Aztec fisheries

Just after the obtention of my pastry diploma I received a telegram from my Father inviting me to go over to Mexico.  Of course I was very excited  because the chocolate there is formidable. 

  The journey was good, with aMexican  Airline of some repute though now extinct. The air hostesses were wearing fishnet stockings with a seam down the back. It would have seemed completely out of place were they not wearing traditional dress involving a mostly black wool miniskirt with red and green flecks, a bouffant white cotton shirt with lots of ruffles and a headdress akin to those worn by women in Britanny, all capped off downstairs with patent baroque looking flamenco shoes. 

 I was not really impressed. I thought back to my previous evening with Tuilette and reckoned she liked the recipe I had produced for her. It’s hard when you put 2 ingredients together that are not a usual mix. In the middle of the night we found-out that her cousin had been abducted. We stared at each other before reacting and decided to go to the centre of Geneva and go through the formalities at the Police a Station. 

 At the end of the evening I took her home and she said she had run-out of things to say to me, so knowing that she needed some support due to recent events I asked her to describe an imaginary person that she would have an adventure with.

  ” I always liked Wellington as per painted by Goya”, she blurted.

“Not imaginary though”

” OK. I’d like the person to be male and have an affinity with angling. I just love the nylon string and the seriousness involved with it. That type of man makes me feel precise yet tactile.”

 I sort of had to give up seeing as she was not connecting with what I was asking.


 ” Well seeing as Fridha Kahlo is not imaginary, I’d like a female that smelled of frankincense and that I could connect to about landscape gardening.”
   Breaking-out of my daydream I saw the tips of the Aztec pyramids below. One of the air sluts asked me about peanuts

The tip of the cherry

Today, and today and then eventually tomorrow. So we live in that sequence-hollow repetitive expectation, though if I take time to imagine a baby gerbil all warm in the mother’s surround, the expectation building for the all revealing light would be great. 

  The limitless forms odours and the sense of purpose that the sun produces, I don’t know if Menton had ever got blas√© to that. Just as I was thinking about the baby gerbil and his impending discovery of day, perhaps just his second day, and as I was trying to figure-out if I still invariably felt that excitement a song came onto my phone via the Bluetooth speaker. The introduction encapsulated that emotion of dawn rising. Hurdy-gurdt man by Donovan.

 I knew earlier that I should feel very happy about something. When I eat chocolate I get that transcendence of mind. I knew that the Ginger chocolate had got me accepted into the course. I just felt good that at last an effort had paid-off. I had put my heart and Soul into that recipe, so I just have to be grateful really to my ginger provider for bringing the best and freshest. 

 I just had to write about Mee Hogarth here to say so. I think that writing indirectly is more appropriate. I’d always said that Recie would be important for my evolution as a great sweets patissier.  What was also touching is that the class cohort had a say in the outcome. (It’s hard to make Ginger subtle as a taste, so I ionised it with nutmeg fumes). Martha thought she had been dropped from the competition but I didn’t tell her about the Ginger chocolate. Better if I just assume what there is to assume. She can get a bit nuts when I go on about Chocolate all the time, though really I think she thoughtsomething had fucked-up and that it was her fault because so few attended her presentation. So all good now.

 I hold my Ginger chocolate up to the world of stars, at long last. Make-up would run, but I ain’t Bootisfill to gather pomp without fright feral and pure assertion from above. It was already assumed apparently. Phew! 


Sparing you the details of the intricacies with Tuilette for now, stepping aside from reciprocal perception and reasoning I was just thinking for the second time this hour that love is a shortcut to simply knowing we are on the right track. 

   There are so many complicated choices to make in life. 

When I feel love, usually for chocolate, Tuilette or Martha there are so many things that line-up, and that’s not even the point. Love took courage, at some point, to form above all other human occupations. If we feel it, it is a thorough justification for life. So where does the nurturing, guiding, feeling if responsibility come from this? It is the same continuation. 

 Soon after that tasting and test with Chef R. Martha sorted her financing out. I was so glad. She had to get a job on the side, and maybe that helped her integration. Menton needn’t worry about that. With Chocolate on my mind, with a view to a very lovely desert, it is hardly the issue to think about. No Paranoia, ok? 

Menton’s personal

Referring my to myself in the third person is something I don’t usually do, and I sense that in this instance I may have done so from a coy perspective, because I don’t know my readership. Perhaps it’s my unusual name that provoked this pronominal detachment, since most do not place it in the semi-automatic recall for name/face. People’s recall is distanced. They don’t have a slot of other Mentons, with 3 other face choices to select from. I am the only one in the still flat , unused box, so I float or slither in between other boxes because there has been no wear and tear of the ‘Menton’ box to contain the image-symbol of my face. My interlocutor has to ride up and out of the boxes, go to the result receptor for ‘unusual and slightly funny’ and then recall their emotion at hearing it for the first time, which in turn triggers the signifier. It’s a bit tawdry but it is good for going by incognito in a bar full of Ians and Toms. 

  Early on I developed a complex from observing how people were processing my name because often, from the semiotic acrobatics they were performing every time they addressed me, meaning that I would not get a direct conflagration of the meaning they had built-up for my name + visual trigger. I had no place amongst other Mentons and so could not perceive the hierarchy of affection in which I took a position. I was isolated all the way to the left of the other names to avoid any mix-ups in their minds with more common names, acting as a sort of emotional currency if you like for my friends to spend as they thought fit on their thoughts of networked-ness and popularity.

