It’s
almost the end of February, and I don’t know about where you’re sitting, but
here in New York it’s cold. Frigid. The bright sunshine just taunts
us with hope for Spring…and then the evil north wind slaps us in the face. At
least our cheeks are pink…
It’s the kind of day that
makes you long for a vacation. Luckily, the Nerve photobloggers provide a
beautiful, warm, instantaneous escape…Travel with me:
Siege
takes us away to France…and freaks me out with his tale of how
to eat an Ortolan. This picture
— sensual, decadent, and scary — goes well with the main
dish. (Seriously, if you at all like arcane trivia, check out more on the Ortolan, including
a video, after the jump. Expand your mind, yo!) He also brings us unexpected studies
in ivory, the splendor
of curves, more milk
baths, and the iPhone
meets Fight Club.
Ortolan history, and tons of gorgeous photos, after the jump…
Autumn
always brings the warmth: see new, intimate pics of Miss
Erikitty; why Autumn loves
spanking; the beauty of not
retouching photos; and meet Popeye,
one of Autumn’s “favorite
distractions. She never lets me publish the naughty pictures that I've
taken of her, but these she likes, or so she says. On the street in front of
Erikitty's apartment, right before she got in her car and sped off to meet
someone of dubious
moral character.”
Brandon
brings us more naked
skater boys…it’s kind of like watching really pretty, artsy reruns of Jackass, only with male full-frontal
nudity. And (sigh) rear nudity. There’s nothing cuter than hot skater ass,
don’t you think? Also: check out why Brandon
went to jail…
How
does Chase
remedy his winter blues? In his own words: “Time for a faceless
butt shot with almost zero backstory.”
And Rose &
Olive give us pretty
Polaroids, self-portraits,
and these
girls: “the kind of women where they grab
you by the neck and tell you their dirty dreams, and the night when them
ends when you're straddling someone on the kitchen counter with a wooden spoon
in your left hand.” They will, most definitely, warm you up…
***
As far as the mysterious
Ortolan goes, here’s a bit of Siege’s research:
"If
guilt is a flavour, and it definitely is, then l'ortolan is one of the world's
greatest dishes. The lemon-coloured songbirds, called buntings in English,
originally appeared in French songs as symbols of innocence and the love of
Jesus. Then a tribe near Bordeaux began trapping them as they
migrated south to Africa, pulling them out of the sky
with little wooden traps called matoles hidden high in the treetops.
The birds must be taken alive; once captured they are
either blinded or kept in a lightless box for a month to gorge on millet,
grapes, and figs, a technique apparently taken from the decadent cooks of
Imperial Rome who called the birds beccafico, or 'fig-pecker'. When they've
reached four times their normal size, they're drowned in a snifter of Armagnac.
This sadistic mise en scene has transformed the bird from
a symbol of innocence to an act of gluttony symbolic of the fall from grace. In
Collette's novel Gigi, for instance, the tomboyish main character prepares for
her entry into polite society with lessons in the correct way to eat lobsters
and boiled eggs. When she begins training to be a courtesan, however, she is
said to be 'learning how to eat the ortolan'. Not that it was only courtesans
who indulged. The tradition of covering one's head while eating the bird was
supposedly started by a soft-bellied priest trying to hide his sadistic
gluttony from God.
Cooking l'ortolan is simplicity itself. Simply pop them in
a high oven for six to eight minutes and serve. The secret is entirely in the
eating. First you cover your head with a traditional embroidered cloth. Then
place the entire four-ounce bird into your mouth. Only its head should dangle
out from between your lips. Bite off the head and discard. L'ortolan should be
served immediately; it is meant to be so hot that you must rest it on your
tongue while inhaling rapidly through your mouth. This cools the bird, but its real purpose is to force you to allow its ambrosial fat
to cascade freely down your throat.
When cool, begin to chew. It should take about 15 minutes
to work your way through the breast and wings, the delicately crackling bones,
and on to the inner organs. Devotees claim they can taste the bird's entire
life as they chew in the darkness: the wheat of Morocco, the salt air of the Mediterranean, the lavender of Provence. The pea-sized lungs and heart,
saturated with Armagnac from its drowning, are said to
burst in a liqueur-scented flower on the diner's tongue. Enjoy with a good Bordeaux.”
Here’s a video of said
dinner, though I think that in the light of day, it loses some of its
devilishness, and its sensuality:
