lizwilliams: (Default)
Here's something that really hacks me off. You have a recipe for something - in this case, pesto - which has been made in its country of origin for years. It's just basil, parmesan, pine nuts and possibly garlic. I'm not sure of the original ingredients, but I'm damn sure it didn't originally contain potato or brazil nuts, like the pesto with which T has just inadvertently poisoned me.

I'm allergic to brazils - it's some kind of protein reaction, IIRC - and realised what was in my supper the moment my mouth and throat started burning and blistering. I have an adrenalin pen, but didn't have to use it: because I didn't eat much of it, I'm not too bad now. I check contents lists for brazils, and I have friends who suffer very seriously from egg and nut allergies (not some vague 'intolerance', but life-threatening conditions), as well as from other complaints in which unexpected ingredients can make their lives hell.

Honestly, it makes me want to make even more of what I eat from scratch - I already do that a lot. But what is this shit in our food - this for-cheapness-sake adulteration of things? I'm starting to sound like some Victorian fulminating against sawdust in the flour. I'll shut up now.
lizwilliams: (Default)
This from [profile] karentraviss: The more creative a person is, the more sexual partners they are likely to have, UK investigators have found. Artists and poets had an average of four to 10 sexual partners, compared to three for non-creative types, Newcastle and Open University teams discovered.

One has to ask oneself: is this because artistic types are inherently more attractive, or just more badly behaved? It's an issue which has been annoying me somewhat over the weekend in the wake of George Best's demise - a lot of the coverage has been along the lines of 'yes, he was a drunk and a wife beater. But what a character, eh? And a genius footballer!' Tyson gets the same kind of coverage. Since when was athleticism an excuse?

If you're single, or in an agreed polyamorous relationship, then fair enough: it's no one's business but your own. But I'm sure we have all run into a few folk who think that writing second-rate novels or painting indifferent oils somehow gives them a free access-all-areas pass into other people's relationships, or allows them to run around behind their partners' backs ('And that's okay because we're so WONDERFULLY CREATIVE and free in our expression!'). I blame Augustus John, Eric Gill and all those late 19th century artistes who thought that their genius entitled them to shag anything that moved: other people's maids, their own kids...And carries right through to the Bloomsbury Group, a bunch of mediocre poseurs if ever there was one (with the exception of V Woolf), the Factory, and pretty much any rock star you care to mention. It probably reaches its culmination with Anais Nin, who really wasn't all that good at anything except having lots of sexual partners.

I don't think genius entitles you to anything except acknowledgment that you're good at something. I don't really care all that much about other people's lives - but I'd like it if, just to keep a balance, some creative person with a long, dull, everyday marriage was celebrated, precisely for that.


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April 2017

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