Blog d'Elisson

AN END... AND A BEGINNING

2010-06-17T22:45:00.000-04:00

“The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” - Mark Twain

As yet, there have been no such reports - exaggerated or not - at least as far as my own death is concerned. And I’ll be perfectly content to keep it that way.

As far as Blog d’Elisson is concerned, however, it is a different story. This is my last post on this site.

Oh, do not weep for my silly little blog. I will continue my Bloggy Activities elsewhere. My new site, Lost in the Cheese Aisle, is up and running, and I hope you will take the time to update your blogrolls, RSS feeds, subscriptions, and what-not. So if this exercise in Self-Aggrandizement and Time-Wastage has appealed to you, you won’t miss a thing. The main difference between Bd’E and Lost in the Cheese Aisle is the name. (Well, that and the URL.) Same shit, different place.

Why change? Inquiring minds, I am sure, will want to know. There are two main reasons.

One, I have never really liked the title of this blog. It’s lame. Originally, it was going to be a placeholder until I could think of something I liked better, and then I just got lazy. Whereas “Lost in the Cheese Aisle” is better reflective of my state of mind most days... it’s how the Missus describes me when I’m walking around in a state of mental befoggedness.

Two, I wanted to go back to the Blogger commenting system. Sure, it sucks... but not as much as Echo. I was perfectly happy with the Haloscan commenting I had installed almost six years ago, but when Echo took over Haloscan, they discarded every useful feature and replaced them with Utter Shit. Echo is user-unfriendly and a general Pain in the Ass. Ditching it is a fine side effect of switching to a new site.

If you wanted a third reason, how ’bout “Skippy did it”? He is none the worse for wear after killing off his old Enjoy Every Sandwich site and replacing it (after a brief hiatus) with Postcards of the Hanging. So there is that.

Sometimes change - shaking things up, moving on - can spur one on to greatness. At the very least, it’s one way to escape the status quo and preserve the illusion of personal progress... to get out of one’s old rut, thus enabling one to begin scraping out a new one.

I have been writing here for almost six years, logging almost 450,000 site visits and slapping up 4,000 posts. It’s time to start stinking up another crib.

See you on the other side. Vale atque ave.

ON PENMANSHIP

2010-06-17T16:07:00.001-04:00

Those of us who have taken a few trips around the Sun have seen plenty of progress over the years. But it’s a two-edged sword, this business of progress. While some changes improve our lives in ways small and great, as we watch new technologies overtake old, some things are, inevitably, lost.

I have a device in my pocket that’s roughly the size of a candy bar. With it, I can talk to almost anyone I care to, anywhere in the world. I can send written messages. I can look at a map and get directions to almost anyplace. I can reserve a table at a restaurant, book a hotel room, buy an airline ticket. I can program my DVR (another new piece of technology undreamed of a couple of decades ago) to record my favorite television programs. I can maintain a calendar, send birthday greetings, take a photograph and send it anywhere on Earth. I can even pay my bills.

Paying bills. Now, there’s a task that technology has made somewhat less of a burden. Used to be, I’d sit down at my desk with a stack of bills twice a month, writing checks, sealing envelopes, affixing stamps and return address labels, keeping the check register. It was a huge pain in the ass.

Now, I log on to my bank’s website, open up my online banking screen, grab the mouse, clickety-click, and I’m done. Hours worth of toil, reduced to mere minutes. Of course, I still have to make sure there’s actually money in the account with which to pay those bills, but that’s a problem we all must grapple with, technology or no.

Over a century ago, people were writing checks. Witness:

A bank draft written in 1892. [Click to embiggen.]

It’s a postcard - a postcard! - from one W. B. Baker to D. Y. & R. R. Dancy of Savannah, Georgia. Notice the sparse address: just the name and city. Good luck trying that today.

It reads: Feb 2nd 1892.; Gents - Have this day drawn on you favor Solomon & Co. for $32.18. Please honor and oblige.

Nothing less than a polite written request for Messrs. Dancy to pay Solomon & Co. A bank draft. A check. No account number... but in those days, people knew their bankers personally, and vice versa.

I fear the days are long gone when one could write such instructions on a postcard - anyone could read it! - and reasonably expect that it would end up in the hands of the correct recipient, who would then follow those instructions promptly. And yet, I do not mourn. I push a button; I pay my bills. I am happy; my creditors are happy.

But what I do miss is the penmanship. Look at the beautiful copperplate handwriting, the flowing letters, the whorls and curves of the signature. The Palmer method and its brethren are arts that have been lost to the ages. Do they even teach cursive writing in school any more? Or has it gone the way of the Buggy-Whip?

GRILLED YARDBIRD AND OTHER DELIGHTS

2010-06-17T12:54:00.000-04:00

Eric, that most esteemed Tennessee Renaissance Man, knows his way around a grill. Those of us fortunate enough to have attended his legendary birthday parties know that when it comes to grilling tender, succulent chops, the Straight White Grillmeister is at the top of his game... and She Who Must Be Obeyed still raves about a sirloin steak he prepared for her several months ago.

But, until this week, Eric had never tried to grill a whole yardbird. It was left to old Uncle Elisson to show him how.

It may come as a revelation to some folks that chickens may be purchased all of a piece: a whole, fresh (not frozen) bird. Rather than hacking the beast into convenient edible component parts - breasts, thighs, drumsticks and such - the bird’s head is removed and jammed into the empty Entrail-Cavity along with the neck, gizzard, heart and liver (collectively known as the giblets), after which the whole mess is conveniently vacuum-packed in thick plastic film. Whether they call it a fryer, broiler, roaster, or whatever-the-fuck, it’s nought but a whole chicken.

Whole chickens are fine for roasting, or for converting into chicken soup... but it’s another matter entirely when you want to grill them. Their shape does not lend itself to easy grilling, being somewhat akin to a hollow football with wings and legs. But you can fix that.

First, you take the chicken out of its plastic wrappings. (Grilling the bird while it’s still encased in polyethylene does little to improve its flavor.) Reach into the cavity and yank out the giblets while you’re at it. I like to save ’em: the liver can be sautéed in a little olive oil or butter with a dab of sage, while the other bits and pieces can go into the stockpot.

Now it’s time to do some back-cracking. If you like living dangerously, you can use a meat cleaver, but I rely on my trusty Oxo Good Grips Professional Poultry Shears for this job. The heavy, curved blade cuts through bones with ease, and the whole thing disassembles easily for cleaning.

Lay the bird down with its ass-end facing you and with the backbone on top. Take those shears and cut toward the neck alongside the backbone. Now cut along the other side of the backbone to remove it. Save the backbone for the stockpot.

Now flatten the bird and turn it so its inside is on top. Cut in the center and remove the V-shaped keelbone. You can now flatten that sucker out like a book.

By way of a rub, I took a teaspoon of ground cumin and toasted it in a skillet. To this I added four chopped garlic cloves garlic, a teaspoon of crushed red pepper flakes, and a teaspoon of pimenton (Spanish smoked paprika). All of this went into a mortar along with the juice of one lime (I also like to use lemon, adding the zest as well) and a tablespoon or two of extra-virgin olive oil. After mashing everything together, I rubbed the chicken with the resulting Flavor-Paste and let it sit at room temperature for two hours prior to throwing it on the grill. (Refrigerate it if you’re going to prepare the bird more than two hours in advance.)

A spatchcocked yardbird, ready for the grill.

When it came to the actual grilling process, we got the grill’s temp up to 350°F and placed the chicken on a high grate, well away from the direct heat of the flame. Turning the bird every fifteen minutes or so, it took about an hour to finish it, with crisp, flavorful skin, dark meat cooked through... and yet with surprisingly moist white meat.

It was a perfect companion to the brace of sirloin steaks Eric had prepared... and for the grilled, sliced summer squash, and the roasted asparagus.

They say you can’t teach an old ~~bird~~ dawg new tricks, but I’ll be surprised if our Tennessee Renaissance Man doesn’t try one of these bad boys again real soon. He’s got the tools for the job.

MR. AND MRS. RITZY-PANTS

2010-06-16T18:13:00.007-04:00

It being our thirty-third wedding anniversary this past Saturday, we decided to celebrate by spending the night at a Fancy-Ass Hostelry. For nothing helps you escape the drudgery of the day-to-day than a night away from home. And if your quotidian existence is pleasant, why, so much the better.

In preparation for our Mini-Honeymoon, I had, a week or so prior, booked us in at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Buckhead. We had stayed there a few times before - once in the 1980’s, once in the late ’90’s - for similar occasions and had had good experiences both times. And so, the Ritz it was.

Every once in a while, we are compelled to stay in an upscale hotel. Several months ago, the daughter of some good friends of long standing had scheduled a wedding at the Four Seasons Hotel in Atlanta. Rather than simply drive down, attend the wedding and reception, and then drive home, we had elected to stay at the hotel. Self indulgent? Of course... but that way we could drink ourselves silly without worrying about navigating anything more challenging than an elevator. And the Four Seasons, being one of the finer lodgings in town, was a delightful place for a getaway, albeit a short one.

The Ritz-Carlton, however, is another story entirely. For as nice as the Four Seasons is, the Ritz takes it up to another level entirely by adding a whole new dimension of Ass-Kissage.

There is an entire cadre of nattily attired hotel employees whose sole function is administering frequent and carefully aimed Buttock-Busses at every opportunity, the better to fill their guests with a completely unjustified sense of self-importance. You are assumed to be the completely helpless sort of royalty, incapable of the simplest task - such as opening a door. Uniformed attendants are there to do it for you.

A personal greeting is ever on the lips of the Ritz Employee:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Elisson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Elisson. I trust you slept well?”

“Good evening, Mr. Elisson. Will you be needing any assistance in wiping your bottom?”

Upon arriving in our room, instead of the usual couple of chocolate bits on the pillows, there was a box of chocolates that looked more like futuristic science-fictional Choco-Pills. Too beautiful to eat, they were.

Chocolates? Miniature works of art? Or Future-Pills?

We did more than simply lounge around the hotel sucking up the obsequiousness, however. I had reserved a table at Rathbun’s, Kevin Rathbun’s eponymous eatery; Rathbun, a great big bear of a man with whom I feel an especial kinship owing to his willingness to wear a perforated metallic chapeau, is one of the local Cheffy Luminaries in Atlanta. Two years ago, he and his brother Kent defeated Iron Chef Bobby Flay in “Battle Elk” on Iron Chef America, a Useless Fact considering that I was planning to order lamb, not elk.

The meal was ridiculously good. An appetizer of raw ahi tuna cubes with razor-thin slices of Serrano peppers, a dusting of sea salt, and some blood orange slices was a perfect palate sharpener. She Who Must Be Obeyed ordered the smoked beef brisket in aged sherry vinegar BBQ (superb), while I opted for the Australian lamb chops. One of Rathbun’s whimsically-titled “Second Mortgage” plates, this was nothing less than three (count ’em) double-cut chops, seared to a perfect medium-rare, drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar and served atop a pile of wild mushrooms sautéed in a heavy cast-iron skillet. Outstanding, it was... especially washed down with lashings of a 2007 Ramspeck Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

Instead of dessert, SWMBO was tempted by the eggplant steak fries: lightly beaded batons of aubergine, fried crisp and dusted with 10x confectioner’s sugar, then served alongside a white-hot, sinus-clearing habanero dipping sauce. Yummy.

After enjoying a few after-dinner coffees, we wound our way back to the Ritz for a series of polite door-openings, obsequious greetings, and a nightcap. And later, from our room, the Atlanta skyline glowed...
* * *The next morning, we lounged around and enjoyed a few hours of quiet Ritzian luxury prior to having the Mistress of Sarcasm join us for the celebrated Ritz-Carlton Sunday brunch.

The Ritz, it should be explained, lays on a spectacular all-you-care-to-eat foodfest every Sunday morning. It’s a monument to excess, a veritabobble Groaning Board of treats, meats, sweetmeats; breadstuffs, charcuterie, cheeses; prepared dishes, fishes, and pretty much anything else you might desire. It ain’t inexpensive... but then again, it’s something we allow ourselves only on rare occasions. Rare, indeed: The last time we had done a Ritz-Brunch was fully a quarter-century ago.

There is a strategy associated with the Sunday Brunch. People who go cruising in with slavering jaw, empty plate in hand and hungry look on face, will inevitably be disappointed at the end of the day, having filled themselves with English muffins, cantaloupe chunks, Belgian waffles, made-to-order omelettes, pancakes, lumps of sausage, and rashers of bacon.

Yes, they have pancakes. Yes, they have waffles. Yes, they have sausage and bacon.

Fuck that. I can get pancakes at Shoney’s. I can have the free breakfast at any randomly-selected Hampton Inn and get a perfectly good Belgian waffle in exchange for the minor inconvenience of making it myself. But when I am at the Ritz, I am going to save my appetite for the Ritzy Grub.

Caviar, f’r instance. Three kinds of fresh caviar, served with quarter-sized blini (Russian yeast-raised buckwheat pancakes), and the usual accoutrements: chopped egg, onion, sour cream, et alia. Without being too much of a slob about it, I make sure my personal supply of caviar never runs dry.

Smoked trout? Check. Smoked salmon? Check. Smoked mussels, shrimp, scallops? Check checkity check. Sushi? Gigantic boiled shrimp? Oh, yeah.

Macaroni and cheese? Normally, having mac and cheese at a buffet is a honkin’ waste of time. But this was lobster and truffle mac and cheese. Oooooh.

Prime rib? Maybe a dab. Grilled sea bass? Aw, why not? Country pâté, exotic salamis, rare cheeses? Somebody stop me!

Perhaps a martini glass full of gazpacho... with a golf ball-sized chunk of fresh lump crabmeat floating in it. Yowza.

By using my Focused Foraging™ method, zeroing in on expensive, tasty protein instead of cheap filler, I not only get my money’s worth at a Fancy-Ass Buffet - I have a satisfying, reasonably healthy meal. Plus, I get to watch as the Mistress plows through the gorgeous, intricate, jewel-like desserts.

The folks at the Ritz-Carlton were all too accommodating, allowing us a late checkout that gave us plenty of buffet attack time. And then, on the way out, they offered to take our picture... a souvenir of the visit, a Parting (Snap) Shot, if you will.

The Parting (Snap) Shot... Yours Truly with SWMBO and the Mistress of Sarcasm.

A weekend to remember? You bet it was.

THIRTY-THREE

2010-06-12T08:29:00.000-04:00

1,041,400,800 seconds.

17,356,680 minutes.

289,278 hours.

12,053 days.

33 years.

That’s how long She Who Must Be Obeyed and I have been married, as of today.

Time flies when you’re having fun. I remember our wedding day as if it were yesterday. (Keep in mind that I sometimes cannot remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.)

And if I could choose whether to do it all over again, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

COMICAL CATCHWORDS

2010-06-11T15:34:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, the funnies were filled with funny words.

Of course, if you say any word enough times, it begins to sound completely ridiculous.

Try it. Pick a word at random, then say it about twenty times.

Shirt.

Shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt.

Pretty silly, eh?

Given that you can take almost any regular, everyday word and render it laughable, imagine creating your own silly words... and having them burned into the consciousness of millions of people over a long period of time. That’s the legacy of the great comic strips of the past.

Zippy, 28 December 2006. ©2006 King Features Syndicate. [Click to embiggen.]

Bill Griffith’s Zippy may very well be the finest meta-comic strip out there. Above, Griffith reminisces about the great nonsense words and phrases the comics have contributed to the popular culture. How many of them do you remember?

Arnold Zwicky, in a post from early 2007, provides the backstory for the words in Griffith’s strip. You may be surprised to learn that the use of the word “Jeep” in Elzie Segar’s immortal Thimble Theatre strip (birthplace of Popeye and his assorted hangers-on) predated its use to describe the G.P. (General Purpose) vehicle of WWII.

One of the great coiners of nonsense phrases was the late Bill Holman, creator of Smokey Stover. Holman popularized the word “Foo” (see if you can count how many times it appears in the strip below) - a word that was picked up in WWII and used to describe mysterious aerial phenomena or UFO sightings (“foo fighters”).

Smokey Stover. ©1941 News Syndicate Co., Inc. [Click to embiggen.]

Notary Sojac. 1506 Nix Nix. Those nutty phrases flew from Holman’s prolific, pun-packed pen. Finding them buried in a Sunday Smokey Stover comics page was one of the small joys of childhood for me.

What dopey Comical Catchwords do you remember?

WATCHFUL

2010-06-10T20:32:00.002-04:00

The ever-vigilant Hakuna sits by the front door, ready to get a Big Tail at the sight of any flower-munching rabbits.

Update: Friday Ark #299 is open for business over at the Modulator.

This Sunday, be sure to check out Carnival of the Cats, the 326th edition of which will be hosted by that most irrepressible Nikita over at Meowsings of an Opinionated Pussycat.

Update: CotC #326 is up... with Hakuna in pole position!

HERE’S SOMETHING WE HAVEN’T SEEN IN A LONG-ASS TIME

2010-06-08T23:38:00.002-04:00

An Elisson-eye view of my bathroom scale this morning.

The last time that number had a seven in the tens column, it was sometime in the 1980’s. After that, my inner slob took over.

I’m down twenty-eight pounds now - about six away from my goal. At my current rate, I ought to get there around the beginning of July. Wish me luck.

A MESS O’ MUDBUGS

2010-06-08T19:19:00.007-04:00

The fare we enjoy during our annual Alabama Golf Outings ranges, as such things tend to do, from the ridiculous to the sublime.

We’ve had tough, gristle-packed steaks at chain restaurants... and, sometimes at the same place on the same evening, others that were “like buttah.”

We’ve traveled to the nasty parts of town for barbecue... because that’s where the best barbecue places are supposed to be. But sometimes it turns out to be more miscue than barbecue.

This year we hit a place called the Golden Rule in Pell City, a wide spot in the road somewhere roughly midway between Opelika and Huntsville. Bartimus Magnificus, a native of Birmingham, gave it the thumbs-up - he had known the place back when it was a one-location operation in Irondale. And, for once, Bart picked a winner. It was no Goode Company, but then again, we weren’t in Texas... and the collard greens were superb.

The next night, instead of the usual eat-a-steak-at-the-faux-Australian-chain-restaurant routine, we got adventurous. Big Marty had done some Internet research and had found a joint called the Po Boy Factory. N’Awlins-style food in northeastern Alabama? We were skeptical, but figured what the hell.

Surprise! This place was the Real Thing, a little chunk of Louisiana in a completely unexpected place. And the food was terrific.

A mess o’ mudbugs, AKA crawfish.

In addition to the expected assortment of po boy and muffuletta sandwiches, the PBF offered piles of boiled shrimp and crawfish, excellent gumbo and jambalaya, and blackened mahi mahi for those who wished something a little less traif. For dessert? Bread pudding with whiskey sauce, along with an assortment of pies... for those who still had the Gut-Room to indulge.

The thing that made the Po Boy Factory stand out, even more than the food, was the friendly, down-home attitude of the staff. It’s a family operation, and it showed.

