ISABEL ALLENDE APHRODITE PDF

Scientists—however do they come up with these experiments, I wonder? It is a sweaty, garlic-tinged odor that reminds me of the New York subway. Some years ago, I invited to dinner—with intentions of seduction, naturally—an evasive beau whose reputation as a good cook forced me to outdo myself with the menu. I decided that a truffle omelet sprinkled with a dusting of red caviar at serving time the gray was beyond my possibilities constituted an obvious erotic overture, something akin to giving him red roses and the Kama-sutra.

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Scientists—however do they come up with these experiments, I wonder? It is a sweaty, garlic-tinged odor that reminds me of the New York subway. Some years ago, I invited to dinner—with intentions of seduction, naturally—an evasive beau whose reputation as a good cook forced me to outdo myself with the menu. I decided that a truffle omelet sprinkled with a dusting of red caviar at serving time the gray was beyond my possibilities constituted an obvious erotic overture, something akin to giving him red roses and the Kama-sutra.

I searched high and low for truffles, and when finally I located some, my modest salary in a land not my own would not stretch far enough to buy them. The clerk in the delicatessen, an Italian as much an immigrant as I, counseled me to forget the truffles. Truffles are aphrodisiacs. I must have blushed, because the man came out from behind the showcase and approached me with a strange smile. He imagined, I suppose, that I was a nymphomaniac hoping to rub my erogenous zones with his truffles.

For a man? Your sweetheart? Your husband? And immediately he slipped a few black olives into a plastic bag, with the direction to wash them carefully to remove the flavor, chop them into small pieces, and marinate them a couple of hours in the truffle-scented oil. I did as he said. He devoured the omelet, constantly casting sideways glances dark with perplexity, an expression that at the time I found irresistible but in fact, seen with the detachment of age, was closer to being comic.

His reputation as a beau was as exaggerated as that of truffles. That means that I have had approximately 16, occasions to drive some man mad. The creation of this soup was a matter not of chance, but of necessity. It is a practically infallible aphrodisiac that I always fix after some terrible fight, a flag of truce that allows me to make peace without humiliating myself too greatly.

My opponent has only to smell it to understand the message. I add the stock, the port, and the truffled olive oil—not quite all of it. I season with salt and pepper, and cook over low heat with the lid on until the mushrooms are soft and the house smells like Heaven.

The last step is to process it in the blender; this is the least poetic part of the preparation but unavoidable. The soup should end up with a slightly thick texture, like mud, and with a perfume that makes you salivate and awakens other secretions of body and soul. I put on my best dress, paint my fingernails red, and serve the soup, in warmed bowls, garnished with a dollop of sour cream.

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Isabel Allende

By the time I got through This was a strange book. I loved every delicious word. Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses by Isabel Allende Ma non aveva parlato poco prima del grande potere afrodisiaco di mammelle di vacca, vulve di pecora e palle di toro? It defintely has the Allende flavor of magical realism and picturesque description. In she was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. The Inhabited Woman Gioconda Belli.

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