Last week I noticed that this link to a piece called “Sartre’s Cookbook” was at the top of the del.icio.us popular link list. Unfortunately, the folks who run that site simply put “author unknown” as the attribution.
Because I love the piece and happen to know the author, I’ll right this wrong: The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook was written by a gentleman named Marty Smith who lived in Portland, Oregon and attended Reed College around the same time that I did (late 1980s, early 1990s).
Marty wrote some classic pieces for Portland’s alternative newspapers — including one on his summer spent as an ice cream truck driver that earned him the nickname of the “Ill Humor Man” — and the Sartre Cookbook has to be at the top of that list. Go now. Read it.
From the diaries:
Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.
Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.