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2005.08.18

[La_Brioche]

Salut, mes copines!  I am writing to you from a WiFi connection in the wilds of Northern Ontario, from a little patisserie that I managed to find during my creative depression. They make the most heavenly brioche here. And I love brioche. For those of you who have never experienced the thrill of brioche (like M. LaHaine, I am certain), let me try to explain. Brioche is found in that luxurious baked world between croissant, pain and croquembouche. It is a little piece of heaven, made with flour, eggs, butter, just a teeny pinch of salt and sugar, a little yeast, and lots of love and care. Brioche simply melts in your mouth, and slides down your throat leaving behind a trail of happiness. Sometimes, one may want to increase one’s pleasure with a little bit of strawberry preserves, but only a little – brioche is meant to be pure, untouched. Brioche is the bread of love. And they must be seulement des fraises in the preserves – none of those chemicals used to make the food a special colour, or a special flavour. Why on earth would anyone want to eat fake food products? It disgusts me to think of all of the recycled Evian bottles that go into one Kraft Slice. I am certain that M. LaHaine consumes such plastic food on a daily basis. All of those edible oil products can turn your mind into a black, scarred field of hatred.

Alors, I have mon iPod here with me, listening to the soothing voice of our one common love, Monsieur Formidable. I decided to go a little, how you say, retro and listen to The Downward Spiral. I know that this CD is loved by all, including M. LaHaine. How can anyone not love this masterpiece of music? You know, there are certain songs on this magical CD that causes the act of eating brioche to bring one’s fantastical thoughts to life.

I think maybe next week, upon his return, I will bake M. LaHaine a petite brioche, so that he may perhaps remember what it is like to feel loved. For you see, Mesdames, I believe the problem with his jalousie is that he no longer knows what it is like to feel the joy of having someone call you “cherie” or “p’tit choux”; the joy that fills you with les arc-en-ciel dans le coeur, very much in the way brioche does to your taste buds.

Et alors, all of this talk of brioche, l’amour et LaHaine has led me to write another little poème with the assistance of notre objet d’amour, featuring the most virtuous love song written by Trent Reznor:

Le Goût de L’Amour
(dedicated encore to M. LaHaine)

A duet of words
By Mimi Jones-Taylor and M. Trent Reznor

Here is a blanket                     Need You
To comfort your soul               Dream You
As she mourns the loss            Find You
Of your inner artist                 Taste You

Cry you bitter tears                 Fuck You
Inside my mouth                     Use You
Pour your poison words            Scar You
Inside my ears                        Break You

Your soul is hungry                 Lose Me
Sit at my table, and                Hate Me
I will prepare a feast               Smash Me
To cease her rumblings           Erase Me

You search for a new muse         Kill Me
With eyes sealed by hatred         Kill Me
Let me dab them with silk          Kill Me
And open them to your future     Kill Me

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in mimi's_musings | Permalink

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Comments

Mimi, your sympathy for Gabriel is admirable. I'm not sure I could be so big-hearted.

Soyez doux toujours, mignon.

Posted by: Dierdre | Aug 18, 2005 6:18:55 AM

Okay I just got to work this morning, and I was going to check out this nonsense about a Butterscotch Stallion, when I came across your entry, sis. WTF? Northern Ontario brioche? You're gonna get fat, sis -- stop the shame spiral eating now. And these poetry duets? Listen, darling, watch it, because someone might think you actually like that ungrateful drugged-out little desert-wandering fuck.

Posted by: Buttercup J. | Aug 18, 2005 7:11:06 AM

Oh hell...what's with the sexy descriptions of heavenly brioche? A girl's trying to lose a few pounds around here. I've already eaten my utilitarian English muffin, and all I have to tide me over until lunch are my chewable calcium supplements.

I want to sit around in a cafe (preferably in Europe) and eat brioche. And listen to La Mer or something.

Plus, Mimi, I think you will find it a lot more satisfying to parody Gabriel. It's shockingly easy.

Posted by: maise | Aug 18, 2005 7:37:09 AM

P.S. I'm sure you ladies know this already, but I just wanted to make it clear to anyone who was not aware that I cannot take credit for "Butterscotch Stallion," as brilliant as it is. That was invented by someone who wrote into Defamer...

Posted by: maise | Aug 18, 2005 7:42:41 AM

All I'm saying is that the person responsible for that "Butterscotch Stallion" business is a fucking genius, because that is exactly what he is.

Oh, and Maise, I am sitting in a cafe... in Europe... and I thought I'd just go right ahead and have a brioche in Mimi, Gabriel, and Trent's honor.

Mmmm. This brioche is delicious. My fantastical thoughts are coming to life! If only I had a little buttersc... oh, nevermind. Just, someone send my car around to pick me up. You know the one.

Posted by: Dierdre | Aug 18, 2005 11:07:44 AM

Mimi!!!
brioche????

I feel so ripped off..I'm tasting a small slice of lemon pound cake right now...boring.

I want brioche!!!

And I could agree with you more about the fake foods. Fake food, fake sugar, fake anything put into ones mouth and consumed or sucked on is not a good thing.

hugs,
bex

Posted by: bex | Aug 18, 2005 11:41:35 AM

Mm-kay, but we all know that Diet Coke is nature's perfect beverage, right? ;)

Deirdre, what country are you in now, if you don't mind telling? I'm a huge fan of Rome and their cafes and espresso shops and gelaterias every five feet. London and Munich (that's Muenchen to those in the know) are favorite destinations of mine as well...

Posted by: maise | Aug 18, 2005 12:24:28 PM

I'm in Paris, baby. But soon to Italia...

Posted by: Dierdre | Aug 18, 2005 12:41:06 PM

Salut, maise! I cannot bring myself to the level of parodying M. LaHaine. For, you see, parody is a sincere form of flattery, and I would not want anyone to think that I would be giving my flattery to someone whose artistic spirit and soul had abandonded them. He may live dans un champ d'haissement, but he does not deserve that kind of cruel benevolence.

Posted by: Mimi | Aug 18, 2005 2:59:48 PM

Eh, sometimes satire is a toy, sometimes it's a weapon.

Posted by: maise | Aug 18, 2005 10:18:45 PM

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