Big Marty, Bartimus Maximus, Marie Thigpen (owner of the Po Boy Factory), and Houston Steve.

Beat the crap out of that faux-Ozzie steak place, to say the least.

ARM AND LEGUME

2010-06-07T22:27:00.005-04:00

A bean is a bean, but a pea is a relief.

- Billie Bob z''l

Legumes, legumes
Enhance cardiac health
The more one consumes
The less one is able to pass flatus in stealth

- Elisson
***
The Missus was inspired, the other day, to make a Four-Bean Salad. Having no recipe handy, she just made one up on the fly.

Black beans, little white beans, little red beans, garbanzos, all rinsed and drained... sliced red and yellow peppers... a few sliced sun-dried tomatoes... chopped basil, flat-leaf parsley, and shallot... a light dusting of garlic powder... a little extra virgin olive oil... a splash of red wine vinegar. Let it all sit for a few hours for the flavors to get comfortable with one another. That’s it: easy-peasy.

A PROFUSION OF BUTTERFLIES

2010-06-06T21:54:00.013-04:00

The wildlife was in abundance this weekend as we hacked our way around Hampton Cove, the Huntsville, Alabama outpost of the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail.

Some scene-setting is in order. Alabama, home of the aforementioned Trail, offers excellent golf on challenging layouts, all at reasonable prices... and so, once a year, I join a small army of Golf-Playing Idiots on a westward trek to the Heart of Dixie.

Small army of Golf-Playing Idiots. (I’m in the back.)

This year’s trip was was a step-out improvement over those of previous years. First, we had good luck with the weather. A nasty, wet forecast for Friday never materialized - we had a few sprinkles to deal with, but nothing serious. Also, temperatures remained moderate, a rare pleasure for an Alabamian June. But most important was our wise decision to limit our play to eighteen holes a day. In past years, we would cram ninety holes into three days in what could best be described as a sort of Golfy Demolition Derby that would cover the entire spectrum from fun to work to torture. This time, sanity prevailed.

Friday, we played the Links course at Grand National in Opelika. We always say, “what happens in Opelika stays in Opelika,” which means I don’t have to mention the complete absence of my short game skills that day.

Oops.

That evening, a scenic drive on the back roads took us to Huntsville, way up in the northeastern corner of the state. Huntsville is famous for being the home of the Redstone Arsenal and the United States Space and Rocket Center, as well as the landing area for scores of Nazi rocket scientists after WWII under Operation Paperclip. With all that German brainpower around, U.S. efforts to develop ICBM technology during the early years of the Cold War naturally were centered in what became popularly known as “Rocket City, U.S.A.”

We had no time to screw around with rockets on this trip, however.

Hampton Cove boasts two full-size layouts: the Highlands and the River courses. The River was especially fearsome. Despite a complete absence of sand bunkers, water came into play on sixteen of the eighteen holes. It’s not a course for the faint of heart... and yet, it is one of those completely unexplainable Mysteries of Nature that I shot my best-ever RTJ Trail round there. Who’da thunkit?

Where the hell did my ball go? The river knows...

Aside from seeing thirty-six golf holes over the weekend, we saw an exceptional abundance of wildlife.

There were geese:

There were ducks:

There was the occasional heron:

But perhaps most surprising was the presence of a profusion of papillons. Butterflies! They were everywhere, often congregating in groups. Tiger swallowtails, black swallowtails, admirals, painted ladies, you name ’em.

I saw this group of black swallowtails clustered together and grabbed a photo:

As I snapped the shutter, I could see that these beautiful insects were roosting upon a chunk of Animal Spoor. Shit! And that’s when I realized that the gossamer-winged butterfly will sometimes eschew his usual delicate sips of flower-nectar in favor of a more earthy dinner. In that wise, he is very like us humans: So often do we decline to reach for the stars, preferring to grub in the dirt.

Call it a moral lesson, one of the world’s Essential Truths. Butterflies, however beautiful, are still flies.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-06-04T07:54:00.003-04:00

I neglected to post the usual Friday Random Ten last week owing to our being out-of-town... and, after receiving hundreds of angry e-mails, I won’t be letting that happen again anytime soon.

Right.

But, after all, it is Friday again... and you’ll be wanting some Choons fresh outta the Little White Choon-Box, won’t you?

Here we go:

Mr. Moonlight - The Beatles

From the Beatles For Sale album, probably the weakest one in their entire discography.
Idioteque - Radiohead
Backed Up - Bill Hicks
Lovers & Pinheads - Bobby Slayton
Common Sense - Michael Leviton
Lautturin Viivat - Alamaailman Vasarat
Golden Birdies - Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band

Those little golden birdies - look at them

And the mystic Egypt tassel dangling down
Old sleeper-man shish, don’t wake him
Up one hand broom star was an obi-man
Revered throughout the bone-knob land
His magic black purse slit creeped open,
Let go flocks of them

Shish sookie singabus
Snored like a red merry-go-round horse
And an acid gold bar swirled up and down,
Up and down, in back of the singabus
And the pantaloon duck white goose neck quacked
Webcor, webcor
Green Earrings - Steely Dan
Psycho Killer - Talking Heads
Stagger Lee - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Hmmm... two songs in a row having to do with murderous head-cases. Yowza!

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

COBBLE, COBBLE

2010-06-03T17:39:00.002-04:00

There’s an old saying: The cobbler’s children have no shoes. Whether that’s true or not, I cannot say - but one thing is certain. Eli’s children have cobbler.

I submit for your delectation a photograph of the blueberry cobbler prepared by The Other Elisson and served forth on our Daddy’s eighty-fifth birthday alongside gargantuan slabs of layer cake and chunks of melon.

The Other Elisson’s Blueberry Cobbler.

Sexy, huh?

I permitted myself a taste of the berries. They were packed with delicious fruit flavor, enhanced by the one-two punch of lemon and cinnamon. Unbelievable.

People who have been reading this site for several years know that I loves me some blueberries. It was four years ago this week that I was in New Brunswick, Canada - home of some of the finest blueberries in the world - so I know whereof I speak.

Until this bad boy showed up on the table, I had never known my brother was a Dessert Maven. Normally, the Other Elisson lives a fairly ascetic life, being very careful about what he eats. But apparently he’s not ashamed to cut loose now and again.

As for how he did it, I’m pretty sure this is close to the recipe he used. It will serve six to eight... or four really serious cobbler lovers:

The Other Elisson’s Blueberry Cobbler

Filling
½ cup granulated sugar (3½ oz)
1 tbsp cornstarch
Pinch ground cinnamon
Pinch table salt
6 cups fresh blueberries (~30 ounces), washed and picked over
1½ tsp grated lemon zest
1 tbsp lemon juice

Biscuit Topping
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (5 oz)
2 tbsp stone-ground cornmeal
¼ cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tsp for sprinkling
2 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp table salt
4 tbsp unsalted butter (½ stick), melted
⅓ cup buttermilk
½ tsp vanilla extract
⅛ tsp ground cinnamon

Preparation

Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and preheat oven to 375°F.

To make the filling, stir the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt together in a large bowl. Add the blueberries and mix gently, using a rubber spatula, until evenly coated; add the lemon zest and juice and combine. Transfer the mixture to a 9-inch glass pie pan. Place the pie pan on a rimmed baking sheet and bake until the filling is hot and bubbling around edges, about 25 minutes.

While the filling is baking, get the biscuit topping ingredients ready but don’t mix the wet and dry ingredients together until just before the berry filling comes out of the oven. Whisk the flour, cornmeal, ¼ cup sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl to combine. In a separate, small bowl, whisk the melted butter, buttermilk, and vanilla together. Mix the remaining 2 teaspoons sugar and cinnamon in another small bowl; set aside. Just before the filling is ready, add the wet stuff to the dry stuff and stir until just combined. You don’t want any dry material left, but don’t beat the crap out of it.

Now it’s time to put the cobbler together. Take the berry filling out of the oven and jack up the oven temp to 425°F. Pinch off eight equal-sized globs of biscuit dough and place on hot berry filling, spacing them at least half an inch apart. Sprinkle each dough-glob with the cinnamon sugar mixture you prepared earlier. Stick the whole mess back in the oven and bake until the filling is bubbling like blue lava and the biscuits are golden brown on top - about 15-18 minutes. Remove the cobbler from the oven and cool on a wire rack 20 minutes or so. Serve it forth with lashings of vanilla ice cream or lightly sweetened whipped cream.

And then, loosen your belt. Oof!

CARTOONY ’KOONY

2010-06-03T16:53:00.005-04:00

Cartoony ’Koony. [Click to embiggen.]

Hakuna permits one of her subjects to approach her Royal Personage and offer skritchings.

The image has been doctored in Photoshop, making it sorta painterly and/or cartoony. Hey, that’s it - Cartoony ’Koony!

Update: Friday Ark #298 is afloat at the Modulator... and this Sunday, Carnival of the Cats rolls around to Three Tabby Cats in Vienna.

Update 2: CotC #325 is up.

A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY

2010-06-02T13:39:00.010-04:00

Eli (Hizzownself), with Toni, his Better Half.

We celebrated the Old Man’s eighty-fifth birthday last weekend in grand style.

Earlier that day, we had driven out east to do a little winery hopping. It seems that Long Island, in the past three decades, has become a mini-hotbed of viniculture: Who knew? About forty wineries dot the various towns on the eastern end of the island, with most on the North Fork... so that is where we headed.

At the Lenz Winery in Peconic, we stopped for a tasting amidst a profusion of carefully manicured vines. Barbara, our charming blonde tasting host, played Long Island Geography with me as she poured our wines - as it happens, she was a year younger than me and had lived in the same town - and on the same street, on the opposite side of the nine-hole golf course that bisected the neighborhood.

SWMBO and I at the Lenz Winery, Peconic.

The wines were good - the North Fork microclimate is particularly suited to Merlot - and SWMBO and I ordered a few bottles before we all went on our merry way.

That evening, we enjoyed a fine dinner at Tellers, a chophouse tucked into a vintage bank building in Islip. As impressive as the surroundings were - thirty-foot-high ceilings tend to add a bit of tone - the food and wine were at least as impressive. My filet, a handsome, softball-sized chunk of prime, dry-aged beefmeat, had just the right beefiness and texture; Eli elected to have the braised beef short ribs, a ridiculously flavorsome, tender example of the genre. And the wine, a 2007 Merlot from the South Fork’s Wölffer Estate Vineyards, complemented the meal perfectly.

As we were polishing off our various entrées, we saw a waiter glide past bearing an enormous trencher with what appeared to be Fred Flintstone’s dinner: a huge baseball bat-sized bone with a clublike wad of meat attached to it. What in Gawd’s name was it? According to our waiter, it was the house speciality, a forty ounce (!) bone-in ribeye. Since I have no compunctions about making a fool of myself in front of complete strangers, I got right up and walked over to the table where that monster steak had been delivered... to a guy who looked like he could work as an NFL player or a bar bouncer.

“Excuse me, but that’s a mighty impressive steak. Would you mind if I took a picture of it?”

Somewhat bemused, the fellow allowed me to photograph his meal. Alas, the picture did not turn out well, but I could’ve sworn that piece of meat bore the legend “Callaway FT-iZ.”

There would be more celebrating the next day, complete with cake and The Other Elisson’s homemade blueberry cobbler, but this was a Birthday to Remember.

A CULINARY CONUNDRUM

2010-05-31T15:09:00.002-04:00

Q: Is it OK to put turkey on a Greek salad?

A: Only if you’re especially Hungary.

ANOTHER TRIP AROUND THE SUN FOR THE FAMILY PATRIARCH

2010-05-28T10:22:00.005-04:00

Eli, Hizzownself: The older you get, the less inhibited you are in many ways.

SWMBO: Oy.
* * *
Today is Eli’s eighty-fifth birthday. Yesterday, he kicked off the morning by playing four games of doubles racquetball - something he does routinely twice a week. He only won the first and last games, a clear indication that he is slowing down.

Eli shows his less-inhibited side.

Despite his age, our Dad is not a complete Luddite. I’m writing these words on his very own computer, the selfsame machine that The Other Elisson and I purchased as a birthday gift for him last year. After a lengthy delay, it’s now hooked up to the Inter-Webby-Net and Eli is taking his (very tentative) first steps into cyberspace.

Whether this evolves into any sort of electronic comfort zone is completely up in the air. Dad is very much a child of the pre-computer generation, from the days when secretaries would type his business correspondence, telephones did not sport automatic answering devices, and mail was something that you stuck in an envelope with a stamp.

But it’s nice to imagine him using a few rudimentary tools such as Wikipedia and IMDB... and maybe even reading this stupid-ass blog once in a while.

Errr... maybe this computer business isn’t such a good idea after all...

ONE TINY-ASS DAWG

2010-05-27T08:32:00.006-04:00

This past weekend, the Mistress of Sarcasm and I enjoyed the hospitality of Elder Daughter and her two housemates.

It was our first chance to check out Elder Daughter’s new digs. Formerly living solo in an Adams Morgan apartment, E.D. moved to a large, rambling house in the rapidly gentrifying H corridor where she is part of a sort of Roomie-Family. It’s a huge improvement over her former situation.

Miss Kitty, one of the Animal Denizens of Elder Daughter’s house.

In addition to Elder Daughter and her housemates, there are several animal denizens of the residence as well. A parade of Foster-Dogs, one of whom (Craig) bears an astonishing resemblance to Laurence Fishburne, runs through at regular intervals. There’s a cat - Miss Kitty - who has adapted well to home life after having been rescued from the streets. And then there’s the appropriately-named Minnie...

Minnie - one Tiny-Ass Dawg.

...the tiniest frickin’ dog I’ve ever laid eyes on.

That Minnie is small is not too surprising when you consider her Chihuahua ancestry. But she is not just small, she is minuscule. Teeny-tiny. Small enough to be carried up Richard Gere’s ass with room left over for a whole family of gerbils.

Small enough to fit in one hand.

And she’s got a big, feisty heart, all out of proportion to her size. She takes no crap from the horde of big dogs as they traipse through the living room: She growls and barks at them like she’s ready to tear ’em a new one. Amazing.

Yet she is cuddly, in her own tiny-ass way.

Chris and Minnie: Tiny-Ass Love.

Best yet: Minnie is Ren Hoëk personified. She even speaks with a bizarre, Peter Lorre-esque accent! Gotta love it.

Update: Friday Ark #297 is up at (where else?) the Modulator... and this week, CatSynth hosts an exceptionally well-done Carnival of the Cats #324.

THE MOSQUITO TRUCK

2010-05-25T21:24:00.002-04:00

As the month of May slips away, soon to be replaced by June, I think back on my Snot-Nose Days. Back then, we’d be in school for the first three weeks of June, our summer vacation beginning roughly around the time of the solstice.

By the time the school year had worn down to those last few days, things were downright steamy. This was back before classrooms were air-conditioned, and hundred-degree days were not unknown. You could get a sunstroke running around on the playground during recess.

In the neighborhood, the arrival of summer was marked by the arrival of the ice-cream trucks. Good Humor was the odds-on favorite, but we would occasionally see a Mister Softee or Bungalow Bar vendor, the last marked by his unique gable-roofed vehicle. My parents looked down their noses at the Bungalow Bar with disdain, a disdain I grew to share for no apparent reason; I never tasted one.

The real harbinger of summer was not the ice-cream men in their various flavors, though. It was the Mosquito Truck.

Yes! The Mosquito Truck, a forgotten institution in these post-DDT days. It was a Jeep fitted out with a device that generated prodigious volumes of Mosquito Fog, an opaque white cloud packed with dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane. Mosquitoes saw that cloud coming and simply committed suicide rather than face a horrible neurotoxic death.

How often would we kids get caught in that Fogbank o’ Death, inhaling the chlorinated hydrocarbon perfume? Plenty often. Gawd only knows what insidious damage our little bodies sustained... but at least we were not at risk for yellow fever or malaria. And, many years later, I was happy to father children that did not have two heads, or flippers, or Froggy Eyes.

You don’t see Mosquito Trucks too often anymore... at least, not here in the States, where 1,1,1-trichloro-2,2-di(4-chlorophenyl)ethane is (metaphorically) as radioactive as plutonium and more tightly controlled than cannabis. The ban on DDT may have save the American Bald Eagle, for which we should be grateful... but it was nice, once upon a time, to life in a (mostly) mosquito-free environment.

Does anyone else remember the Mosquito Truck?

RIDE THIS

2010-05-25T21:17:00.005-04:00

The sharp-eyed Mistress of Sarcasm could not help but notice this Washington, D.C. taxicab’s ID number as we left last week’s TEDxPotomac conference. And I could not help but capture it for posterity as we all cracked up laughing.

Makes you wonder just what kind of rides this guy was selling, eh?

BARBECUE IN BIRMINGHAM

2010-05-25T16:38:00.000-04:00

Smokemeisters Henry L., Jerry C., and Elisson whip out their meat.

There’s an old joke about a rabbi who is out of town on a mid-week business trip. He checks into his hotel and heads out to a local eatery... and, as he peruses the menu, a thought pops into his head.

“I’ve never tasted of the flesh of the swine,” he thinks, “and I have always wondered what it’s like.

“Surely, if I were to order pork just this one time, God would forgive me - and besides, I’m away from home, and nobody will ever find out.”

His rationalization thus worked through, he orders the whole roast suckling pig. (Might as well go “whole hog,” eh?) And as soon as the waiter disappears with the order, the rabbi is horrified to see the president of his synagogue’s Sisterhood walk into the restaurant, accompanied by her husband (the ritual director) and their two children.

Of course, they recognize their rabbi immediately and, like one would do when encountering a hometown friend in a faraway place, they come over to greet him. The rabbi gives them a friendly smile, a hearty greeting, all the while silently praying that they will just go away and be seated on the far side of the restaurant.

No such luck. They insist on having the rabbi join them... and he is in no position to refuse.

Moments later, the waiter arrives, bearing a huge domed platter. He whisks away the dome to reveal a roast suckling pig, complete with apple in mouth - and the Sisterhood president and her family gape in open-mouthed horror.

The rabbi looks at the pig, then looks at them. He looks at the pig again, then looks back at them.

“Can you believe it? I order a baked apple, and look at the big production!”

* * * * *
All this is a lengthy prologue to the story of my Birmingham barbecue adventure... competing in a kosher barbecue cook-off at an event held by the Men’s Club at Temple Beth El, the Conservative synagogue there.

[That’d be Birmingham, Alabama, not the one in Old Blighty.]

Lots more below the fold.

I couldn’t not attend, for several reasons. First, our own Men’s Club had fielded a team to compete in the cook-off. Second, I’m a regional president of Men’s Club, and I wanted to be there to represent the region. Third, and most important, barbecue is in my blood... even if it got there by osmosis from She Who Must Be Obeyed.

SWMBO, you see, is a native-born Texan... and along with Eastern European Jews, Texans are one of the two kinds of people who know how to deal with beef brisket. If you fit into both categories simultaneously, there’s no stopping you... and thus I volunteered my services.

