so, i went to a funky little store in echo park last week called cookbook, l.a.'s answer to the bay area's market hall, which falls miserably short. if there is one thing you should know about me by now is that i'm frank, and oft cranky, which is really iconoclastic, because most bloggers write with a profusion of cheer. this sounds to me like a lot of tedious and unnecessary work. you can be frank in your pajamas with the shades drawn. none of that laborious sunshine required.
the store was cute enough, tiny as a broom closet with a sparse collection of overpriced goods whose lustre has long been beaten to death - slender fingers of pink, french radishes, bags of heirloom grains. a couple of very serious-looking and borderline dour young folks stood rigid at the register, the girl of the two regarded me unsmilingly as though i had interrupted her backyard cow-milking with purchase of my measly bag of farine.
folks. yes, they were that sort of kinfolk eclectic which is hardly eclectic anymore. you know the bunch, you can spot them by their tragic loafers, perfectly down-at-heel and usually lacking laces. the girls, standing slightly pigeon-toed, always, wear impoverished smocks and hair-styles tacked together by a superfluity of mismatched bobby pins, the bangs of which land high on their foreheads. the boys, observe, must wear too-small cardigans with threadbare elbows, under this is a shirt of plaid, smaller still and buttoned tight at the throat. their battered old fedoras, the final infinitesimal accoutrement to the ensemble, perch high over their cowlicks, a wilted feather struggling at the band. and beards are back, did you know? the more scraggly the better, it would seem. rustic. he's been chopping wood (again), this beard says.
i'm guilty too, not of these sartorial abuses, but we are all indeed photographing our masterpieces on weatherbeaten pieces of wood and pretending that the configuration was adventitious. oh, but a puff of silver hydrangea just there in the background, how clever, how accidental! and those leaves that tumbled down like that, capture them there, just how they've fallen, oh look how perfectly natural they lay. it's all fine and good. we say.
yes, but is it kinfolk?
well, is it? we beg ourselves, in appraisal of our arrangements.
but i digress, and nevertheless, cookbook confirmed that they had a few bags of central milling ØØ flour, which is tricky to find. and lo, a bucket of hydrangeas in the window, plum-colored, i think. and this brings us to our post today.
was it worth it? meh. the pizza was great, but it's great when i use bread flour, or even A/P. compare that at $5 per 5 lb. bag to $11 for a sack of ØØ at the same weight. alas, one must try new things lest one's life becomes too stale.
the long and short of this blather is that you can save yourself a trip across town and at least $6 and use either bread or A/P for this formula which we can get at whole foods, very well we know. but you may ask yourself, in view of your economy and when standing at that great wall of supermarket flours between les confitures and the sea of salts: but is it kinfolk?
the answer: indeed, it is not.
kinfolk is not just a magazine, darling reader, but an adjective to describe the mileu of our lives, the very organization of our minds. one must make an important decision, then, whether to be stylishly arranged, or in full embrace of one's frugality in matters of dress and wealth.
stay tuned, for part 2 in our ØØ series. for now, busy yourself with this.