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creo que fue tome, fue una salida a terreno de la asignatura de Fotografia con la profesora Guisela Mendoza, en esos momentos tomas de fotos
Technique of the month Extra...Digtal Photo November..created background wood and torn image.Orginal photo of windmill of Much Wenlock
Decidí vivir bajo la influencia de mis sentidos, sin el mínimio equilibrio.
No quiero preocupaciones, ni malas situaciones..
No existen los estorbos, ni tampoco los obstáculos imposibles,
ESO FORMA PARTE DEL PASADO.
Me he dado cuenta que improvisar sobre la marcha es lo que me va,
hasta que el cuerpo aguante y sin que nada me canse
PD. El fondo de periódicos se lo debo a Sara! De ella saqué la idea... :)
(Quien no la conozca ya, que se pase por su flickr, merece la pena.)
Y ya he vuelto, para no irme más...! Ya se acabó el verano para mí xD asi que ahora me voy a ir pasando por vuestros flickrs! Que tengo ganas de ver qué habéis hecho :)
S. Tomé
Photo taken from the northern hemisphere 😊
The imaginary line of the equator crosses by the middle of this magnificent little beach. The picture is geotagged - check it out.
a twink reading from a thick tome at an outdoor café, all by himself, undistractable : this is extraordinary enough to warrant a sneak picture, isn't it 😉
Why do sociologists, when calculating the liveability score of an urban community, continue to leave out of their calculations the most significant characteristic that makes a city rich and enduring? The quality of the viola section in the local orchestra, the number of “vape shops”, the population of basson players in town (per capita); these as well as other mundane considerations are often found in the ledgers of Urban Studies departments; catalogues that contain more entries than there are cases of narcolepsy in Des Moines. The thoroughness of these tomes is undeniably impressive, but the reputations of the compilers will be forever sullied until they descend from their academic perches and get down to “brass tacks”. For too long has the really important question been neglected: how many joints in the neighbourhood serve up matzah ball soup?
The Cream City, I am sad to report, does not do well in this regard. How a congregation so rich in culture continues to be a “matzah-ball desert” is beyond my ability to explain. Everything else needed to raise up the Philistine to a higher level (and God knows, they need it), is here for the taking: the Harley-Davidson Museum, a bingo palace sitting astride the banks of the serene Menominee River, “Da Crusher Statue” that pays homage to one of the prime-movers of inspired athleticism amongst the local citizenry: those secular temples are all here for the edification of the regional populace and fortunate visiter. I could go on with the list, but do you really want me to? Back to subject at hand: where in this town are the friggn’ Matzah Balls?
It pains me to relate that currently there are only six restaurants in Milwaukee County that offer the delicacy. To be wrong in reporting this dismal number would be a blessing; please correct me if this recent research is faulty. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be able to describe how our streets and avenues are awash in a rich and gold-hued broth along with attendant balls. It would even help me emerge from a recent bout with ennui. Although that malaise has been with me for only a brief time (49 years to be exact) it is far past time to take on a more vigorous approach. After all, honesty in all things, especially for the food critic, is indispensable. “Truth, naked, unblushing truth, the first virtue of more serious history, must be the sole recommendation of this personal narrative. So said Edward Gibbon in his autobiography. Shouldn’t the same unblushing truth be bestowed upon not only the student of history, but also upon those poor rubes seriously in search of a decent matzah ball?
The sad, sad reality must be reported and confronted: a metropolitan area that contains one and a half million citizens (you read that number right, Sarge) and only six matzah ball venues?
Embarrassing and even shameful.
Here’s the skivvy: of these pitifully few heroic establishments, three have been offering the tasty globes for decades: “Benji's Deli” on Oakland (and their suburban branch in Fox Point) and “Jake’s” on 20th and North. Two more, “Allie Boy’s Bagelry & Luncheonette” and “Fool’s Errand” are new-commers to the sweepstakes, and one, “Bistro in the Glen,” has been in the game for close to a decade. All of them contribute respectable M-balls for the delectation of the local population.
It was only by happenstance, and a wrong turn onto National Avenue, that I came across one of these five noble ports. As it turned out, this particular shop’s version of the dish under consideration was more than respectable. It fact, the other five dispensaries had better “up their game”, or their work will soon be assigned to the dustbin of matzah-ball history. Had the turn been west instead of east from First Street onto that venerable boulevard, this important truth may never have come to light. Plus I would have ended up at my intended destination, a jollification for retired viola players (an oxymoron if there ever was one). Who needs that? Not me, Bubba. As so often may happen in the narrative of an itinerant life, making a wrong turn put me in a far better place. It took only as long as a proficient high school orchestra is able to complete Mikhail Glinka’s Overture to Ruslan and Ludmilla (approximately four minutes and 42 seconds on a good day) for the happy news to sink in: turning left instead of right placed me directly in front of Allie Boy’s Bagelry & Luncheonette.
I went in there.
Damn I’m glad I did. On the menu was not only a cornucopia of bagels, but an offering of far greater import. You guessed it, matzah ball soup. The price for a pint was a bit daunting to a pauper such as myself: eight dollars for a pint. Fortunately I had just taught a viola lesson and was flush with unexpected cash and shopping coupons redeemable selected K-Marts. One viola lesson fee for one pint of Matzah ball soup. Jimmy Carter was wrong. Life is fair after all.
Home to the ‘burbs went the soup and an “Everything Bagel.” The “Everything Bagel” was everything an “Everything Bagel” should be. In taking it out of the bag, enough sesame seeds fell off the pastry to supply the dietary needs of the Bronx Zoo Aviary during mating season. Also on the remarkable object were embedded bits of toasted garlic dried chives, and pungent black pepper; an impressive orchestration indeed. Move over, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. Along with the main course came a delightful ornament, the “Shmear” of the day. It happened to a memorable one: cream cheese infused with the flavours of bourbon and maple syrup. Putting that elixir down the hatch had a spectacular effect. Could it be? National Avenue and environs were no longer there. Instead, waiting outside the door of the shop was “Up-Nort.” (Such is the vernacular used in the vicinity to describe any locale north of Brown Deer Road.) For those who have never been north of Brown Dear Road, a brief description is necessary. It is a place where “Crown Royal” flows like a meandering river and the pines wave in consanguinity with the capricious winds; in short, a far more gracious place than suburban Hoboken, New Jersey.
This culinary quodlibet had been perfectly baked. The results of that delicate and sensitive process presented a pastry that was magisterial in affect but forgivingly chewy at the same time, a two-fold pleasure and an impressive achievement of the baker’s art. Putting your chompers into the specimen might seem a bit intimidating at first. It certainly was for me, but once commenced there were no regrets. There are times when it is best to dive into the symphony and let the toasted garlic bits fly where they may. It was such a time. The journey into the interior of this particular “Everything Bagel” was worth the initial resistant, tentative nibble.
And the soup? Never has eight bucks gone so far. The dumpling itself, plopped down into a broth lightly salted and ornamented generously with a melange of carrots, soft onions and celery , was gigantic but consistently tender all the way to the distant center. There was a complexity to the object that adumbrated a quantity of exotic culinary conceits. The sphere was more than a mere matzah ball; it was a globe that contained many things. To snarf it down was to explore a new world.
All this for eight smackers? Allie and the boys should make it ten. jonathanbrodie.substack.com?r=90umj&utm_medium=ios