This being a kosher cook-off, certain special rules applied. To ensure that all meats, condiments, seasonings, other food ingredients, and utensils were acceptable, these were all provided by the hosting club. The meat itself - all kosher beef brisket and ribs - was supplied by the event’s sponsor, a well-known supermarket chain.

What chain was that, Elisson? I’m glad you asked. Piggly Wiggly, of course! Who better to sponsor a kosher barbecue cook-off?

Who better to sponsor a kosher barbecue cook-off?

Now, it should be explained that the relationship between Jews and pigs is, generally speaking, not especially close. Because observant Jews do not eat the flesh of the porcine mammal, they do not, as a rule, get jobs as swineherds. This being said, however, Jews differ from their Abrahamic brethren the Muslims in that they do not regard mere representations of pigs with horror and loathing. The smiling Piggly Wiggly mascot offends us not a bit, nor do images of Piglet (of Winnie-the-Pooh fame), piggy banks, or even foods that look like pigs:

Above: Pig Cake (contains chocolate, but no pork). Below: Panera’s Jalapeño & Cheddar Bagel Breakfast Sandwich (complete with ham and cheese). It’s OK if it looks like a pig, but not if it contains pig.

The Pig Cake pictured above is no problem for the average Red Sea Pedestrian as it contains no pork. On the other hand, despite its having been constructed with a Jewish breadstuff, the Jalapeño & Cheddar Bagel is verboten to the observant. It ain’t what it looks like, it’s what it’s made of... and even that matters only if you plan to eat it.

In any event, several members of our team arrived the night before, in order to season the meat and get it on the smoker in the wee hours of the morning. I arrived shortly after the Butt-Crack of Dawn, just in time to see the beans being assembled.

Our award-winning barbecue beans on the simmer.

There was competition, lots of it: twenty teams in all, with fanciful names like “Jews, Brews, and Barbecue,” “Delicious, Divine, and Devoid of Swine,” and “Limp Brizkit.” Most were local; we were the only entry that had come from a distance. And that, to be honest, was the point. We were there to make our presence known, to say hello. Taking home a trophy would be a bonus.

Our meat was ridiculously good, not least because we had gotten a head start on pretty much everybody by firing up our smoker in the dead of night.

Ribs and brisket.

For the last few hours, we kept the meat wrapped in heavy-duty aluminum foil to retain moisture. When I unwrapped the ribs, a puddle of orange oil - rendered out of the meat - told me that they would be heinously tender... and they were.

The drill was simple. At a designated time, the teams had to plate up five servings - first beans, then ribs, finally brisket - and deliver them unto the judging table. The dishes were then distributed amongst the twenty judges, a group comprising professional barbecue judges, local media celebrities and restaurant owners, and even a stray rabbi or two.

A few of the judges, hard at work.

We had a reasonable amount of brisket left over after plating up the judges’ samples, but it didn’t last long after our team (plus various competitors and hangers-on) descended on the remnants like a pack of starving wolves. Can’t say I blame them.

At the end of the day, we carried off two trophies - one for our beans, another for our ribs. Not bad for the visiting team! We’ll be sure to field a squad for next year’s event.

MAY GUILD EVENT

2010-05-24T06:30:00.004-04:00

Jack: If they want to drink Merlot, we’re drinking Merlot.

Miles Raymond: No, if anyone orders Merlot, I’m leaving. I am NOT drinking any fucking Merlot!

- Sideways, 2004

It’s time for another Sommelier Guild event. This one’s at Paul’s in Peachtree Hills, and it will feature Merlots of the World... Miles Raymond’s opinion notwithstanding.

I’m hoping to see Denny there, although Houston Steve will, alas, be unable to attend. It promises to be a tasty affair indeed - here’s the menu:

Speaker’s Wine
Beringer California White Merlot 2008

First Flight
Sant’ Venezia Giulia 2003
Banfi “Mandrielle” Tuscany 2005
Casa Lapostolle Cuvée Alexandre Colchagua “Apalta” 2007

Vegetable stuffed tortelloni, sage pecan brown butter, pecorino cheese

Second Flight
Aux Trois Frères Côtes de Castillon 2005**
Château Taillefer Pomerol 2005
Château LaFleur Morange “Mathilde” Saint-Emilion 2006

Blackened Atlantic salmon, Ellijay apple salad, sugar snap peas, balsamic reduction

Third Flight
Woodward Canyon Columbia River 2001
Kenefick Ranch Napa 2005*
Stephanie (by Hestan) Napa 2006**

Char-grilled lamb chop, forest mushrooms, eggplant zucchini tart, rosemary rosette potatoes, caramelized garlic au jus

Dessert
Trentadue Chocolate Amore NV**

Chocolate pecan bread pudding, caramel sauce

I won’t insult my Esteemed Readers by pretending to be suffering through this meal. No: I will enjoy every bite, and (hopefully) every sip.

Update: My favorites noted with asterisks. White Merlot? Like the ugly sister of (already unlovely) white Zinfandel... feh.

FRIDAY SATURDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-05-22T13:10:00.003-04:00

Yeah, I know, I know. It’s not Friday.

But I spent Friday well away from the Infernal Electronickal Computational Device, running around Georgetown and other parts of the District of Columbia with Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm. We spent the evening at Washington, D.C’s first Slideluck Potshow, an event comprising a potluck dinner and slideshow featuring the work of various visual artists. After all that, who had time to monkey around on Teh Interwebz?

Today’s non-Friday Random Ten is drawn from the selection of choons on my iPhone, given the the iPod d’Elisson sits 650 miles away back home. But there’s still plenty of Good Stuff:

Free Bird Jam (live) - Ben Folds Five
Act II, Scene 2: Flesh Rebels - John Adams, Nixon in China
Mr. Freedom X - Miles Davis

From 1972’s hyper-funkadelic On the Corner album, AKA “the most hated album in jazz.”
Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook’s
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein

Refrain:
Ah-ooooo, werewolves of London
Ah-ooooo
Ah-ooooo, werewolves of London
Ah-ooooo

If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
You better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again

[Refrain]

He’s the hairy-handed gent who ran amok in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
You better stay away from him
He’ll rip your lungs out, Jim
Ha, I’d like to meet his tailor

[Refrain]

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a piña colada at Trader Vic’s
His hair was perfect

Ah-ooooo, werewolves of London
Ah-ooooo, werewolves of London
Merikäärme - Alamaailman Vasarat
Inca Roads - Frank Zappa
Lo Yo Yo Stuff - Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band
Rat Race - The Specials
Birdland - Weather Report

Covered by numerous artists, most people are familiar with Manhattan Transfer’s version of this piece... but Weather Report’s original is far superior.
Dead Man’s Dream - Procol Harum

It’s ~~Friday~~ Saturday. What are you listening to?

TWO VIEWS

2010-05-19T08:29:00.002-04:00

Hakuna observes the goings-on in the kitchen from the back stairs.

This image is a composite of two shots: one taken with flash, one without. I like the coffee, cream, and chocolate colors.

Curled up comfortably on the ottoman.

Hakuna’s blue eyes are wide open as she gives me her classic Suspicious Glare. “You ain’t planning to use that damned flashy thing, are ya?”

BRINGING IN THE SHEAVES

2010-05-18T17:22:00.003-04:00

Tonight marks the start of Shavuot, the Jewish Festival of Weeks... exactly fifty days from the second day of Passover.

It’s a convenient holiday on which to commemorate the Giving of the Law, for which reason it is known as z’man matan torateinu. But it has ancient agricultural roots, being observed at the time of the wheat harvest. It’s when the Israelites would bring their first fruits to the Temple in Jerusalem, a time of great rejoicing.

Back then, having food to eat was reason enough to rejoice. And having wheat meant the priests could have their barbecued beef and lamb rolled up in a nice pita bread.

In previous posts, I have referred to Shavuot as the Rodney Dangerfield of Jewish holidays: it gets no respect. But ya gotta love a holiday that, despite its having no “official” food traditions, practically requires the consumption of blintzes.

And having mentioned blintzes, how can I not mention my beloved MIL’s excellent blintzes?

A brace of Momma Ceil’s cheese blintzes, gently frying in genuine butter.

If you want to taste the best blintzes that ever blew down the boulevard, go here for the recipe. In the meantime, chag sameach - a Happy Shavuot. (And Happy Pentecost to our Christian friends.)

COMFORT

2010-05-18T11:30:00.006-04:00

“Religion is, at its root, the unprovable belief in an invisible man [who] will fuck with you until you understand just how much he loves you.” - skippystalin

* * * * *
Skippy’s definition is a pretty good one, as far as it goes. As he puts it, “If you take any major faith out of its cultural and historical context and set it up on a compound in Texas, it would look awfully silly and dangerous.” I can’t argue with that, especially the silly part, being part of a religious tradition that includes hundreds of complex, niggling rules and regulations; and as well involves, at a specific time of the year, parading around holding tree branches and fruit.

Whether or not that is more ridiculous than some of the practices of other major faith traditions - eating God comes to mind - is left as an exercise for my Esteemed Readers and their individual consciences. Ridiculous, after all, is in the eye of the beholder.

But in my mind, what you believe is not nearly as important as what you do... and one of the most important functions of any religion is how it helps its adherents deal with the most difficult life events. At the top of that list has got to be death, because that is the gateway to that Undiscovered Country none of us knows a whole lot about.

These are a few of the thoughts I had as I sat next to She Who Must Be Obeyed in the local Catholic church, saying farewell to a friend of very long standing.

* * * * *
Well, I went to the doctor
I said, “I’m feeling kind of rough.”
“Let me break it to you, son:
Your shit’s fucked up.”
I said, “My shit’s fucked up?
Well, I don't see how!”
He said, “The shit that used to work,
Won’t work now.”

- Warren Zevon, My Shit’s Fucked Up

* * * * *
We had met Mike and Patricia back in the old neighborhood, twenty-nine years ago. Along with several of the other local residents, we formed a loose confederation of friends that managed to stay in touch and intact despite numerous relocations and the occasional divorce. Together, we’ve watched our children grow into a small mob of young men and women; now we’re seeing weddings and babies, another generation beginning anew. And together, we’ve dealt with various medical scares... and we’ve dealt with loss. Now we were dealing with it again.

Mike was a true Son of Georgia, having grown up in Commerce and being graduated with a Georgia Tech degree. Very successful in business - he was a senior executive in The Southern Company - he nevertheless retained his salt-of-the-earth prankster demeanor. When he found out that he had pancreatic cancer, rather than curl up into a ball and die, he fought it tooth-and-nail for sixteen months. Alas, in the end, it won.

We sat there in the church, SWMBO and I, surrounded by the Old Gang, grieving along with Mike’s family. His wife, Patricia; their two sons David and John; his brokenhearted mother. The priest conducted a Mass of Remembrance, a church ritual that is (to SWMBO and me) strange and yet strangely familiar, given that so many elements are rooted in our common Abrahamic tradition. And so it was that our old friend was ushered into that Final Passage.

Afterwards, we went back to Mike’s home and did what people do when they lose a friend or family member: find solace in each other’s presence. Our mutual faith traditions teach us to comfort those who mourn, after all... and isn’t that what makes humans more than mere animals? That - and the curiosity to ask what is behind that dark, impenetrable Veil of Mystery.

If Heaven is being amongst that which we love the most, Mike’s Heaven will be filled with family... plenty of Georgia Tech basketball players... a whole lotta sand, sunshine, and sailboats... and maybe even a little beer.

[Me, I have no idea what awaits us, and I’m not in a big hurry to find out.]

Mike was, in his own way, fortunate. He left us all too soon, but he lived a full life up until the very end. I will miss him. Requiescat in pace, big fella!

PISSED-OFF POULTRY

2010-05-15T17:34:00.003-04:00

“Kill the pig! Bash him in!” - William Golding, Lord of the Flies

If you own an iPhone or iPad, do not - I repeat, do not - get the game app Angry Birds.

The Missus stumbled upon it about a week ago while searching out popular iPhone apps. After downloading it for the grandiose fee of 99 cents U.S. and messing around with it for a bit, she turned me on to it. I’m not sure if I will ever be able to forgive her... because Angry Birds is insanely addictive.

There’s a backstory that sets up the game. It seems that a group of hungry green pigs - evidently the source of Dr. Seuss’s green ham - have stolen a clutch of eggs from a small flock of birds, with the intention of frying up and devouring said eggs. And the birds, understandably, are pissed off. The game proper consists of using a slingshot to shoot suicidally angry birds at various fortifications in order to demolish them, killing the pigs hiding within. As the game progresses, the fortifications become more complex... but you have at your disposal several different types of birds, each with unique destructive abilities. With the number (and types) of birds fixed for each game level, you need to control the trajectory of your shots to attack the weak points of the pigs’ hiding places.

Sure, it’s ridiculous... but the sound effects are hysterically funny, and the game has a catchy tune that plays when you complete each level.

Did I say it’s insanely addictive? Yes, I believe I did.

BARNACLES

2010-05-15T16:04:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I decided to book myself an appointment with my Skin Croaker. (That’s Damon Runyonese for the dermatologist.)

Guys my age tend to spend a lot of time with the Dermo. With us, it’s not so much the pocky zits of adolescence, or even the occasional Taint-Warhead, but the effects of five or six decades of cumulative solar radiation exposure. As much as we all love a nice suntan, the radiation that tans us is also slowly trying to kill us.

When I was a young Snot-Nose, we would visit the Grand-’Rents in south Florida every year... and every year, I would roast myself to a nut-brown turn. Down the road, I may end up paying a stiff price for those childhood suntans, because Mister Skin never forgets an insult.

I know too many people who have been carried off by melanoma... including a colleague in her mid-forties who managed to survive a brain aneurysm only to succumb to malignant melanoma two years later. And so, whenever I see something that looks like it may be problematic, I hie myself down to the skin-doc and have it checked out.

She Who Must Be Obeyed had noticed a spot on my chest several months ago, and we both had been keeping our eyes on it to see whether it was changing or growing in an inauspicious manner. But after a while I decided that I didn’t like the looks of it; it was time to have the Dermo weigh in.

It took only a moment for her to make the diagnosis. “It‘s a barnacle,” she said.

Say what?

“It’s a barnacle. A skin tag. A benign actinic keratosis. People of a certain age start accumulating these things - they’re like barnacles on a boat. When you get enough of ’em, we can zap ’em off, but since it costs the same to zap one as it does to zap a dozen, you might as well wait until you get a few more. And you will get a few more.”

Sweet. I’m growing Gawd-damned barnacles.

It’s no big deal, but SWMBO has already drawn her line in the sand. “If you start growing a bunch of those things, and they start getting big and hanging off your face,” she warned, “they are coming right the fuck off.”

Well, OK, then!

IN WHICH ELISSON WELCOMES YET ANOTHER SUCKER... ERRR, ONLINE JOURNALIST... TO THE BLOGOSPHERE

2010-05-14T18:35:00.004-04:00

What would possess a real writer - someone who actually made a successful, decades-long career out of journalism - to start a blog?

Well, considering the declining fortunes of print media, maybe it’s a case of “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” It may not be a valid explanation of the facts on the ground, but it works for me.

Regardless of his reasons, my friend Nor Grebnief has decided to take up blogging. His brand-spanking-new site is called This&That; I encourage you to pay him a visit.

Even if he does cop to ironing his underwear. Yeef!

WHOLE GRAIN

2010-05-13T21:58:00.000-04:00

Nutritionists will tell you that whole grains are an important part of a healthy diet.

Me, I’ve been a fan of the whole grain for years. Coarse rye bread? Westphalian pumpernickel - the kind that is as dense as white dwarf star matter, the slices of which must be pried apart with a knife due to their powerful gravitational attraction for one another? Yummy.

A slice of whole-grain Swedish rye bread. Mmmmmm. Grain.

When I get a Cereal Jones, I will, like as not, get out the Grape-Nuts. I discovered last year that Grape-Nuts are nothing more, nothing less than dried, ground-up knobbly bread crumbs, made from wheat and barley - yet that did not diminish their appeal. (As ridiculous a name as “Grape-Nuts” may be, it has a skosh more cachet than “Dry-Ass Bread Crumbs.”)

It occurred to me, however, that I was missing out on some grainy goodness by dumping milk on my Grape-Nuts. What if I were to up the Grain Quotient by soaking my Nuts in a grain-based product?

What if I were to have my Grape-Nuts with beer in lieu of milk?

Yes, indeedy: Beer-Nuts.

I resolved to try it forthwith. Grabbing a bottle of Newcastle, a fine brown ale, I poured a bowl of Euell Gibbon’s choicest nuggets into a bowl and proceeded to combine the two. As soon as the foam subsided, I dug in.

Grape Nuts? Check. Newcastle? Check. Spoon? Check. Church key? Check. All systems go!

Breakfast of Champions.

Surprisingly, the combination wasn’t bad at all. Instead of slightly sweet dairy flavors overlaid on a nutty grain substrate - the usual milk-and-cereal blend - the Beer-Nuts version was more assertive, the grain complementing the mild bitterness of the hops and kicking it into overdrive.

I will need to think of a way to exploit this. Beer-Nuts - the Brave New Breakfast!

A MYSTERY, SOLVED

2010-05-13T20:06:00.004-04:00

Two beds of pansies flank the front door of Chez Elisson, and this time of year those flowers are in full bloom. Or at least, they oughta be.

On one side, the plants are in full flower. On the other, nary a bloom is to be seen. It almost looks as though something was eating the plants... but there was no evidence of the usual insectoid culprits. It was a mystery.

No longer. This evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a rabbit crouched down on the front lawn. “Cute little bunny,” I thought.

Then I watched as the nefarious little trickster hopped over to the flower bed and started glomming on those pansies. “Sonofabitch!” I thought.

I stopped the car and called She Who Must Be Obeyed, who was still in the house. “Take a look out the front door. Now we know who’s been eating the flowers.

“Try to get a picture of the little shit, willya?”

And, whipping out her trusty iPhone, she did:

The lapine perpetrator - an Eastern cottontail.

So now you know what I’ll be doing in the evenings...

“Shhhh... be vewwy vewwy quiet... I’m hunting wabbits!”

A BIRTHDAY SHOUT-OUT TO MY FIRSTBORN

2010-05-11T09:55:00.003-04:00

A two-year-old Elder Daughter (then Only Daughter) checks out her shadow.

Today is Elder Daughter’s birthday.

Alas, I will not be with her to hoist an Adult Beverage with her and drink her health, or to snarf down a chunk of birthday cake. We can blame geography for that: I’m here in Atlanta, and she’s in Washington D.C., 650 miles away. But next week, the Mistress of Sarcasm and I will pay her a visit, and so I will get a chance to extend my greetings in person then.

She’s an amazing young woman, our Elder Daughter, able to juggle a busy professional life with a boatload of side projects and interests. She has lived overseas and traveled to parts of the planet I am never likely to see. She can dance up a storm and can sing with a Broadway-caliber voice. She is creative, intelligent, funny. And she is easy on the eye.

