all my endeavors, I strive not necessarily for relevance (that tired pursuit of irrelevant academics everywhere) but to wildly amuse myself and perhaps you, for a moment. Out of respect for the reader, I heed Samuel Johnson’s advice that “what is written without effort is in general read without pleasure”. At the same time, to paraphrase another adage, dullness is a practiced art, so you can expect quick, uncensored observations and a sense of …um, levity to accompany all entries.
The blog should be read as an exercise in non-fictional fabrication. The depth of my superficiality is astounding and being highly trained in everything and nothing at all, I will cover some of my favorite monsters including, but not limited to: Culture, Love, The Developing World, GASTROporn, Over-Indulgence, If You Don’t Have a Sense of Humor It Must Be a Very Long Day and Whatever Comes to Mind.
My current incarnation takes the form of a mildly discontented Ph.D , or as I tell my mother –‘I am employed as a de-intellectualized academic’- as if there is any other kind. More personally, I am an undiplomatic Diplomat’s daughter. Stationed in exotic locales, most of my development took place in an armored car. Now as an adult, I am a divorcée, prude/slut whose most important role is to be Mother to a charming little dog whose breed shall remain anonymous. A self-professed alcoholic-teetotaler-moderate drinker, my inner circle characterizes me as a post-structural protocol Nazi; an adorable Jewish American Princess.
Physically, I am stunning in a vulgar way. My authentic tattoos include a full-body depiction of the dustbowl during the 1930s, a symbol of protest against ecological destruction. Then, of course there is the obligatory face of Trotsky on my décolletage, further evidence of my deep alliance with the working man in spite of the fact that most of my rebellious activity is encapsulated in formatting bibliographies. My daily engagement with body art is a massive obsession with eye shadow. I try to emulate Diamanda Galas whenever asked to pot-lucks. I never dress my age.
I love eating and travel, just like anyone with even miniscule sense. I fancy myself a gourmand and have eaten outlandish things whether staying in 5 star resorts or camping in the dirt with indigenous peoples of the rainforest. To environmentalists everywhere: yes, I have gorged myself on endangered species. My only advice on the subject is that if the animal is especially hairy, increase the sauce to meat ratio.