  Being aware of this difference with other people, sometimes feeling left out of the elbow rubbing and jostling in the road of the groups of boys with popular first names, I very quickly established that I had to find a partner with a similar potential for  interlocular aphasia. Setting my desires on a Caroline or a Ruth  would put me apart in their mind. 

 I come from a provincial outskirts of a European city and strange names were not the norm amongst my peers. I met a Kiley one day, traveling through with her Australian parents. She noticed how I double-took when she uttered her name. My light had turned on; yellow maybe, flashing yellow. I knew of Kyley in Neighbours, and nothing else. I observed from another table in the restaurant how her parents were interacting with her, calling her Kyles and mentioning a friend of hers back home that was seemingly her namesake, but just differentiated by her second name, Kyley Adams, making it quite clear that Kyley was indeed a slot-making berth to such an extent that a super-ordinate had to be used to clarify a separate berth within the Kyley berth of normal first names. 

 I looked at my plate to focus my determination at not looking disappointed, then looked-up at my Mother who said “eat-up your artichoke heart”. 

  It would be years before I met a girl with a non-slotting name. I was by that time at a cooking school, in my first year of patisserie, the only reason I was there in the first place; to get the 2 formative years of all-round cooking completed before I could channel into the pastry making department. I knew by now that chocolate was my forte. I could already differentiate between the 3 major cocoa providing continents, and further to that I would be able to whittle a chocolate down to its fundamental area within that continent: North or South, East and west. 

 Before entering our first laboratory class with Chef R. I could not figure-out why certain people were so nervous. I knew that Martha, the girl in my promotion and living in my halls, was always waiting for funding, and somehow this gave her an excuse to indulge in emotions of unsuitability or nervousness that I had to dissassociate from for my own good. It’s hard not to place oneself at an empathetic level with one who is in the same class; not competition in the same way. Nevertheless she took a place in my prayers at night.

 We were paired-up randomly by Chef R. and asked to come to the podium in twos. I snuck a look at her name tag: ‘Tuilette’. My light was in flashing red alert mode since I was inferring that any English speaker might recall her name with the ‘funny’ emotive that toilets give to most, and let’s admit with no definite compunction that the British are most likely to get a rise out of the word for washing in French, but which means passing fecal matter and urine by extension.

 Her parents might have been patissiers, and being half cast they had perhaps called her Tuilette once they had asserted she was female, and also the colour of a baked Tuile. 

 She did not look confident to excess and without due cause, as a Sophie might. I recognised that she may well have the same apprehension about being addressed by her first name as I did. The same sort of noble bearing and patience at people’s childish semiotic rapprochements. 

 We both tasted the Chef’s offerings and asked to identify the components but Tuilette got a few things wrong. She was not anal about vanilla, and could not tell South American from African cocoa. I had a problem with that, something which later gave me more confidence with my own name, though for now I had to wait to find- out more; it was only the first day of class and nothing like Masterchef at all.


Even though I have a looming 2nd part for the fake hand gazonka I need to take a moment to reflect, abstractly perhaps, on the meaning of this blogging. 

 I have a tight, or rather light view of expression. On the one hand I very much like it as a trump card that tricks the goaler in full view, something akin to Foucault’s interpretation of the Panopticon. This circular building served to keep the central observer busy looking into each unit, and though one might suppose the those in the units were less free than the onlooking surveillor, it is the opposite which transpires. 

 In the long body of time the guard has more freedom, though in the reciprocal time of observation, both guard and object have equal time, though in this case the observed has more freedom than the observer, since he is not engaged in the act of focussed outward looking. With no worrying outward signs though, the person observed can write in his notebook and process thoughts which need to be actualised in writing.

 That process has always fascinated me, because sometimes I might feel like wrting but don’t because I’m training the observer to be quiet or behave upon seeing some lines that I’ve established as a sort of breakthrough. This in turn makes the observed suspicious and the situation is neutralising rather than proactive.

 This is not exactly why I write here, though i thought it was a good analogy. By sticking to it I can theoretically double my time: the observed is working in perfectly good confinement, and I can train the observer to process the stituational dynamic of observing the detainee, his thoughts about the detainee’s process as well as his external situation.

 What I am quite interested in achieving though is not a time gain, for now, rather a detachment of the observer to what he is observing since in fact he has 2 other jobs to do apart from observing the subject.

 I am trying to rationalise the desire to write, yet I feel that I’ve more given an excuse for it. 

 There is more to say on the subject of of this type of semantics, though I’ll try just writing now.

Thanks for bearing with me. No doubt I will perceive you as my reader when the interpreted meaning is returned. 

Yellow pages

Something happened to me a few years back, in the 80s actually when I was still an engineer with Cadburys. I’d injured my hand, well actually it was a bit weirder than that. I’d just read Charlie in the chocolate factory and I have to admit I was a bit of a cleptaniac. I had a method of stealing chocolate; the pure and undiluted stuff from Ecuador. This involved having a fake hand that I’d developed in my shed in Leinster. Well, you can well divine the rest. I’d go into the storerooms and Nick stuff with my right hand on the Middle shelves as my fake hand was sorting stuff on the top shelf.

The unfortunate thing happened in that I developed dual neurone pathway development for my right hand(s) which left the left hand, mind the pun, in a state of doing random things with a lower awareness because of having a less developed neural pathway. It was a bit like having turrets in one hand and two of the others mindful of each other. Because I was in my 20s I was developing pathways easily and at will.

This actually saved my arse because on a need of occasions my alibi when questioned about the missing stock had already been explained by the hand with such lack of control; I mean it would get me into all sorts of relational troubles and I would never be suspected since I was always in trouble for giving two fingers to everyone.