Elder Daughter, traveling companion: at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo.

If I sound like a proud and happy daddy, I am. Happy birthday, Elder Daughter!

AN UNWARRANTED ACCUSATION

2010-05-09T22:35:00.004-04:00

Every once in a while, one of my daughters will discover that something I say - an expression, comment, or observation I use frequently - is not entirely original.

An example: When someone compliments me for doing a good turn, I may occasionally respond, “Well, I am the Nice One.” One day, the girls realized that I hadn’t been the first to utter that statement - I had lifted it from the 1981 Terry Gilliam film Time Bandits, where it is spoken by Ralph Richardson as the Supreme Being.

When someone asks me how I am, I may respond, “I’m better than bad; I’m good.” Tautological, perhaps, but hardly original. Ren & Stimpy Show fans will recognize it from the fake ad for “Log.”

It’s Log
It’s Log
It’s big, it’s heavy, it’s wood
It’s Log
It’s Log
It’s better than bad, it’s good!

Today, after watching Time Bandits for perhaps the 576th time, the Mistress of Sarcasm asked me whether it was that movie that inspired me to wear colanders on my head. For it seems one of the Bandits - Fidgit, played by none other than Kenny Baker of R2-D2 fame - spends the entire film wearing a colander atop his pate.

Time Bandits, 1981. Kenny Baker (second from left) sports a colander throughout the movie.

My truthful answer, for once: No. Time Bandits never crossed my mind when I first wore a Perforated Metallic Chapeau. My muse was none other than that most estimable Velociman, who had written a post about (of all things!) a vintage colander. Bah, I remember thinking. What’s the point of simply writing about mundane kitchen devices... why not use them for comic effect? Thus was born the legendary Colander Borg-Man.

I don’t claim to be the first to slap a spaghetti strainer on my dome - hell, there’s a whole bunch of idiots on Flickr who have evidently been doing it for years - but I certainly did not steal the idea from Time Bandits. (If I had, I might’ve done it sooner.)

It’s nice to know, though, that I follow in the footsteps of a Cinematic Giant (so to speak).

DIA DE LAS MADRES

2010-05-09T16:46:00.007-04:00

Or in plain English, Mother’s Day.

This is the day set aside by the Greeting Card Consortium, the Amalgamated Florist Combine and Trust, and the Restaurant Industry for honoring our maternal parents. And it is fitting and proper that we do so, for all of us who walk the planet had a mother.

My mother has been gone for twenty-two years now - I always think of her on Mother’s Day - but there are other mothers in my life.

There is Ceil, the Mom-in-Law d’Elisson, who did me the estimable service of having a daughter who would eventually become the mother of my own children. I can never thank her enough.

There is Toni, who never got to be a mom to me while I was growing up, but who momma’ed four wonderful children of her own to adulthood before meeting and marrying my daddy, Eli hizzownself.

And, of course, there is She Who Must Be Obeyed, my true love and helpmeet these past three decades and change, the mother of my two wonderful daughters. Raising our family together has been the adventure of a lifetime, filled with challenges, happiness, tears, and occasional heart-clenching fears... and it has been my great good luck to have done it all with her.

SWMBO and the Mistress of Sarcasm enjoy Mother’s Day together. If only Elder Daughter could’ve been here...

To these wonderful ladies... and all our motherly friends near and far... Happy Mother’s Day!

SOCIAL NETWORKING: A 100-WORD STORY

2010-05-09T14:14:00.001-04:00

Brian was one of those people who sit at stoplights picking their noses, not caring whether they have an audience. And right now he was in full-on Booger-Hunt Mode, index finger crammed into his right nostril to the second knuckle.

Success! He carefully extracted the glistening prize, pausing a moment to examine it.

Now, a decision. Roll it between his fingertips, forming a flickable pellet, or wipe it on the floormat?

Neither. He carefully applied it to the window. Within moments, his friends all knew of his achievement, thanks to the newest, most revolting social networking site of all...

Paste-Boog.

CARVING HIS PLACE IN HISTORY

2010-05-08T16:03:00.008-04:00

As I was preparing dinner Friday afternoon, I thought of George Washington Carver.

Carver, you may recall, was a brilliant scientist with humble beginnings. Born into slavery in Missouri in 1864, he obtained a college education despite the prodigious roadblocks African-Americans faced in the Reconstruction era South. Carver found his intellectual home when, in the closing years of the nineteenth century, he received an invitation to join the faculty of Tuskeegee Normal and Industrial Institute from its founder, Booker T. Washington. Signing on as head of the Agriculture Department, he would remain at Tuskeegee for for the rest of his life, an achievement-packed career lasting 47 years.

An accomplished agronomist, Carver created over 200 recipes using peanuts. While some 105 of these were for various foodstuffs, the rest were for non-food applications such as cosmetics, coatings, plastics, fuels, and even explosives. Yes, if you wanted to make a bomb from commonly available agricultural materials, George Washington Carver could show you how to make nitroglycerin out of peanuts.

But it was when Carver turned his attention to the sweet potato that he really came into his own.

Ipomoea batatas - the humble sweet potato - grew profusely in the South, but for years had been considered a weed, its warty orange-fleshed tubers a “clownish lampoon of a proper potato,” according to Mark Twain. Carver, however, saw a cornucopia of commercial possibilities in the garish vegetable. In his nearly five decades at Tuskeegee, he developed 117,432 different products - dyestuffs, explosives, fertilizers, medications, preservatives, construction materials, hair replacements, medical prosthetics, and many, many more - all from the sweet potato. The ocarina, a musical instrument that vaguely resembles a sweet potato (and which is in fact commonly referred to as such) experienced a nationwide surge in popularity thanks to Carver’s having played it in the Tuskeegee All-Star Jug Band. In 1940, shortly after Einstein sent his famous letter to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Carver was the first to see the potential of the sweet potato as a source of inexpensive, clean atomic power; years later, the Navy would name its first sweet potato-powered submarine the “George Washington” in his honor. Today, a life-size statue of George Washington Carver, sculpted entirely from a single, enormous mutated sweet potato, stands at the front gate of the former Tuskeegee Normal and Industrial Institute - now Tuskeegee University.

And yet nobody was more surprised than Carver to discover that, in addition to all of these life-enhancing uses, the sweet potato was actually edible.

* * *
Yes, indeed: The sweet potato is eminently edible. And you don’t need a lot of sugar and marshmallows with which to festoon it, Thanksgiving dishes aside. Simply scrub your sweet potatoes well, rub down the exteriors with kosher salt, and bake in a 350-400°F oven until tender. A dab of butter is all you need. Or try a squeeze of lime and a scattering of chopped cilantro if you want to be exotic.

I thought of George Washington Carver - amazingly enough, the man never actually ate a sweet potato - as I was preparing a side dish, a purée of sweet potatoes and roasted garlic.

Yes, you heard that right. Sweet potatoes and roasted garlic. It’s a recipe I adapted from Chez Panisse Vegetables, a 1996 book by Alice Waters, one of the pioneers of the local/organic food movement. I’ve long had a deep respect for Chez Panisse, where She Who Must Be Obeyed and I had a memorable dinner one spring evening back in 1984. [The restaurant’s name is not, by the way, pronounced “Cheese Penis,” but, rather, should be pronounced to rhyme with “clay valise.” Don’t ask me how I found this out.]

The recipe calls for two pounds each of sweet potatoes and russet (baking) potatoes; a head of garlic, 1-2 cups of hot milk, and extra-virgin olive oil. (Having no russet potatoes on hand, I simply used sweet potatoes.) You take the head of garlic and slice the top off, drizzle it with olive oil, and wrap it in aluminum foil, then roast at 425°F for 30 minutes or so until nice and soft. The roasted cloves, aromatic and mellow, will pop right out with a little gentle pressure; reserve these. Peel and quarter the potatoes, sprinkle with a teaspoon of kosher salt, then steam them for 20 minutes or until tender. Run them (along with the reserved garlic cloves) through a food mill or ricer, then add 1-2 cups of hot milk to moisten them up. Add a splash of extra-virgin olive oil, a little freshly-ground black pepper, and you’re good to go.

This is one of those dishes that combines ingredients that you don’t expect to work well together to reveal multilayered, complex flavors. I was astonished at how good it was. Try it, and be astonished too! Ol’ George would be proud.

LAPSE DANCE

2010-05-08T15:20:00.003-04:00

Ever since I saw The Time Machine - the 1960 George Pal version with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux - and became hopelessly fascinated with time travel, I have loved the magic of time-lapse movies.

In a time-lapse film, hours and days flash by in seconds. Traffic becomes a pulsating river of light, and clouds puff into and out of existence. Time travel may be a physical impossibility, but thanks to the magic of the camera we can pretend that it is real.

Follow this link to Tim Tyson’s site and check out this stunning high definition time-lapse of the view overlooking the Chao Phraya river. That river, the lifeline of Bangkok, looks like nothing so much as a busy street in this speeded-up view, the boats doing their complicated, syncopated dance as the hours zoom by.

BUFFALOED

2010-05-07T14:43:00.005-04:00

A few days ago, the Missus and I were in Harry’s Farmers Market picking up a few odds and ends. Now that it’s owned by Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods, Harry’s is a bit pricier than it was back when it really was a farmer’s market... but you still can’t beat their selection of produce. And that’s mainly what we had gone there for. That, and a bottle of sherry wine vinegar - a key ingredient of my homemade vinaigrette.

Of course, it’s almost impossible for me to stick to a fixed purchasing agenda at Harry’s. There are way too many interesting goodies to distract and entice me. Indian food? Check. German food? Check. South African goodies? Check. English candy bars? Check.

Somehow, this time, I avoided all of those temptations... only to fall under the spell of the Meat Department, where I espied a beautiful chunk of bison chuck.

Bison is purported to be much better for you than beef. Way less fat. And in my previous encounters with it, I have found it to be quite flavorsome. Just a few days ago I had made myself some bison burgers. Cooked medium rare (more on the rare side), they were nice and beefy, yet not dry despite their low fat content.

I purchased that chunk of Bison-Flesh. After all, how often does one get a chance to eat one’s high-school mascot? We made our exit, managing to get out of the store without bumping into the Food Network crew (Alton Brown, a local resident, often films segments of “Good Eats” at this Harry’s location) and took our Food-Swag home.

As far as what to do with that gorgeous chunk of meat, I had formulated my plans the moment I had laid eyes on it. It would make a fine Hungarian goulash. Sure - bison goulash! Why not?

I’ve found that, with braised or stewed dishes like Hungarian goulash, carbonnade flamande, coq au vin, beef brisket (Eastern European style), etc., their flavor improves markedly if you cook ’em a day or two in advance. You also get a chance to skim off the excess fat that rises to the surface and then congeals in the fridge.

Normally, when I make my goulash with beef chuck, I can scrape off a goodly amount of thick, orangey beef grease. (The orange color comes from the humongous amount of paprika in the dish.) But today when I brought that bison goulash-laden pan from out of cold storage, I was surprised to find that there was no fat on the surface at all!

This is huge. The flavor of beef with a whole lot less saturated fat. That’s gotta be a good thing, right? (Plus there’s that mascot business.)

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-05-07T11:05:00.003-04:00

Holy crap! Is it Friday already?

Why, yes. Yes, it is. And that means the weekend is almost here... so close I can practically taste it, along with the Bison Hungarian Goulash I have prepared for this evening’s repast. It also means that it’s time for yet another Friday Random Ten, the weekly Morass o’ Music as puked up by the Little White Choon Box. Oh, boy!

So - what’s on today? Lessee:

All Along the Watchtower - Dave Matthews Band

This Bob Dylan song has been covered by a small army of other notable bands, including the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Dave Mason. What does it mean? Damned if I know... but it is awfully catchy.

“There must be some way out of here,” said the joker to the thief
“There’s too much confusion, I can’t get no relief
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth”

“No reason to get excited,” the thief, he kindly spoke
“There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late”

All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl
Three Is A Green Crown - The Incredible String Band
Incognito - The Judybats
Look at the Sky - Original Cast, Urinetown - The Musical
She Came In Through The Bathroom Window - The Beatles
Morning Bell - Radiohead
Right Off - Miles Davis
Gimme Some Loving - Spencer Davis Group

When I was a freshman in high school, I would listen to the radio (AM, of course) as I washed up in the morning - and I have very clear memories of listening to this 1967-vintage song.
I Lost All My Money At The Cock Fights - Minus The Bear
Careless Love - Madeleine Peyroux

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

ON HAKUNA

2010-05-06T18:24:00.001-04:00

All curled up in her little bed
She sleeps.
Whene’er she sees the Laser Dot
She leaps.
At night, in mousie-hunting stealth
She creeps.

Hakuna curls up for a nap... not in her little bed this time, but on the ottoman in the den.

Hakuna lives the life of Reilly these days. (If Reilly were a cat, that is.)

Long, languorous naps in the daytime... a few frenetic sessions of Laser Dot chasing... and nocturnal hunting expeditions that leave her collection of Fake Mousies scattered throughout the house. For a kitty, it doesn’t get much better than this.

Friday Ark #294 is afloat at the Modulator - and this Sunday, Carnival of the Cats #321 will be hosted by Nikita at Meowsings of an Opinionated Pussycat. Be sure to stop by and visit... and tell ’em Elisson sent ya!

Update: CotC #321 is up... but at Life from a Cat’s Perspective, where Samantha, Clementine, and Maverick have done a fine job of pinch-hitting after medical issues sidelined Nikita’s human companion.

CUNEIFORM

2010-05-05T17:28:00.007-04:00

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* * *

With technology like Amazon’s Kindle, smartphones, and Apple’s unfortunately-named iPad, one could very well wonder what the future holds for printed books.

There is, as there always is, a tradeoff. Reading a book with the latest portable Ars Electronica means forgoing some of the sensory pleasures of page and print: the tactile qualities of the paper, the subtle smell of the binding, the feeling of holding an object that has both physical and intellectual substance. These are important qualities, especially in certain books that celebrate the publisher’s and designer’s arts. McSweeney’s offerings come to mind, as do the leather-bound tomes sold by the Easton Press... and, in the Olden Days, the products of the beloved Heritage Press.

But then there’s the portability factor. One hand-held device can hold an entire library’s worth of books, which certainly is convenient if you want to polish off a shelf-load of stupid-ass Danielle Steele novels during your beach vacation. To an old gink like me, a Kindle will never have the home-enriching beauty of a shelf full of books, but at least you can carry a pile of cheesy novels around with you without giving yourself a hernia... and without people seeing that instead of reading War and Peace you’re working your way through the latest Kitty Kelley hatchet job.

I do not own a Kindle, nor do I have any plans to purchase one. If ever I should invest in an iPad, it will be driven by other applications besides electronic readers. But since I do have an iPhone, I gave the Kindle app a whirl, purchasing Lincoln’s Dreams, Connie Willis’s 1987 novel about a woman who has horrifyingly detailed dreams about the Civil War, seemingly via a direct channel into Robert E. Lee’s mind.

The novel itself was good enough, although not on a par with Doomsday Book (1992), Willis’s Hugo and Nebula Award-winning magnum opus. Reading it on my iPhone was no problem; the type was comfortably large, even if (given the small screen size) each page took only a few seconds to read.

It was not too deep into the book, however, that I began to notice a huge number of apparent typos... the kind of typos that result from scanning printed pages and converting them to a text file with an OCR program. However good your OCR software may be, there will always be errors - and this Electro-Book was packed with ’em. It made for a certain low level of background annoyance (never a good thing while reading) resulting from having to stop and decipher a nonsense word every couple of pages.

I will therefore not be in a hurry to download more books to my iPhone.

Sure, it was cheaper than a print edition. Plenty faster delivery, too. And I’ve heard all the clichés: caveat emptor, you get what you pay for, et cetera. But if this Electronickal Literature business is ever to get off the ground, publishers will need to have a little respect for their readers. Proofread and correct your fucking publications, will ya?!?

Meanwhile, a question: How long will it be, d’you suppose, before printed books are as obsolete as Egyptian papryrus... or a clay tablet inscribed with cuneiform symbols?

DRINKO DE MAYO

2010-05-05T10:20:00.005-04:00

Today is the fifth of May, AKA Cinco de Mayo - a holiday that celebrates Mexico’s 1862 victory over the French in the Battle of Puebla.

It’s not much, as holidays go. Most Mexicans ignore it, with the exception of those living in the state of Puebla. In that respect it’s a little like the Mexican equivalent of Shavuos.

Surprisingly, however, Cinco de Mayo is a big deal in the United States, having been observed in California since the mid-1860’s. Presumably, Californians were happy to see Mexico kick France in the ass back then, but now the day has become one of those Celebrations of Ethnicity that Americans love so much. We have Saint Patrick’s Day for the Irish, Columbus Day for the Italians, Oktoberfest for the Germans (a whole month in order to provide sufficient calendrical lebensraum), and Chinese New Year for the Chinese (who simply refer to it as “New Year”) - so why not a day for our friends south of the border?

Besides, we Americans love our food and drink - so what better than a holiday the observance of which consists of drinking yourself silly on Margaritas and then stuffing your face with good, healthy Mexican food?

Me, I’m not much of a Margarita drinker. I prefer my tequila reposado or añejo neat, or with a shot of sangrita, that quintessential Mexico City chaser... but if ever I do visit Margaritaville, I like mine straight up, Martini-style. The ice-headache-inducing frozen goop that passes for a Margarita in most places? You can keep it.

Better yet, pass me the single malt Scotch. Salud!

ON RECYCLING

2010-05-04T12:18:00.003-04:00

In this modern era of Environmental Consciousness, recycling is all the vogue. As it should be: Anything that can mitigate the effects of our wasteful American love of everything disposable is a Good Thing.

It’s not a new concept by any means. When I was a young Snot-Nose, soft drinks were sold in heavy glass bottles. You would bring back the empties when it came time to reload tour Soda-Pantry, and you would receive a deposit... something on the order of two cents a bottle. That was real money to a kid in those days when a bottle of Coke cost a thin dime. The bottles would be shipped back to the bottling company, where they would be cleaned and reused. There was a lot of transportation involved, but it made sense when fuel was three gallons for a dollar.

Stores like Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods make a big deal about their commitment to the environment. They sell reusable grocery bags, which patrons are encouraged to use in lieu of disposable plastic bags. And despite the fact that I spent years in the pay of the Great Corporate Salt Mine selling hundreds of millions of pounds of plastic to those selfsame folks who make those disposable bags, I’m all for the reusable bag. They’re sturdy, and they hold a metric shitload of groceries. If I could only remember to bring the Gawdforsaken things into the store with me.

Speaking of Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods, they’re building one just up the road from us, in a perfect spot to duke it out for the Upscale Foodie Dollar with Fresh Market and Trader Joe. It’s at a shopping center yclept Merchant’s Walk, an open-air mall sort of affair that was built in the late 1970’s and that was heavily renovated sometime back in the 1990’s. I guess commercial space of this type has a useful lifecycle of some 20-25 years, after which it needs to be torn down and built anew... which is exactly what Whole Foods is doing. Recycling on a grand scale, you could call it.

