The People's Little Red Dinner Review

Fork Fest Review

The People’s Little Red Dinner Review

NUMBER 16

December 2006

	The Chairman, courtesy of Hideo

Mao-thing Off

Greetings Fork Festers. Mostly elation surrounds me at the knowledge of another warm gathering of the peoples from all walks, sitting side-by-side around a large utilitarian table
of suitable plywood.     

All of you congregating amongst the commonality of food served in a communal and dare I say (I am Mao, so I say whatever) almost communist or socialist manner.

I am honored to be amongst you in the home of soldier to the people, Carole –– but I hear that her roommate supposedly did not help with anything more than washing dishes. Although I find washing dishes to be number one form of therapy (we have a surplus of Palmolive here) and it took him a great deal of time, the “C-Man” (that is me again, as in Chairman Mao, the Man) says you will find this Bob character in my new dishwashing gulag, scrubbing the people’s pots until his fingernails fall off.

Before my ever humble, serving, busy mind forgets, and as a lesson, I have a Knock-Knock* joke for you and remember, there is no power without…something. Anyway.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Dissent.

Dissent who?

Dissent what the people want — off to the trench with you. Merry Christmas you get a free bullet.

Funny, yes or no and I advise thinking slowly for articulation of the answer, preferably of three letters and remember, the chairman never says anything offensive. Ever.

Gathering of Comrades

There is much cheer and learning to be had from the gathering of peoples of many colors — mostly somber hues of green and grey and then young and old and not so seemingly old.
(The chairman will later wish to receive counsel from such a fine beret-wearing revolutionary
as Carmine.)

All in attendance to preserve the people through intoxication of several wines, red mostly as
it is the blood of the people, harvested by the hands of the people, but labeled with of course bourgeois graphics and French linguistic improvisations. Chinese wine will soon wine the people of the world: Beijing Beaujolais, Communist Cabernet, Xian Zhao Zinfandel, The People’s Pinot, Revolutionary Riesling and my personal favorite, Mao Merlot. Drink up, then go enjoy some winter farm labor.

Tiring it is, to say the least — names are so bourgeois — why do you think I call everyone comrade and dress them in the same colors? Better that I never make mistakes and appear to
know nothing or no one. I know everyone and they are all my comrades and have made guestly appearances on my gracious behalf in honor of President (I allow it) Carole. There was seated before my bust (I love the scarf) most notable treasures to the people’s wisdom in the form of teachers, Sharon and Len.

            Then, questionable character in light of his land ownership and cultivation of the decadent
olive goes to Karl and his companion, Karin. Both of whom I allow to frolic in a semi-state of capitalist froth. Onward.

Speaking of questionable, why do they make me feel like dancing and wearing loud colors with the hope of aging gracefully? This Carmine and Hideo.

Sandra and Sam, oh humble in your station in spite of the intolerant utterance of the idea and state of Texas. The world does not like Texas as Texas is big-headed with world dominators of very questionable character. Lucky for Sam that Sandra is kind-hearted and medicinal in nature. Good for all the people.

Alec and Elisa, just short of an olive farm. Questionable in nature, funny, traveled and too
well-spoken. Spies perhaps. There will be a knock on your door and it won’t be a joke, but lovely examples of the kind. Can I interest you in some polonium-210?

Carole and Bob. The workers and my gracious hosts, but I think Bob will soon be groveling for mushrooms in a former minefield for me. Carole (please momentarily picture Carole in a lovely green suit) will adorn my side at state functions and recite from my favorite little red book while communicating graphically with the people.

            And we the people love you all, in your support of Fork Fest.

Feed the Revolution

Humbly over watched by myself in effigy, the menu went as follows: gougères — a lovely cheese studded cream-puff pastry, split and stuffed (like some of my former aides) with lovely bacon,
a sprig of arugula, and pickled onions. Bacon is for the people, of the people. Bacon makes everything better, but there were not enough of these delectables to sustain a movement. I felt sadly deprived at their lacking in quantity.

When Is Pig, Pork?

As the great and wonderful capitalist dupe, Homer Simpson, would say, “Mmmmm, pork.”
But Homer’s gluttonous appetite would again not find large chunks of flesh to gnash and gnaw upon, but rather a richly detailed stew of many flavors, where the pork dazzles the palate, but doesn’t protrude the paunch. I could not feed a revolution with this delicate and savory stew,
but I could seduce my enemies into the kitchen.

Did I almost forget the roasted fingerling potatoes, picked from the closest thing these Americans have to a farm labor camp — the farmers market.

Cheese for Everyone, Sort of

Late at night while the people sleep, aside from the ones who must churn out, twenty-four
hours a day, useless plastic gizmos for your sucker American consumer, I like to watch my hero Humphrey Bogart (any man named Humphrey is a hero in my eyes) in Treasure of the Sierra Madre. This is maybe the definitive film on man’s greed, but mostly, I just get a big Mao-sized belly chuckle when the peasant bandito says, “We don’t need no stinkin’‚ badges.” I like to think of this statement as my own and I have adopted it into several of my speeches before the people, but since you don’t speak Chinese, you’d never know.

My favorite is, “We don’t need no stinkin’‚ human rights.” And for a chuckle and a bit of
old-fashioned irony, I like to say to my very own amassed diners and leaders of the great nation of mine, “We don’t need no stinkin’‚ cheese.” And everyone laughs and then looks at me and around the table because there is no cheese in China unless you count that curdled muck that
the Shepherds of Mongolia (wait, did I overrun Mongolia or what?) guzzle in their yurts. Pew!

Cheese is tricky, like politics; some of it stinks but tastes great. Some of it is subtle in the beginning, but gets you in the end and some of it is just ho-hum boring without those tasty little bits of bread. Cheese is also very (except for American Cheese) aloof. I like to think of it in a more humble fashion and would prefer the people to call it “bread spread.” Spread it, eat it, but don’t call it cheese. Bread spreads were obtained from cows, sheep and goats and brought by Sandra and Sam who did not milk the cows or sheep or goats as good people of the republic might,
but rather purchased with greedy American dollars in air-conditioned markets the delicious, uh, cheeses. Plus Carole purchased some more cheese.

Mimoletta - the hard orange one.

Pierce Point (Cowgirl Creamery) – the round, soft one

Robiola di Bosina – sheep and cow’s milk – the square, gooey one – mmmmm!

A French goat cheese (raw goat milk) – the smaller round one

Dessert

Pear galette and vanilla ice cream and brownie cookies.

Thanks to comrade Sandra for bringing her super duper coffee machine. Love the insulated pot.

Year End Wishes

Okay, your ever lovin’ Chairman Mao has to get back to keeping tabs on the people, and meanwhile one of you must come forward with the next dinner date. I’ll be waiting and meanwhile, have a happy and safe new year (even if it isn’t really new years if you know what I mean).