Oud Hud is immediately awake and impulsive. I think of Isabelle Eberhardt and her willingness to sublimate herself to the desert. HUD is a musky goat curry of sunset hotness, steamed with the medicinal wind of turmeric. Cooled with barely one tear of cumin, plunked into that stew with carrots and a prune, all of it smoking over an open (cedar?) fire pit. Who wouldn’t want to convert to a life under the stars? The incense, the tap of leather, the no-madness of it? It's a hallucination I wish, that would last a little longer.