Great swaths of the former Merchant’s Walk have been leveled, razed to the ground, in order to accommodate the new Whole Foods and its peripherals. Where once was a (defunct) Media Play store and a branch of the county library now stands flat land festooned with mountains of Asphalt-Chunks, bricks, concrete, and other detritus. A Wachovia Bank branch was torn up and carted away... but not before another one was built 200 feet south of it.

Say what?

Yes: They built a new bank right next door to the old one, which they then tore down. Suddenly that doesn’t sound so “recycly” any more, does it?

It seems one of the provisions Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods insisted on when they agreed to fund this massive piece of reconstruction was that their store be visible from the street... and the old bank, situated on a slight rise, was blocking the view. The solution? Remove the bank and the hill it sat on.

According to the Whole Foods website, one of their corporate Core Values is “caring about our communities and our environment... We respect our environment and recycle, reuse, and reduce our waste wherever and whenever we can.” Perhaps... but am I the only one who mourns the loss of that little hill upon which the bank once sat?

They may sell pricey organic free-range broccoli and locally raised quail. They may sell delicate baby arugula that is picked as lovingly and as thoroughly as your pocket is picked at the checkout stand... but they’re Big Organic, and at the end of the day, their environmentalism rings just a tad hollow. Or am I just being cranky?

A DISASTER IN THE HEADLINES

2010-05-03T15:04:00.004-04:00

One of the first things they teach you in Newspaper School is how to write headlines. It’s a tricky business.

You have to convey a lot of information in a short space, and you have to make sure the headline looks good on the page. Two-line headlines have to be written so that there is a natural conceptual break between the lines; the lines must also be the right length to fit the column. Awkwardness is a constant danger.

Headlines should use the active voice. In addition, they have a few stylistic quirks that differentiate them from body text. One example: Quotes are enclosed in single, rather than double, quotation marks.

Avoid “headlinese”... unless you write for Variety, where headlines like “Mick, Nick nix pix” are part of the house style. Resist the urge to get cute or to editorialize. And watch out for double entendres. A headline like “Textron Inc. Makes Offer To Screw Co. Stockholders” (a real example) is not going to please the folks at Textron - or at the screw company.

It’s a lot of rules to remember, so it isn’t too surprising when someone messes up: an epic fail by the Woonsocket (Rhode Island) Call, indeed.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson ~~fedora~~ colander to Ole Phat Stu for the link.]

BEAT THE CLOCK

2010-05-02T20:56:00.005-04:00

We Americans love our Silly Shit. If you doubt that, just turn on the TeeVee any Sunday evening, when you can see the spiky-haired Guy Fieri hosting the latest silly-ass game show, “Minute to Win It.”

The show is simplicity itself. A contestant is given an increasingly difficult series of stunts to perform, with sixty seconds to perform each one successfully. Get the job done and you win prize money; screw up enough times and you go home unhappy. The stunts are fairly uncomplicated tasks, usually involving some sort of physical dexterity or coordination; props are basic items like playing cards, plastic cups, and ping-pong balls. The Philip Glass-like music that plays while the robotic-voiced female announcer explains each task is a surprisingly high-toned bonus.

Of course, all of this has been done before... and on a much lower budget. I’m referring to the vintage TV game show “Beat the Clock,” in which contestants were given sixty seconds to perform various stunts with props that usually consisted of simple household items. “Beat the Clock” was a television fixture in its original run from 1950 to 1961, a time when contestants would actually get foam-at-the-mouth excited about the prospect of winning a C-note. But in American popular culture, everything old shall be new again... and so we have “Minute to Win It.” It’s the closest thing we have to an authentic Japanese game show (except for “I Survived A Japanese Game Show,” which is really a meta-gameshow). To make MTWI more authentic, all the producers need to do is add a liberal dose of Contestant Humiliation. They’d really have something then.

I have no idea whether the show is any kind of success. Given the continuing devolution of the National Taste, however, I suspect the producers are printing money by the ream.

Personally, I’d prefer to watch Guy Fieri in his native Food Network environment, pounding down monster portions of Diner Food and popping his patented Shit Eatin’ Grin at the camera. But that’s just me.

PARE THE PROBOSCIS, PEEVE THE PHYSIOGNOMY

2010-04-30T17:53:00.003-04:00

Paring the proboscis to peeve the physiognomy - cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face - is rarely a good idea. But that’s exactly what is happening as declines in state and local tax revenues force spending cuts.

There are certain state services that really need to be supported in order to maintain a functioning, habitable society. You can’t do without police and fire protection. And, although the effects of cutbacks are less immediate, you can’t do without education.

Teachers have a hard enough go of it even in good times. Salaries are well below those available in private industry, and under the current No Child Left Behind philosophy of ensuring that, by 2014, every child in the United States is above average - Lake Wobegon writ large - a teacher’s career, more than ever, depends on factors beyond his or her control. If you work in an economically disadvantaged school, or if you teach a class with a large cohort of students on the low end of the bell-shaped Intelligence Distribution Curve, you are well and truly fucked.

But now, with state money thin on the ground, teachers are getting hammered. I’m talking about involuntary furloughs, RIF’s (Reductions in Force, a corporate-sounding euphemism for “firing a shitload of people”), and elimination of whole programs. The net effect: Fewer teachers, fewer programs, and less pay... without any change in the huge Unfunded Mandates like NCLB that must be accommodated.

Cutting education spending may be an unfortunate and dire necessity, a cascade effect of declining tax rolls, a nation- and worldwide economic meltdown, and record unemployment. But it’s an action of desperation akin to eating your seed corn, the full effects of which will - make no mistake about it - be severe and long-lasting. [And it’s not as though Georgia has that far to go before its quality of education is ranked dead last.]

Good schools attract employers and help create a productive, competitive workforce. Conversely, bad schools drive away prospective residents, employers, and jobs. Maybe our honorable governor should rethink his priorities so that Georgia remains an attractive and economically sound place to live and raise a family.

FUZZY FRIDAY

2010-04-30T16:27:00.004-04:00

Friday Ark #293 is afloat over at the Modulator.

One of these days, I’m gonna figure out just what, exactly, this guy modulates over there.

For more cat-related foolishness, head on over to iMeowza this Sunday evening, where the 320th edition of Carnival of the Cats will be hosted by (of course) Meowza. (I suspect Mog will be involved as well.)

Update: CotC #320 is up.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-04-30T08:48:00.004-04:00

Viernes. Freitag. Yom ha-Shishi. Vendredi. Venerdi. Vrijdag. Perjantai. Jumat. Xīngqí wǔ. Kin yōbi.

Any way you say it, it’s Friday... and time for the Friday Random Ten, the weekly Mess o’ Musicality as coughed up by the iPod d’Elisson. Let’s see what’s playing today:

Act I, Scene 1: The People Are The Heroes Now - John Adams, Nixon in China
Lumeen nukkuneet - Alamaailman Vasarat
The Hussein Skank - Skankin’ Pickle
Señorita - Chick Corea and Béla Fleck
Absolutely Free - Big Swifty & Associates

Being an instrumental cover of the Frank Zappa tune.
Lonely At The Top - Randy Newman

I’ve been around the world
Had my pick of any girl
You’d think I'd be happy, but I’m not
Ev’rybody knows my name
But it’s just a crazy game
Oh, it’s lonely at the top

Listen to the band, they’re playing just for me
Listen to the people paying just for me

All the applause - all the parades
And all the money I have made
Oh, it’s lonely at the top

Listen all you fools out there
Go on and love me - I don’t care
Oh, it’s lonely at the top
Oh, it’s lonely at the top
Bogus Pomp - Frank Zappa
Euphonius Whale - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks
Scar Tissue - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Killer Inside Me - MC 900 Foot Jesus

You’ve probably seen me hanging around
I’m a very familiar face in this town.
A day doesn’t go by that I don’t meet
A lot of my friends walking down the street.
I’m never too busy to stop by the way
And I’ve always got something pleasant to say.
Maybe some perceptive thoughts about the weather
Or the latest news from Wall Street, whatever.
I could stand around all day making small talk
Gushing platitudes, blocking the sidewalk
Tying people up for hours with ease,
My one big talent is shooting the breeze.
When they start to squirm, I really get going
But only my happy-face smile is showing.
Why can’t they see what I’m trying to hide,
I’m bustin’ a gut, laughing on the inside.
It’s in their smile when I say hello
I can see they think I’m a little bit slow.
But after a while with me, they look dazed
Their eyes covered with a donut glaze.
I really start to cook when I see that look
I hit ’em with every cliché in the book.
Their knees wobble and they start to weave
It’s like they’re begging for permission to leave,
They think they are having a brush with stupidity
I don’t laugh, even though it’s killing me.
Watching them wilt like day-old flowers
Ticking off the minutes as they turn to hours.
They are wondering how much more they can take
I give ’em a friendly smile and a handshake.
We say goodbye very politely
Now say hello to the killer inside me

Now say hello to the killer inside me.
Everybody has their doubts about my sanity
But nothing happens ’cause they all feel sorry for me
I’ve got the whole town under my thumb
and all I’ve gotta do is keep acting dumb.
“Oh that boy Lou,” they say, “what a guy,
A little on the slow side but wouldn’t hurt a fly”
“And such a gentleman!” “Oh yes, I know.
He sure can talk your ear off though!”
I tip my hat and pretend I don’t hear
Grinning like a half-wit from ear to ear
I can think of a thousand ways to say hello
So I start through ’em all, and go real slow.
They listen hard, and act like they care.
How can they be so completely unaware
Of the truth the answer is always denied me
So I introduce them to the killer inside me.

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

TODAY’S PITH AND VINEGAR

2010-04-29T22:00:00.002-04:00

My mother-in-law survived Auschwitz, and I am trying to survive my mother-in-law.

[From The Collected Wit and Wisdom of Irwin W.]

CAT OF GOOD FORTUNE: A 100-WORD STORY

2010-04-29T13:08:00.004-04:00

[Another Guest Post - this one a 100-word birthday tribute to Hakuna by long-time admirer Rahel.]

Somewhere in eastern North America is a cat the color of mocha, chocolate, and café-au-lait. The legend goes that those who stroke her fur and hear her purr shall have good fortune.

But – it is said – this cat does not let just anyone approach. Only a lucky few may come close, extend a hand for sniffing, and then, in fear and trembling, offer her the tribute of a skritch.

The line extends eastward, over an ocean and beyond a sea, to a woman at the edge of a desert.

She gazes at the screen, into the blue eyes...

and waits.

[Happy birthday, Hakuna!]

FIFTEEN

2010-04-28T09:00:00.004-04:00

This is your Birthday Song!
(It isn’t very long.)

Today is Hakuna’s fifteenth birthday!

She’s a Senior Citizen in Kitty-Years, but she still scampers around like a kitten when I trot out the Red Dot Machine.

I would give her special treats, but Hakuna disdains special food of any kind. And so she will needs be content with some extra ear-scratches.

THE OATH: A 100-WORD SPECULATIVE TALE

2010-04-27T18:56:00.002-04:00

[The following is a 100-word Guest Post by Houston Steve - and his first-ever 100-word story.]

In 2021 I was a 14 year old immigrant; carried my green card everywhere. No telling when a policeman would reasonably suspect I was illegal.

I envied the Americans. When we entered a building, they weren’t questioned, but someone would always demand to see my “papers.” I looked like them; talked like them. Texans sounded more out of place here in Massachusetts.

In 2026 I took the oath. Afterwards a syringe was inserted behind my right ear. It was injected.

Those doorpost flags were readers, not American mezuzahs. Now I was like my friends, and I had my American citizenchip.

APRIL GUILD EVENT

2010-04-27T06:00:00.003-04:00

Alas, I will not be attending the April Guild event, AKA the Big Fat Greek Wine Tasting at Kyma this evening. Not that I don’t enjoy Greek food and wine - I most certainly do. A gyros sandwich makes my head spin, I love a nice slab of lamb, and I even will drink retsina, the often-despised turpentine-flavored Greek vino that derives its peculiar pong from the addition of pine resin.

Denny will have to handle this one on his own. Perhaps Houston Steve will be there to exchange politically charged bons mots with him as they get their collective Greek Freak on.

What’s on the menu? Let’s take a look:

Speaker’s Wine:
Domaine Spiropoulos Brut Moschofilero “Ode Panos” NV

First Flight:
Domaine Spiropoulos Mantinia Moschofilero 2008
Dalamara Malagousia 2007
Domaine Sigalas Santrini Assyrtiko 2008

Grilled octopus with pickled red onion salad, red wine vinaigrette. Seared tuna herb crusted ahi tuna, quinoa salad, preserved lemons, pine nuts, tomato, mint

Second Flight:
Popova Kula Tikves Vranec 2005
Boutari Naoussa Xinomavro 2007
Gaia Nemea Agiorghitiko “Notios” 2008

“Tiropitakia”: cheese pie with blend of four Greek cheeses, baked in country phyllo. Three-boned pork rib, coriander yogurt

Third Flight:
Pape Johanea Nemea Agiorghitko (Old Vine) 1999
Paivou Nemea Agiorghitiko (Reserve) Vintage TBD
Domaine Skouras Nemea Agiorghitiko “Grande Cuvee” 2006

Single cut marinated lamb chop. Braised Acadian redfish, onions, carrots, celery, potato, garlic, tomato “plaki”

Dessert:
Achaia Clauss Patras Mavrodaphne NV

Baklava “boureki” (rolled baklava), candied pistachios

It will all be delectable, I’m sure. Opa!

ZELIG

2010-04-26T16:11:00.005-04:00

Zelig, you may recall, is the title of a 1983 Woody Allen film about one Leonard Zelig, a “human chameleon” who had no identity of his own, but who would take on the characteristics of the people around him.

I’m a little like that. Not quite the same as the Zelig of the eponymous movie, my talent is a sort of Zelig-like ability to be mistaken for a member of whatever ethnic group I find myself among.

If I’m in a crowd of Italians, everyone assumes I’m Italian.

When I am amongst Greeks, everyone thinks I’m Greek.

With Turks, I am Turkish. Russians, Russian. Albanians, Albanian. I can pass... until I open my mouth, of course.

There are exceptions. Nobody ever thinks I am Scottish, Irish, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, or Asian. (Well, actually, someone once thought I was Asian. But that person was either drunk or terminally stupid.)

Perhaps the strangest instance of my Zelig-osity took place at a party She Who Must Be Obeyed and I attended in Houston some fifteen years ago. Our neighbor across the street was the Indian consul, and one evening he and his wife decided to do some Major Entertaining. The guest list included representatives from pretty much every diplomatic mission in Houston, a gaggle of consular officials from every continent - plus a handful of The Locals sprinkled in. We, along with a few of our other neighbors, served as The Locals.

As I wandered through the house with SWMBO, drink and tandoori chicken drumstick in hand, Zelig moments started taking place at regular intervals. People were genuinely surprised to find out that I was a “mere” neighbor rather than an ambassador from some exotic foreign locale. (Ireland excepted.) Things got even stranger, however...

There was a small group of bearded men wearing white robes and headcoverings sitting together in one corner of one room. When they saw me, the immediately motioned me over and introduced themselves as the Iranian consular mission. Possibly owing to the beard I wore at the time, they were absolutely convinced that I was Iranian. When I politely explained that, no, I was not, at first they didn’t believe me.

“You must be Iranian.”

“No, no - really, I’m not. Trust me on this one.”

And when they finally gave up and invited me to visit their country one day, I said I would be honored to do so.

Under my breath, I added, “Ven di Moshiach kimmt (when the Messiah comes).”

THE LIST

2010-04-26T09:12:00.003-04:00

On Mondays and Thursdays, our morning Minyan services include a Torah reading. The scroll is removed from the Ark, paraded around the chapel, laid down upon the shulchan - the reading table - and the ba’al korei (reader) chants three brief sections from the week’s portion.

Reading a slice of Sefer Vayikra (the Book of Leviticus). From left to right: Elisson, gabbai aleph; Barney C., the honoree; Judith S., the reader; Eraj, gabbai bet.

Two gabbaim stand on either side of the shulchan. Their job is to call up those who will recite the Torah blessings before and after each reading; to call up those who will lift and roll the scroll after the readings are completed; to recite the Mi-Shebeirakh prayer for the sick; and to correct any errors that the reader may make. (Because the Torah scroll contains no vowels or musical notes - only consonants - even the most well-prepared reader will make an occasional mistake.)

I serve as one of the gabbaim - except on those infrequent days when I am actually doing the reading. And because I recite the prayer for the sick, I know who is on The List - the list of those who are in need of healing.

This morning, Eraj, a fellow Minyan regular, returned to our morning Minyan after a one-week absence to sit shiva for his mother, who passed away a week ago Friday. And he returned to his usual spot, standing on the opposite side of the shulchan from me.

When it came time to recite the Mi-Shebeirakh, I knew that there was one name I would have to omit from The List. And I shed a silent tear for Eraj’s mother Goha. I had never met her, but I had included her name in my Mi-Shebeirakh prayers for as long as I can remember. But, alas, no longer.

There are only two ways to get off The List once you’re on it. You either get well... or you don’t.

I added another name to The List today - the mother of a dear friend, who had had a close call a few days ago. I’m hoping she’s not on The List very long... and that she gets off for the right reason.

HAVEIL HAVALIM #264

2010-04-25T08:20:00.013-04:00

Welcome to Edition Number 264 of Haveil Havalim, AKA Vanity of Vanities, the Jewish Blog-Carnival. Here’s the quick ’n’ dirty Explanation and Mission Statement:

Founded by Soccer Dad, Haveil Havalim is a carnival of Jewish blogs - a weekly collection of Jewish and Israeli blog highlights, tidbits, and points of interest collected from blogs all around the world. It’s hosted by different bloggers each week and coordinated by Jack B. Nimble. The term “Haveil Havalim,” which means “Vanity of Vanities,” is from Megillat Kohelet (the Book of Ecclesiastes), written by King Solomon. King Solomon built the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and later on got all bogged down in materialism and other excesses and realized that it was all nothing but havel - vanity.

Before we get underway, let me extend a hearty barukhim habaim - welcome! And in case you’re new to Blog d’Elisson, feel free to wander off and peruse the archives here once you’re through checking out this week’s Carnival posts. I write a “kitchen sink” blog (as in “everything but the...”), but there are numerous posts on Jewish topics amongst all the other narrischkeit.

And now, let the linkage begin...

Culture

If the notoriously-offensive-to-pretty-much-everyone South Park were to show Moshe Rabbeinu dressed in a bear suit (Moshe Doveinu?), would we Jews get all bent out of shape about it? At SimplyJews, SnoopyTheGoon writes about the response from another Abrahamic religion when faced with a similar situation.

Dan Illouz wants you to know that when you visit his site, you can do more than simply read the posts - you can engage in an online chat on topics relating to Judaism and Israel. So, nu - what are you waiting for? Chat, already!

If you could simply take a pill and instantly have your head filled with, say, a college education, would you do it? Mordechai Torczyner, AKA The Rebbetzin’s Husband discusses the difference between learning and knowledge in this thought-provoking post. The money quote: “The Torah’s mitzvah is to learn, not to know. The search really is what matters.” Amein v’ amein.

Dovid ben Letterman never did a “Top Ten Oldest Books Known to Man,” but now he doesn’t need to. According to Isabella Smith at Online Degree, “the literature currently considered the oldest in the world may shift in line with newer, more exciting technologies. These ancient texts will always remain amongst the oldest known to humanity.”

As an October/Tishrei kid, I would have been devastated to find out that, had I been in gan in my Snot-Nose Days, my birthday party would have been postponed. At least, that’s what I learned from Mrs. S. (Our Shiputzim: A Work In Progress) in her post about Postponed Parties.

History

Chaviva (who encourages us to “Just Call Me Chaviva”) recounts the story of her recent visit to the U.S. Holocaust Museum. [I’ve visited the Museum several times myself – I can keep my emotions in check only until I see the piles of victims’ shoes, and, inevitably, I lose it completely.]

Daled Amos, writing at Israeli Settlements, points out a fact that is all too often overlooked by the folks who moan about the plight of the “Palestinians”: that before Jewish economic development attracted large numbers of Arabs to Palestine, it was a virtually empty land. Important reading!

Humor

Ever wonder what Elisson is thinking as he davens Tachanun? Now you know.

In these enlightened days, although women daven at the Kotel and are ordained as rabbis, we draw the line at the Kiddush Club. The inimitable Heshy Fried discusses the weighty issue of women who wish to take on the responsibility of additional mitzvos at Frum Satire.

Benji Lovitt (What War Zone???) guest-blogs at JPost.com and gives us this year’s list of 62 more things I love about Israel, a perfect way to celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut.

SnoopyTheGoon throws us a zoological treatise on the rare Gazan yeti. [Gotta love the Snoopster - after all, he also refers to his Better Half as SWMBO!]

Israel

We lead off this category with a Posty-Trifecta from Israelity: a look at shop windows as the country prepares for Yom Ha-atzmaut; reflections on Yom Ha-zikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day; and one that really defies categorization, asking whether hookworms are (as Martha Stewart might say) a good thing. [Hey, don’t be so horrified - a hundred years ago, they used to sell tapeworms as an aid to losing weight. Really.]

Risa, AKA the Isramom, enjoys a family Yom Ha-atzmaut at Mitzpe Ramon in the Negev in this lovely post entitled Making Deserts Bloom and Other Miracles. In another post, she shares some reflections on Yom Ha-zikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day. I like her comparison of the sound of the sirens to the sound of the shofar.

Jacob Richman gives us more Good News from Israel with his post about the latest series of Israeli educational stamps. A must-read for philatelists... and anyone else who wants to see Israeli technology celebrated on little bitty sticky pieces of paper.

This week’s summary of issues relating to Religion and State in Israel can be found here in two manageable chunks: Part 1 and Part 2, thanks to Joel Katz.

At Esser Agaroth (Two Cents), Ben-Yehudah gives us his ~~ten agaroth~~ two cents’ worth, inviting us to Dr. Rabbi Sholom Gold’s lecture on the relationship between Israel and evangelical Christians. If you’re planning to be in Jerusalem on Monday, 26 April, you may want to check this out.

Yosef Silver offers us a photo taken during a recent trip to Israel: a view of the beach at Atlit. Says Yosef, “There’s nothing like spending a little quality time Up North with my family and my camera.”

Mordechai, our favorite Rebbetzin’s Husband, elucidates an anthropomorphic vision of Israel as both Motherland and Mother. Food for thought.

Galit, the Minnesota Mamaleh, wishes Israel a happy sixty-second!

Judaism

Can a new festive holiday - Yom Ha-atzmaut - be celebrated after the destruction of the Second Temple? Yisroel, writing at Artzeinu discusses some of the halachic implications of observing Yom Ha-atzmaut.

Jewish traditions of mourning and bereavement are a powerful tool for dealing with the Holocaust, says David Fryman in this post at The Bennett Commentary.

At Tzedek-Tzedek, David Morris turns the blogging reins over to a guest writer, a victim of sex abuse who tells a story of her visit to the RBS mikvah and the difficulties it presented to a person who, understandably, feels especially vulnerable. In a second mikvah-related post, he discusses the mikvah in Ramat Bet Shemesh, control of which is currently being contested between the Rabbinical Council (Moetza Hadatit) and the independent Chareidi Rabbonim. If Rodney King were Jewish, he might be inspired to say, “Can’t we all just get along... without alla this sinat chinam?”

From The Chabad Lubavitch Headquarters News we have a memorial tribute to the late Rabbi Moshe Eliyahu Gerlitzky.

Writing at The Torah Revolution, Ariel Ben Yochanan states that “Some say Judaism is a culture, not a religion. I say it’s a mission.” Collective and individual tshuva is a necessity in order for Israel to have peace at the end of the day, says Ariel.

Rav Yehoishophot Oliver, posting at A Chassidishe farbrengen, tells us how to live up to our human potential.

Kashrut

Batya, over at me-ander, reminds us to send those kosher recipes and food-related post links in to the Kosher Cooking Carnival. Well, what are you waiting for? The Moshiach?

Leora Wenger (Here in HP), who will be hosting the next Kosher Cooking Carnival on May 16, also pitches the KCC... and lobs us a gorgeous apple pie recipe in the same post. I’m gonna plotz from all that deliciousness...

It never would have occurred to me that you could find a restaurant called “Traif” in Williamsburg, of all places... but there you are. Mottel weighs in on Jason Marcus’s new dining spot at Letters of Thought... and then he gets to deal with the trolls the above post brings out.

Personal

Elie writes a touching Yahrzeit post in remembrance of his son Aaron.

At me-ander, Batya shares a story of loss: And Then There Was One. Ha-Makom yenakhem etkhem b’toch sha’ar aveilei tzion viy’rushalayim... In a separate (and happier) post, she tells us about preparations for summer. Get a load of those baby grapes!

Rabbi Leigh Ann Kopans, The Frugal Ima herownself, tells us the story of how she became a Frugal Ima. Her blog is a great place to pick up advice on how to live frugally and simply within a Jewish context - be sure to check it out.

Neil Fleischmann is not just NY’s Funniest Rabbi - he’s also a teacher... and a poet.

Is genealogy a stupid waste of time? Not according to Friar Yid, who says roots have value.

Politics

Robert J. Avrech, keeper of the Seraphic Secret, presents a doomsday scenario that he sees as a possible result of the Obama administration’s incredibly naive [my adjective] foreign policy. I wish I could say it was completely far-fetched... but I cannot. Scary.

More on Iran from Eric at The Israel Situation, who asks, “Could Israel Attack Iran Alone?” It is, alas, not a rhetorical question. And, pssst - ya wanna book? Eric’s giving them away to lucky RSS feed subscribers. Learn how to get yours here.

Dan Illouz writes at the eponymous DanIllouz.com - Zionism, Judaism and Leadership. Here, he provides Three Reasons Why I Became a Member of the Likud. In another post, he reminds us that the strategic alliance between Israel and the United States benefits both parties - it’s most definitely not a one-way street, despite what some U.S. administration officials are trying to propound.

Batya, this time at Shiloh Musings, reminds us not to underestimate the Arabs.

Torah

Giving credit where credit is due is more than just good manners: It’s The Right Thing To Do. Thus sayeth SoMeHoW Frum!

At Geshmack Torah, NonymousG provides an analysis of some of the finer points of the mitzvah of honoring one’s parents.

Good deeds or faith - which is more effective at bringing us closer to an understanding of the Divine? It’s not just a point of discussion and/or disagreement between Jews and Christians - it’s the topic of this thought-provoking post at David Fryman’s The Bennett Commentary.

That concludes this edition of Haveil Havalim. If I’ve somehow managed to omit a submission, please send me an e-mail at elisson1 (at) aol (dot) com and I’ll be happy to plug it in. And don’t forget to submit your carefully-selected blog articles to the next edition of Haveil Havalim using our handy-dandy Blog Carnival submission form!

Technorati tags:
haveil havalim, blog carnival

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-04-23T13:34:00.002-04:00

“Say, kids - what time is it?” - Buffalo Bob

Those of us of a certain age (“old as dirt”) might remember the above Ritual Greeting that opened each episode of the Howdy Doody Show. And if you’re that old, you remember when most music was purchased in the form of LP’s - long-playing vinyl records that sat on a turntable where a needle, carefully balanced on a tonearm, would ride a spiral groove and vibrate according to the minuscule undulations molded therein. Those vibrations, fed into a preamplifier, amplifier, and pooped out through a set of speakers, provided the soundtrack for our early lives.

I still have a library of some 400-odd LP’s residing the the bowels of Chez Elisson, but it is only rarely that I will take one out and play it. Which is a shame, because there’s plenty of fine music embedded in those grooves... and I cannot bear the expense of repurchasing everything in digital form.

Which leaves me with only some 3,300 tunes to randomize for the sale of our Weekly Exercise. [So if you feel like you’re seeing the same songs over and over, perhaps you are. Deal with it.] All of these tunes, of course, sit comfortably in the electronickal brain of the iPod d’Elisson, smaller than a pack of cigarettes. Remarkable... and yet I suspect that one day our grandchildren will wonder how we could stand lugging that big white Choon-Box around. No doubt they will have devices that can store the entire musical output of Western Civilization on a doohickey the size of a grain of rice.

So: What’s on the box today?

Celestial Terrestrial Commuters - Mahavishnu Orchestra
Helmi otsalla - Alamaailman Vasarat
Inner Mounting Flame - Mahavishnu Orchestra
Illegal Smile (Live) - John Prine
Demons - Fatboy Slim
Alice Childress (iTunes Original Version) - Ben Folds

Some summers in the evening after six or so
I walk on down the hill
And maybe buy a beer
I think about my friends -
Sometimes I wish they lived out here
But they wouldn’t dig this town
No they wouldn’t dig this town

Try not to think about it, Alice Childress
Try not to think about it any more
Try not to think about it, Alice Childress
Any more, no not any more
No

Alice, the world is full of ugly things that you can’t change
Pretend it’s not that way
That’s my idea of faith
You can blow it off
And say there’s good in nearly everyone
Just give them all a chance
Give them all a chance

Try not to think about it, Alice Childress
Try not to think about it any more
Try not to think about it, Alice Childress
Any more, no not any more
No

No it didn’t work out
No it didn’t work out
The way we thought it would
No it didn’t work out
An arranged marriage is not so good

Thank God it’s you - you know your timing is impeccable
I’m not fooling you
I don’t know what to do
Some dude just knocked me cold
And left me on the sidewalk
Took everything I had
Everything I had

Try not to think about it, Alice Childress
Try not to think about it any more
It’s getting late where you are, Alice Childress
Any more, no not any more
Any more, no not any more
A Night in Tunisia - Dizzy Gillespie
Just a Gigolo - Louie Prima
Brandenburg - Beirut
Kolomeyke - The Klezmatics

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

2010-04-23T10:52:00.000-04:00

Captain Steve’s hand is firm upon the helm as he guides the legendary Friday Ark on its 292nd voyage, sailing the billows of the Bloggy Sea with its cargo of Miscellaneous Beasties. And our own Hakuna hangs from the bowsprit, miaowing, “I’m Queen of the World!”

Carnival of the Cats #319 goes up this Sunday at Three Tabby Cats in Vienna. Hmmm... Vienna, eh? I wonder if Kashim, Othello, and Salome have ever tasted a Sacher-Torte?

LIFE IS A BUMPY ROAD

2010-04-23T10:51:00.004-04:00

We all maintain our own lists of Personal Pet Peeves - the things that piss us off on an almost daily basis - and mine is getting longer by the day. It is, perhaps, one of the signs of Advancing Old Age.

One item that’s on my list is the infamous Speed Bump.

Legend (or Wikipedia) has it that the speed bump first appeared in Chatham, New Jersey when the town installed crosswalks several inches above the road level in order to discourage speeders. When you consider that this was 104 years ago when the top speed of a typical automobile was something like 30 MPH, you can only speculate upon just how fast were these people going, anyway?

The purpose of the so-called Sleeping Policeman, of course, is to encourage traffic to slow down, be it on a road or in a parking lot. And while that is a worthwhile purpose, the folks who build and install these things are guilty of overreaching... because while the intention is (or should be) to keep traffic within a posted speed limit, most speed bumps these days seem to be designed to force drivers to come to an almost complete stop, lest they shatter their axles, pop their tires, or break their teeth. And to that, I say a hearty Fuck You.

If a posted speed limit is (say) twenty MPH and the Powers that Be deem that a speed bump is necessary to ensure that drivers don’t zoom by at forty-five, no problem. But fer Gawd’s sake, design the damned thing so that I can negotiate the thing at twenty. Do not force me to bring my car to a virtual standstill. This wastes fuel and chews up my brake pads. And heaven help the people whose house is on fire at the end of a long street full of speed bumps.

OK, that’s enough ranting on Matters Trivial. What’s pissing you off today?

FIRE IN EARTH AND SKY

2010-04-21T14:27:00.005-04:00

The shimmering aurora borealis provides a backdrop for the glow of volcanic fires from Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano. [Photograph ©2010 Arnþór Ævarsson. Used by permission.]

Volcanoes have always held a certain fascination for me. When I was a young snot-nose of five or six, I would gaze in rapt attention at the photographs of Parícutin, a volcano that reared its cindery head above the fields of Michoacán, Mexico in 1943 - a mere nine years before I was born. The incandescent fire of those lava fountains captured my childish imagination, tickling the back alleys of my brain-pan with a peculiar combination of fear and curiosity. And National Geographic, with its photos of the 1960 Kilauea eruption, planted in me a lifelong desire to - one day - see a volcano in action.

I have stood at the edge of the Kilauea caldera and looked deep into the Halemaumau fire-pit. I have walked the length of the Thurston lava tube. But, as yet, I have never seen Earth’s molten fire with my own eyes. That one’s still on the Bucket List.

Meanwhile, Ol’ Vulcan has been in the news lately, what with Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano blowing a monster plume of ash into the stratosphere and grounding tens of thousands of European flights. Perhaps the European aviation authorities are being overcautious, but anyone who remembers British Airways flight 9 won’t question their decision.

In June, 1982, BA9, a Boeing 747 enroute from Kuala Lumpur to Perth, lost all four engines when it encountered a cloud of ash from Indonesia’s Mount Galunggung. I’m sure there were any number of folks who filled their trousers after hearing the Captain’s masterfully understated announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our damnedest to get them under control. I trust you are not in too much distress.” Fortunately, the crew was able to restart the engines after exiting the ash cloud... but not before a scary gliding descent to bring the plane down to an altitude with breathable air. The 747 limped into Jakarta on three engines, but with no casualties. (Except maybe those trousers.)

But back to Eyjafjallajökull.

The photograph above was taken by Arnþór Ævarsson (the letter þ - thorn - is pronounced “th”) in April, before the second phase of the eruption shut down European airspace mid-month. By a happy coincidence, the Northern Lights were in full play at the time, leading to a striking juxtaposition of lights from both earth and sky. As Arnþór himself says in another masterful understatement, it was “my biggest Kodak moment.”

Ya gotta love Iceland. Populated by the descendants of Vikings, packed with stunningly gorgeous blondes, and with active volcanoes to boot. I’ve gotta get me a ticket... when atmospheric conditions permit, of course.

ALMOST FIFTEEN

2010-04-20T18:15:00.003-04:00

It’s been a while since I’ve put up a picture of Hakuna, whose fifteenth birthday comes around next week. Time for a Kitty-Quinceañera!

THE HE-MAN’S CHOCOLATE CAKE

2010-04-19T19:35:00.004-04:00

The discerning Southern gentleman develops a taste for chocolate cake early on. I, being a transplanted Yankee (gasp!) never thought of chocolate cake as being an especially manly confection... until I met the Sacher-Torte.

Chocolate cake lovers are familiar with this torte, created in 1832 to satisfy Prince Metternich’s jones for a “dense, solid, masculine cake.” The regular pastry chef being ill, an apprentice, one Franz Sacher, stepped up to the plate and created what would become the most internationally famous cake in history... even more renowned than Fudgie the Whale.

Franz’s son Eduard carried on his father’s legacy, studying the Bakely Arts with the Royal and Imperial Pastry Chef at Demel’s Café, where the recipe for the Sacher-Torte evolved into its current form. (While Franz put layers of apricot jam in the center of the cake as well as on top, under the chocolate glaze, Eduard’s version had the jam only on the top of the cake.)

Later, Eduard would open a grand hotel - the Hotel Sacher, of course - to honor his family’s name and, not incidentally, to capitalize on his daddy’s famous cake. It’s pleasant (albeit silly) to imagine the housekeeping staff leaving slices of Sacher-Torte on guests’ pillows in lieu of mints.

Eventually, there arose a grand pissing contest in the Austrian courts over who had the rights to the Original Sacher-Torte. Was it Demel’s Café, where Eduard perfected the recipe... or the Hotel Sacher, whose new owners began selling the cake as well? One would think that in 1938, when the courts first took this issue up, that there were more important fish to fry: After all, there were Jews to deport! But the case dragged on until the mid-1960’s, with precious little impact. You can still get the cake - with minor differences in composition and nomenclature - at both the Hotel Sacher and at Demel’s Café.

It is indeed, as Prince Metternich demanded, a masculine cake. Leavened by egg whites alone, it has a moderately dense texture and a rich, yet not overly sweet chocolate flavor, with an additional fillip provided by the thin layer of apricot and a luxuriant chocolate glaze. The torte must be served with a generous dollop of schlag - unsweetened whipped cream - and preferably accompanied by lashings of hot, milky coffee.

I made one of these bad boys for our contribution to last Friday night’s Potluck Shabbat Dinner, and it was an apparent success. The recipe I used, from the venerable Maida Heatter’s Book of Great Chocolate Desserts, has a shinier, softer glaze than the original Sacher-Torte, but that’s not a bad thing.

Give the Austrians credit: Though they may have preferred goose stepping over goose liver, they at least know their Chocolate Cake.

AND NOW, THE NEWS

2010-04-19T13:13:00.005-04:00

Houston Steve was kind enough to forward this piece of important late-breaking news from England:

The Hampshire Fire and Rescue Service... turned up with a special equipment unit from St Mary’s station in Southampton and seven firefighters to help, in what a spokesman understatedly described as a “delicate operation.”

Said delicate operation involved freeing a gentleman’s membrum virile from a stainless steel pipe in which he had somehow managed to get it, er, ahhh... stuck.

How this may have happened is best left as an exercise for the imagination. The article does not provide any sort of hypothesis, stating that “the man, thought to be aged around 40, did not explain to hospital staff how exactly the pipe got stuck around his penis.” Which leaves us to exercise our perfervid imaginations.

Of course, for some things no explanation is necessary. Or desirable, for that matter. All you need to know is, a guy was involved. [Although in this case he may more properly have been described as a “bloke.”] And some guys - the exact percentage is unknown, but it is not insignificant - will stick their John Thomases into pretty much anything that resembles a hole. Just ask Anna Nicole Smith.

There is no mention of whether alcohol was a factor in this incident, but I say you can take it to the bank: There was. Ogden Nash once famously said, “Candy / Is Dandy / But liquor / Is quicker.” And I’ll add, “If you have enough liquor / You might attempt something sicker / Than merely to dick ’er.” The question that must be answered, of course, is just how drunk do you have to be when a stainless steel pipe starts bringing Teh Sexy?

A guy, some booze, and something that resembles a hole. A recipe for disaster.

READING ALOUD

2010-04-18T22:05:00.007-04:00

When Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm were little tykes, there were few things in the way of Family Activities we enjoyed more than Reading Aloud.

Back as far as Toddler Days, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I would read to the girls. Little Golden Books featuring Cookie Monster and Grover were huge favorites... as were others such as Bembelman’s Bakery, Eloise, and Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.

[It took them twenty-seven years, but Hollywood finally figured out a way to bring that story to the big screen... and completely fuck it up in the process. The book, written by Judi Barrett and illustrated by her (then) husband Ron Barrett, is utterly charming. The movie? Not so much.]

We would read, read, read those books until our throats were hoarse - and then we’d read some more. The girls never tired of hearing ’em.

Elder Daughter, even back in her toddlerhood, had a frighteningly prodigious memory. After hearing a story only once or twice, she could quote great swaths of it at the slightest provocation. This posed no problem with tales such as The Tale of Peter Rabbit and other components of the Beatrix Potter oeuvre, but the day came when a two-year-old Elder Daughter (at the time, Only Daughter) proceeded to recite the entire text of perhaps the most politically incorrect story of all time - Little Black Sambo - to the eleven-year-old African-American girl sitting next to her on our flight from New York to Atlanta. Things might have gotten a bit sketchy had Elder Daughter’s elocution been a bit clearer... but as it was, SWMBO and I were trying to decide how both of us could fit underneath the seats in front of us.

As the girls grew older, so did our choice of Read-Aloud material change. On long car trips, we would read weighty tomes like Great Expectations and Gulliver’s Travels, the latter being one of the all-time great satirical novels.

The girls were greatly entertained... although SWMBO was horrified to learn that “Pumblechook” was actually the name of a Dickens character, not merely a deliberately mispronounced descriptor for a certain type of Body Hair.

Many years have gone by since Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm lived at home. Reading aloud is one of those family activities that has gone by the wayside... hopefully to be resumed when, at some unknowable future date, the Missus and I are blessed with grandchildren. And yet...

...a few evenings ago, the Mistress stopped by for an overnight sojourn, and out came the old Eloise books. And now it was her turn to read aloud. To us.

“Nanny says she would rawther I didn’t
talk talk talk all the time
She always says everything 3 times
like Eloise you cawn’t cawn’t cawn’t
Sometimes I hit her on the ankle with a tassel
She is my mostly companion”

Ooooooooooooooooooo, I absolutely love The Plaza

A DISTURBING TREND

2010-04-18T17:52:00.003-04:00

Some time back, I wrote a post that mentioned the Hershey Bar Scam. [Never mind that it was a post about toilet paper, a product that should probably never be mentioned in the same breath as Hershey bars for several scatologically pungent reasons.]

Just to refresh your memory, the Hershey Bar Scam was the sneaky way the good folks in the chocolate industry dealt with fluctuating raw material costs. Instead of jacking up the price of a candy bar to cover increased raw material costs, they would simply shrink the bar... and so it was that the 2-ounce nickel Hershey bar you could have bought in 1930 eventually withered away to a mere ¾ ounce less than forty years later. Things might have gone on like that even longer, but it got to the point where you would have needed a magnifying glass to see a nickel chocolate bar - and so prices began to rise.

This has been going on so long, I no longer pay attention to it... and, probably, neither do you. Getting less stuff for more money is nothing new. Anyone who visits a supermarket - especially if one is there for the purpose of purchasing food in order to feed one’s family - is all too familiar with the phenomenon. It affects way more than chocolate bars. Hell, it affects way more than just food.

Cars used to have humongous fuel tanks as a matter of routine. Twenty or twenty-five gallon tanks were common in family sedans. Now you see tanks that size only in Winnebagoes. And yet it costs a lot more to fill today’s dinky-ass 14.5-gallon tanks than anyone would have imagined back before the first Oil Shock hit back in 1973-74. Again - this is nothing new.

But lately, an even more disturbing trend has surfaced...

Ole Phat Stu models the latest Euro-Colander.

Bedam! They’re shrinking colanders now!

UNFORGETTABLE

2010-04-17T20:18:00.002-04:00

Room 33 at the Hiiragiya Ryokan.

Two years ago this very night, Elder Daughter and I were here.

It was an evening of understated luxury, of tradition. I will never forget it... and I long for the day that I can return with She Who Must Be Obeyed in tow.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-04-16T12:14:00.003-04:00

It’s another beautiful spring day here in the Atlanta metroplex. The dogwoods are in bloom, my hay fever seems to have subsided a bit, and, of course, it’s Friday... time for the weekend.

Also, it’s time for the Friday Random Ten.

The iPod d’Elisson, packed with 3,294 little chunks of audio miscellany, is ready to disgorge its weekly randomized selection of ten tunes. Let’s see what’s on the playlist today:

The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine - Jeff Wayne, War of the Worlds
Repent Walpurgis - Procol Harum
Klezmer - Itzhak Perlman
Samson and Delilah - The Barry Sisters and Jan Bart with Sam Medoff and the Yiddish Swingtet
Ladytron - Venus In Furs & Radiohead
She Lives (In A Time Of Her Own) - The Judybats
Danny Diamond - Squirrel Nut Zippers
Rocky Mountain Way - Joe Walsh
Blame It On Cain (Alternate) - Elvis Costello
Brandenburg Concerto #5 In D, BWV 1050 - 1. Allegro - Trevor Pinnock; English Concert

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

A PERFECT PLACE TO MAKE AN ASHE OF ONESELF

2010-04-15T13:09:00.003-04:00

Biltmore House, with SWMBO and JoAnn in the foreground. [Click to embiggen.]

A few weekends ago, we enjoyed a most pleasant visit to Asheville with our friends Gary and JoAnn. It’s hard to complain about a town that has fine hostelries, excellent dining, and the monstrous, bloated Biltmore House, a monument to nineteenth-century conspicuous consumption that makes today’s Filthy Rich seem like smelly hoboes by comparison. And amusing street names, to boot!

We had been to Asheville before. The four of us sojourned there in the fall of 2007, and in May of the following year, I had traveled there for business under the auspices of the Great Corporate Salt Mine. That last trip afforded me my first jaw-dropping glimpse of Biltmore House, the “Biggest Little Cheesebox Bungalow in the World™.”

This particular visit had originally been scheduled for the end of January, but a freak snowstorm that dumped a record-breaking nine inches on Asheville put the kibosh on that. Other people who tried driving there from Atlanta had all sorts of problems - having to get hauled out of snowbanks, sitting in the car for nine hours - so the decision to cancel allowed us to dodge a Major Bullet.

Thus, our visit was in balmy spring weather instead of the chill of winter. Not altogether bad, I’d say.

We stayed at the Grand Bohemian, a property located just outside the Biltmore portcullis. The rooms were nicely appointed, although it didn’t take long to discern a certain bizarre Mittel-Europaische combination of Fine Art and Deer Hunting motifs.

Everywhere I wandered in that hotel, I kept seeing visual puns. Here are a couple:

The Branch Manager.

The Octomooose.

But my favorite piece of Hunty Artwork was this fellow:

They call me Mister Boar.

If you look real close (click the photo to embiggen), you might spot the pin from Helen, Georgia’s Oktoberfest on Mr. Boar’s chapeau. Recalling some of the infamous Bloggy Gatherings there, I suspect he’d fit right in!

The weather was cooperative during most of our stay, bringing moderate temperatures and sunshine as we traipsed the grounds of the Biltmore. Sunday morning, as we prepared to leave, the skies opened up... but it was too late for the rain to put a damper on our weekend. A leisurely breakfast at the Tupelo Honey Café’s new southern branch, and we were on our way back home.

A few more pics below the fold.

Our room at the Grand Bohemian. Note the antler-lamp.

Part of the Grand Bohemian’s impressive collection of European classical sculpture. There were more Greek busts here than at an Athenian titty bar.

The long portico at the back of the Biltmore House.

The backyard at the Biltmore, which costs more to mow each year than the GDP of most European countries.

ON COMPUTATION

2010-04-14T11:18:00.006-04:00

My experience with computers goes back to the fall of 1970, when, as a callow freshman in college, I encountered the IBM 360.

That was old-school computing at its finest. The damned thing was big enough to fill an entire building, but we rarely ventured there. It was said that a mysterious squad of Geek-Acolytes lived in the Computer Center, where virgins (thin on the ground in those heady days) would be sacrificed, on occasion, to the Calculational Gods. And so we would go to Fine Hall, where there was a convenient Hollerith card-reading station and a printer. You’d stick your deck of punch-cards in the reader, then wait for your job to run. As soon as the printer (a humongous affair the size of a Mini Cooper) would poop out your output, you would collect it, curse at the (inevitable) belatedly-discovered errors, then start all over again with a corrected card deck.

[Fine Hall was an interesting place. Late at night, bizarre scribblings would appear on blackboards, placed there by the so-called “Phantom of Fine Hall.” Said Phantom was none other than John Forbes Nash, Jr., the schizophrenic genius mathematician who would later receive the Nobel Prize for Economics for his work in game theory... and who would eventually be portrayed by Russell Crowe in the film A Beautiful Mind.]

The idea of a computer small enough to sit on your desk - never mind fit in your pocket - was pure moonshine in those days.

Home computing started impinging on our consciousness in 1984 when our friend Donnie Joe bought himself a Macintosh computer. It combined the CPU, disc drive, and monitor in a single, chunky unit... and it used something interesting and new: a mouse. We finally got one for ourselves seven years later - a Macintosh LC - by which time the machine had evolved to where it had a color monitor, a whole megabyte of RAM, and a 30 megabyte hard drive.

That machine, now nineteen years old, sits quietly in our garage. It has been superseded. Many times.

Sometime in the mid-1990’s, it became clear that technological advances had rendered our little Mac LC kludgy and obsolete. Connecting to the then-nascent Internet was possible only after jacking up the RAM, and even then the results were not especially robust. And so we ventured into PC-land.

In our experience, a computer will last for something on the order of four to five years before advances in software, operating systems, and hardware make replacement an increasingly more attractive option. Our most recent desktop machine had been with us for something on the order of six or seven years, and it was definitely showing signs of age. We replaced the hard drive a few years ago, but there just wasn’t enough RAM to keep up with the latest versions of my workhorse applications.

And so we have replaced it... with a shiny new machine that boasts 8 gigs of RAM and a 1 TB (that’s terabyte, y’all - a trillion bytes!) hard drive. And the 27-inch high-definition monitor is tasty, too.

The thing runs like greased lightning. Webpages snap into place, applications boot up almost instantly. Sweet.

Whether it will improve the quality of my blogging remains to be seen. But don’t count on it.

As hot as this new Computing-Engine is right now, I’m sure our grandkids (assuming we eventually have any) will be looking at its dusty, basement-dwelling carcass in fifteen or twenty years, thinking, “Geez - just one terabyte - how could those people live?”

MADISAURUS REX

2010-04-12T10:25:00.003-04:00

During our recent all-too-brief sojourn in Texas, we had a chance to hang out with our nephew William and niece Madison... not to mention Elder Daughter, who also made the trek out west to be with us.

Madison, who is all of three years old, is what you might call a handful.

Madison rides her Artificial Horsie. Yippee-ki-yay!

She is already a past master at the art of manipulation - no surprise, given that she has her big brother upon whom to practice. But she is sweet as sugar... most of the time.

Even though she shares none of my DNA, she seems to have inherited some abilities from me. The tale is told that one recent day, after having completed her toilet training, she announced to her Daddy that she would be “making a poop.” He in turn asked her to call him when she was finished if she needed help cleaning herself up... and when he arrived in the bathroom upon receiving the summons, she announced, “Daddy - you do not want to see what’s in here.”

Perhaps not... but the Guinness Book folks might have. That’s my niece! [When she reads this in twenty years or so, she’ll strangle me.]

Her Daddy has taken to calling her “Madisaurus Rex.” I think it’s a perfect cognomen.

GO HERE. READ THIS.

2010-04-12T10:17:00.002-04:00

When you’re too lazy to come up with any Bloggy Content of your own, it’s always nice to be able to fall back on the old blogroll.

Take LeeAnn, f’r instance. Her “Random Thoughts While Watching TV” post had me pissing myself laughing. (PMSL, I believe, is how the younguns say it these days.)

Here’s a sample: “When did Jamie Lee Curtis become the keymaster to the pooping-well gate?” It’s a question I have asked myself many, many times... but never out loud.

Go here and read the whole thing.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-04-09T12:42:00.003-04:00

It’s a gorgeous spring day, the Masters tournament is in full swing, and, to top it off, it’s Friday... time for the Friday Random Ten.

Please try to curb your enthusiasm.

Alas, the iPod d’Elisson, AKA the Little White Choon Box, is 850 miles away at Chez Elisson. But all that means is that we shall exercise the standard Fallback Option, using the iPhone d’Elisson from which to extract today’s Choon-List. There’s a smaller pile of Choons from which to draw, but with over 900 song files, there are still plenty for our purposes.

One nice touch: Our rental car is one of those late-model Korean SUV’s that comes equipped with (!) Bluetooth. Good Gawd! Now I can pair up my iPhone with the car’s stereo system and play my Random Crap without even having to plug anything in.

What’s on the ol’ playlist today? Let’s take a peek:

Lugubrious Whing Whang - Squirrel Nut Zippers
How Could I Be Such a Fool - Frank Zappa
Because - The Beatles

This is the a capella version from the Love mashup album.
Boxing - Ben Folds
Hine Ani Ba (Here I Come) - HaDag Nachash

Israeli rap music. Who’d a thunk it?
Blind Love - Tom Waits
Piggy in the Middle - The Rutles

A clever parody of “I Am the Walrus” by Neil Innes and Eric Idle of Monty Python fame.
E Luxo So - Stan Getz & Charlie Byrd

From the incandescent Jazz Samba, the record that started the Bossa Nova craze in the United States... 48 years ago.
Uncle Meat - Frank Zappa
Urinetown - Urinetown, Original Cast

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

POG

2010-04-07T17:02:00.007-04:00

This morning, as our plane lifted off into the skies above Atlanta, both She Who Must Be Obeyed and I noticed a low-lying yellow-green pall over the entire metropolitan area. It could only be that most dreaded of Southern springtime atmospheric phenomena: Pog!

When April comes with its “shoures soote” - sweet showers, as old Geoff Chaucer might have said - Atlantans rightly fear the vagaries of the weather. Powerful Southern-style thunderstorms, some replete with hail and funnel-clouds, are frequent visitors... and a couple of months hence, we will be in the throes of hurricane season. Not that hurricanes per se are a huge problem for north-central Georgia, but they will occasionally swing through in their attenuated tropical storm personae, dumping floodly piles of rain.

But more dreaded still than any of these is Atlanta’s unique curse, the Pog. (Or maybe the Smollen.) It’s a pernicious combination of smog and pollen, an eye-watering, nose-stopping, lung-wrenching devil’s brew. It is, perhaps, the price we pay for being blessed with such an abundance of beautiful flowering trees.

We’ve always known it was a real phenomenon, and today’s aerial view of the city offered compelling visual evidence... that eerie greenish-yellow cloudbank.

The clincher was when I looked out the airplane window and saw a gremlin on the wing. At first I was concerned, but then I realized he was suffering from seasonal allergies so disabling, he couldn’t make any progress in his attempts to rip the cowling off the port side engine.

[Of course nobody believed me when I told them about the gremlin... but after we landed, I saw a wad of used tissues jammed into the engine nacelle...]

Postscript: Upon returning to Atlanta Saturday afternoon, I found the Elissonmobile encrusted with a thick layer of greenish-yellow pollen - this despite the fact that it had been in a covered parking area. I can only imagine what it would have looked like after three days of being parked under open skies...

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

2010-04-05T17:13:00.002-04:00

The Harris Shutter effect sprays color throughout this image of a cataract at the St. George fishway in New Brunswick, Canada. [Click on the photo to embiggen.]

NEW DIGS...

2010-04-04T23:47:00.004-04:00

...for my fellow Jawja blogger Dax Montana, who has switched blog domains.

The Dax Files may now be found here... so be sure to update your links and/or RSS feed subscriptions.

I’m pleased to note that the esteemed Mr. Montana has moved his archives to the new site as well. I would have hated to think that I might no longer have access to some of his past classics, but, happily, that is not the case.

THE BREI-ER PATCH

2010-04-04T16:31:00.006-04:00

A tranquil Sunday morning in Marietta.

This morning, Christians around the world celebrated Easter, saying, “He is risen!”

And that, Esteemed Readers, is the difference between Christians and Jews in a nutshell. For during the festival of Passover, leavened foods are forbidden to us: That which is risen is strictly off-limits.

Dealing with the Passover dietary restrictions can be tricky, especially for those of us who eat pretty much whatever the hell we want to during the other fifty-one weeks of the year... but it’s manageable. Breakfast, however, is a particular challenge, given that many popular breakfast mainstays (cereal, English muffins, pancakes, waffles) are Pesach no-nos. Which means you have to find ever-more-creative ways to enjoy matzoh, the unleavened bread that is the culinary backbone of the week.

Me, I’m perfectly happy to spread well-softened butter over my matzoh-sheets and wolf them down, accompanied by a cup of coffee. And I might treat myself to matzoh-meal pancakes, a seasonal dish that always brings back pleasant memories of holidays spent with our grandparents in Florida. And then there is matzoh brei, a preparation that looks like it might have resulted from the same sort of accidental collision that created Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups:

“You got your matzoh in my French toast!”

“You got your French toast in my matzoh!”

Like a Jewish Brer Rabbit, I like to visit the matzoh brei-er patch every so often. It’s simple enough to make. You soak broken-up sheets of matzoh (or matzoh farfel, if you’re lazy) in milk or water until they're soft, then fry ’em up in a mixture of milk and eggs until you end up with a sort of French-toasty affair. Crisp or tender, it’s up to you, as is the choice between sweet and savory accompaniments. Whether to go with salt and pepper or butter and maple syrup may be the source of family disagreements, but they are the sort of good-natured arguments in which everyone is a winner.

Today we had a wonderful new version of matzoh brei, courtesy of our friend Malka - bourmalikas, AKA Bulgarian-style matzoh brei. It’s easy as (unleavened) pie to make. You start by soaking sheets of matzoh in water overnight. In the morning, squeeze out as much moisture as possible (a colander, besides being a fashionable item of headgear, is helpful for this purpose), then mash the damp matzoh into well-beaten eggs - one egg for every two sheets of matzoh. Form the mixture into patties and then fry until crisp in vegetable oil, and Boom! You have bourmalikas.

Bourmalikas. Matzoh brei, Bulgarian style.

I had mine savory, decorated with cottage cheese and sour cream; Malka ate hers sweet, dipping each bite into a pile of granulated sugar. They’re excellent either way.

Grape Tomatoes Caprese: tomatoes with mozzarella balls and basil, a fine accompaniment.

With stuff like this on hand, I can keep my jones for cold cereal - or the occasional waffle - at bay. I’d eat a Passover-style breakfast like this any time of year.

Speaking of holidays, a most happy Easter to our Christian friends!

DRY BONES

2010-04-02T11:28:00.004-04:00

Od’kha ki anitani vat’hi li liyshuah.
Evven ma’asu ha-bonim hay’tah l’rosh pinah.
Mei-eit HaShem hay’tah zot, hi nif’lat b’eineinu.
Zeh ha-yom asah HaShem, nagilah v’nism’chah vo.

I praise You for having answered me;
You have become my deliverance.
The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.
This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our sight.
This is the day the Lord has made; let us exult and rejoice in it.

[Part of the Hallel liturgy recited daily during the Passover festival.]

Ezekiel cried, “Dem dry bones!”
Ezekiel cried, “Dem dry bones!”
Ezekiel cried, “Dem dry bones -
Oh, hear the word of the Lord!”

The toe bone connected to the heel bone,
The heel bone connected to the foot bone,
The foot bone connected to the leg bone,
The leg bone connected to the knee bone,
The knee bone connected to the thigh bone,
The thigh bone connected to the back bone,
The back bone connected to the neck bone,
The neck bone connected to the head bone,
Oh, hear the word of the Lord!

Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk aroun’
Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun’
Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun’
Oh, hear the word of the Lord.

The head bone connected to the neck bone,
The neck bone connected to the back bone,
The back bone connected to the thigh bone,
The thigh bone connected to the knee bone,
The knee bone connected to the leg bone,
The leg bone connected to the foot bone,
The foot bone connected to the heel bone,
The heel bone connected to the toe bone,
Oh, hear the word of the Lord!

[Spiritual (author unknown) based on the story of the Valley of Dry Bones, Ezekiel 37:1-14.]

Tomorrow, I will read that old Bible story of the Valley of Dry Bones - it’s the traditional Haftarah (prophetical reading) for the Sabbath that falls during the week of Passover. And I find, as I practice chanting the verses in their ancient melody, that tears come unbidden to my eyes...

He said to me, “Son of Man, these bones - they are the entire House of Israel. Behold! They are saying, ‘Our bones are dried out and our hope is lost; we are doomed!’ Therefore, prophesy and say to them: Thus said the Lord: Behold, I am opening your graves and raising you up from your graves, My people, and I will bring you to the soil of Israel...”

These words, written by Yekhezkel (Ezekiel) during the Babylonian exile, were intended to bring hope to a brokenhearted people. Today, after the Holocaust and sixty-two years after the founding of the modern State of Israel, they resonate with special power.

Am Yisrael Chai - the people of Israel lives!

DIES MORIONIS EST

2010-04-01T13:17:00.003-04:00

Yes, indeedy: it is the Day of the Idiot. April Fool’s Day!

Even Google has gotten in on the act, renaming itself “Topeka” for the day. Perhaps our government will take a cue from this and rename itself “Clusterfuck.”

In honor of the occasion, I thought it would be appropriate for me to give up wearing colanders.

April Fool!

RHET BUTLER

2010-03-31T21:24:00.001-04:00

Another Rhetorical Question from Rhet (orical) Butler.

A 100-WORD PASSOVER STORY

2010-03-31T16:26:00.005-04:00

Forty years they had wandered the desert, seeking the Promised Land. Forty years they had complained... and God was getting sick of hearing it. He summoned Moses for a conference.

“Forty years of bitching, Moses. Are My people never satisfied?”

Moses cast his eyes downward. “Well, Lord, we’ve been in the wilderness an awfully long time. That, we can handle... but most of us haven’t crapped in years!”

God asked the angel Gabriel, “What the hell have you been feeding the Israelites? Manna shouldn’t block ’em up like that!”

“Manna? But I’ve been sending them matzoh! What’s the difference, anyway?”

This Passover toilet seat cover reminds us of one of the unfortunate side effects of eating unleavened bread for eight days. A tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Jerry Foster for the photo.

FOOD... AND FREEDOM

2010-03-29T17:05:00.005-04:00

The Bradford pears, cherry blossoms, and forsythia are in bloom... and Passover is in the air.

A cauldron of SWMBO’s chicken soup is simmering atop Darth Stover, perfuming the house with chickeny warmth. A pile of matzoh balls - both plain and whole wheat - will shortly be swimming amongst the chunks of chicken and carrot.

Two loaves of gefilte fish are ready to be sliced up and festooned with parsley and carrot slices. One loaf is the standard whitefish and pike blend; the other, salmon. They’ll be served with lashings of pungent chrain - horseradish.

Gefilte fish. Think of it as a sort of meatloaf... but with fish. A Passover tradition.

There’s a bowl of charoset marinating in the back of the fridge. A mixture of shredded apples, nuts, golden raisins, cinnamon, and sweet wine, it symbolizes the mortar with which the ancient Israelites built the cities of Pithom and Raamses.

A honkin’ big brisket of beef is resting comfortably in the downstairs fridge. After having been braised for five hours yesterday, all that bad boy needs is to be warmed up, sliced, and served with a liberal dollop of its oniony, tomatoey sauce.

Our friends JoAnn and Gary will be bringing some roasted asparagus and sweet potatoes. And that’s not all. Chopped liver (which I will doctor up with some onions caramelized in goose schmaltz) - and for afters, sponge cake.

Pesach, AKA Passover, begins at sundown. Perhaps owing to the special dietary requirements of the holiday, it’s an extremely food-centric festival, its central observance being a combination of Great Big Meal and Socratic dialogue. But the food is, despite the grip with which it holds our sense-memories, not the point. The point is the retelling of the story. It is the story of a great liberation, a journey from slavery to freedom. It is the central narrative of the Jews, those quintessential Red Sea Pedestrians, who could just as well be called “The People Who Went Forth from Egypt” instead of “The Children of Israel.” For while being descended from the patriarch Jacob - Israel - made us a people, the going forth from Egypt defined us as a nation, a people with a shared historical experience.

The Seder plate, with the traditional adornments. Clockwise, from the top: Zeroah - a roasted lamb shankbone, symbolic of the Paschal sacrifice. Charoset - an apple and nut relish representing mortar. Chazeret - Romaine lettuce, a bitter herb. Karpas - parsley, a green vegetable. Beitzah - an egg, symbolizing the chagigah (festival) sacrifice. Center: Maror - a bitter vegetable, in this case horseradish. In the silver case beneath the plate are three sheets of matzoh, the unleavened bread that is the most well-known food associated with the holiday.

The story is thousands of years old, yet it still resonates. And it should. For, as the Haggadah (the book of Passover liturgy) reminds us, had our ancestors not been redeemed from bondage, we would even now be slaves in Egypt... and the history of the Western world would have been very different.

A chag sameach - most happy festival - to our Jewish friends. To everyone else, a good week - one that may be spent, perhaps, meditating on the blessings of freedom that we enjoy today.

FROM ASHEVILLE, A REAL-LIFE DICKE JOKE

2010-03-28T22:08:00.003-04:00

Only in Asheville, North Carolina do you have this remarkable example of (probable) Unintentional Humor.

On our way downtown yesterday afternoon, we found ourselves at the intersection of Southside Avenue and two other streets. To the left there was Coxe Avenue:

And to the right? This:

[No, it’s not Photoshopped. You can look it up on Google Maps.]

So, what was this? Some road architect’s sense of humor? The boundary between Asheville’s African-American and Asian communities?

Things only got more surreal when, a block north, we saw a vehicle from Tennessee with this license tag [click to embiggen]:

What county was that tag from? You gotta be kidding...

Yes, indeedy. Just one block from the corner of Coxe and Short Coxe, we saw a car from County Cocke!

NOW THAT YOU’RE BACK...

2010-03-28T21:37:00.003-04:00

...I want you to give me a skritch.

Hakuna cranes her neck for a skritch as SWMBO catches up with her Facebook buddies. [Click for embiggification.]

How dare you run off and leave me by myself all weekend? Just because I ignore you most of the time doesn’t mean I don’t want your undivided attention.

Update: Friday Ark #288 is afloat at the Modulator.

MR. DEBONAIR’S GUIDE FOR THE WELL-DRESSED MAN ABOUT TOWN

2010-03-27T12:49:00.007-04:00

When putting on your Undershorts,
If knowledge you should lack
Of which side’s against the penis
And which side’s against the crack,
Recall this simple mantra
Whenever you are able,
To help you with those Undershorts
If they should lack a label.
No matter if you’re Asian,
Hispanic, white, or black -
The yellow stain, it goes in front;
The brown stain goes in back.

ON ANGER

2010-03-25T16:46:00.002-04:00

When nasty folk have done you dirt
And made your life a mess;
When anger rises in your heart
And rage is in your breast,
Remember these eleven words -
Advice from years long gone:
“It’s better to be pissed off
Than to be pissed on.”

A BIT OF BOOKY NOSTALGIA

2010-03-24T10:51:00.006-04:00

The Massapequa Bookmobile in its heyday.

One of my elementary school classmates - say what you will about Facebook, but it has facilitated some remarkable reconnections - was kind enough to pass along an article from the New York Observer about a Relic from my Long-Lost Past.

I speak of the Massapequa Public Library Bookmobile.

Back in the day, the Bookmobile was nothing more, nothing less than a Library on Wheels, a honking big trailer full of (you guessed it) books. Every day, they would hook it up to a sort of utility truck affair and tow it to a different location around town, following a carefully laid-out route. And once a week - Monday or Tuesday, if I recall correctly - the Bookmobile would show up in the parking lot of the local nine-hole muni, just a short walk from home.

Lining up for the weekly Bookmobile visit.

We had two libraries in town: the main library in the central part of town, and a branch outpost that was a few miles closer to where we lived. But back in the early 1960’s, the stay-at-home mom was much more the norm... and often, there was only one family car, which meant that she was more of a stuck-at-home mom, with forays to the library a challenge. Enter the Bookmobile:

The beloved bookmobile, originally purchased for $13,000, began its route in 1961, when mothers stayed home with children and didn’t have access to cars to get to the local library. It carried a small sampling of the library’s offerings: children’s books, biographies, romance books, science fiction books, mystery books, thrillers, religious and political books, classics, poetry and magazines. Each day it stopped in a different neighborhood so that everyone knew when it was coming. “There really was a necessity for it, and it was very well used for many years,” said [library director Patricia] Page. “But then people’s lives changed and mothers went out to work and the circulation dwindled.”

I remember that bookmobile, clear as day. I remember walking through the gravelly golf course parking lot and climbing up the steps into that trailer. I would walk along the linoleum-paved aisle, inhaling the booky aroma while scanning the shelves of books on either side, usually selecting the permitted maximum of three. Our mother would be there too, scanning the shelves for her mysteries and science fiction tomes. And then you’d get to the check-out desk at the end of the aisle, where you would hand over your library card, the librarian would stamp the due date in each book, and the Sooper Seekrit Microfillum Check-Out Machine would do its mysterious work. Then down the steep steps and back onto the gravel for the short walk home.

Inside the Bookmobile. Hey, it’s like the bastard child of a library and a Winnebago!

Alas, in recent years, the Bookmobile had fallen on hard times. Retired last July after a forty-nine-year long career and in increasingly dismal condition, it was headed for the scrap heap when a phone call came in from none other than Alec Baldwin.

Alec bought the old trailer for the grand sum of $1,000 and had it towed off to his home in Amagansett, hard by the Hamptons on the south shore of Long Island. What he will do with it is anybody’s guess, but it would make a dandy playhouse or office with a bit of remodeling. Or perhaps a neighborhood eyesore.

It’s easy to see why Alec would remember the old Bookmobile with such rosy nostalgia. Its old once-a-week stop in that golf course parking lot was right across the street from his house on Iroquois Avenue... and he and his horde of siblings were, no doubt, regular customers.

Come to think of it, there’s no reason ol’ Alec couldn’t refurbish the trailer and stock it with vintage reading material, recreating the old Bookmobile as a museum piece celebrating the rich cultural history of the Island. He could have a Joey Buttafuoco/Amy Fisher young adult section; a Jessica Hahn adult section; a Baldwin Family theatre arts/run on top of Elisson’s roof section; and a Jerry Seinfeld humor section.

Good on ya, Alec. It’s nice to know the old Bookmobile is still around... a bit of Booky Nostalgia for us old folks who remember that bygone era of stuck-at-home moms. (I wonder whether the moms have that same feeling of pleasant nostalgia for those days: I suspect not so much.)

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Chris S. for forwarding the Observer article, and to Allan P. for the photos and section names. You’re sick, I tells ya!]

MARCH GUILD EVENT

2010-03-23T11:38:00.006-04:00

Tonight’s Guild event - “Wines of the Great Northwest” - will be held at Rosebud, in the Morningside neighborhood just north of Virginia-Highlands. It promises to be a most pleasant evening.

I‘m hoping Denny will be able to make it this time so I can hear him tell the harrowing tale of his ill-fated ski trip in person. Alas, we won’t get to hear the fireworks as he discusses Obamacare and other political third-rails with Houston Steve, as Steve will be away on business. No matter. Politics does not whet my appetite; good wine, however, does so admirably.

Here’s the menu, perfect stimulus for your Envy-Glands:

Speaker’s wine:
Domaine Ste. Michelle Brut “Luxe” 2003*

First Flight:
Maryhill Viognier 2007**
Chateau Ste. Michelle & Dr. Loosen Riesling “Eroica” 2008***
L’Ecole No. 41 Semillon 2007

Seared George’s Bank scallop with pineapple chow chow and black pepper-vanilla sabayon

Second Flight:
Tagaris “Boar Doe” 2006
Woodward Canyon Merlot 2006
Northstar Merlot 2006**

Seared quail breast, Riverview Farms grits, early Vidalia onion chutney and Mexican coke BBQ

Third Flight:
Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon “Indian Wells” 2006
Buty “Columbia Rediviva” (Phinny Hill) 2006*
K-Vintners Syrah “Milbrandt” 2007**

Riverview Farms beef shortrib meatloaf, foie gras whipped sweet potatoes, local oyster mushrooms and bone marrow gravy

Dessert
Three Rivers Late Harvest Gewurztraminer “Biscuit Ridge” 2006***

Strawberry shortcake, cinnamon sugar biscuit & vanilla-balsamic syrup

Per my usual practice, I’ll note my favorites in a postprandial post update.

Update

Lagniappe
Dunham Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon IV 1998***

TUNA TOWN

2010-03-22T22:31:00.005-04:00

The Missus took me to Tuna Town tonight, and it was a pleasure.

Get your mind out of the gutter, you sick bastard. This was Ahi Tuna Town.

Yesterday, we had glommed onto a couple of nice inch-thick slabs of raw ahi tuna - perfect for searing - and She Who Must Be Obeyed found an excellent Asian-style marinade recipe. We blended up ¼ cup dark sesame oil, ¼ cup soy sauce, and 1 Tbsp freshly squeezed lime juice; then whisked in 2 Tbsp grated fresh ginger, 2 cloves minced garlic, and a couple of sliced up scallions. After soaking in this goop for a few hours, the fish went into a hot, lightly oiled grill pan (a non-stick skillet works just fine) for just 60-90 seconds on each side. Garnished with a sprinkling of thinly-sliced scallion and black sesame seeds, it was a perfect dinner entrée.

[Useful Hint: Take a knob of ginger and freeze it. It’ll keep for a looooong time, and when it comes time to use it, don’t even bother to peel it. Just grate it with a Microplane until you have as much as you need. Easy-peasy... and you’ll have a burst of fresh ginger flavor.]

This evening, we still had a goodly-sized chunk of that seared tuna left. So She Who Must Be Obeyed sliced it up and served it on a bed of arugula and baby romaine, with chunks of heirloom tomato and avocado, dressed only with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice.

It was ridiculously good. Restaurant quality? No: better.

I wish to hell I had taken a picture, but, honestly, it looked so good, I was compelled to eat first and ask questions later. And that, Esteemed Readers, is the measure of a Fine Meal.

SPROING

2010-03-22T09:05:00.004-04:00

Spring has sprung;
The grass has riz.
I wonder where
The birdies is?
The birds is on the wing.
Oh, my word
That’s absurd.
The wing is on the bird.

Spring has sprung;
My ass has friz.
What is this snowy Monkey-Biz?

Yes, here we are two days into Spring, and snow was falling this morning in the northern Atlanta ’burbs. OK, it’s not as though it was the Great Blizzard of 2010 - Snowpocalypse - but nevertheless, snow of any sort is unusual in these parts, and downright rare after the vernal equinox.

Two days ago, we had temperatures above 70°F. Now, it’s freezing. Feh.

THINGS MY FATHER TAUGHT ME

2010-03-20T15:41:00.004-04:00

“Have a glass of water. It quenches your thirst better than anything else - and it’s good for you!”

[But I just wanted a fucking glass of chocolate milk.]

“The crust? That’s the best part!”

[Then why the fuck aren’t you eating it?]

“Eat that potato peel - it’s the best part. It’s full of vitamins.”

[It’s also full of warts and hairs and dirt. Yecch.]

“Why don’t you have a piece of fruit instead of that slice of cake?”

[If I wanted the piece of fruit, I would have taken the piece of fruit. Can I just have a hunk of Entenmann’s without getting the fucking third degree?]

Of course, you know what the most galling thing is about all of these little bits of Fatherly Wisdom? The fact that, without exception, the Old Man was - and is - right about every single one.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2010-03-19T13:47:00.003-04:00

Welcome to the Friday Random Ten, my weekly post in which I list an assortment of Choons spewed forth at random from the Little White Choon-Box. “Blogging Without the Brainpower!”

Spring seems to have finally come to Atlanta just before its formal arrival date. It’s a bright, sunny day, the trees are in bud, and the temperature is expected to sneak past 70°F. And I’m in here like a dolt, sitting in front of the damned computer...

...but the Mistress of Sarcasm is home for a visit (primarily to do a couple of laundry loads, but I’ll take what I can get!), so it’s really a pleasant day overall. And did I mention that it’s Friday?

Let’s see what’s playing this week:

Jump Up - Elvis Costello
Back In The U.S.S.R. - The Beatles
Tank Graveyard - Paul Cantelon, Everything Is Illuminated
Exaltation - Matisyahu
Fixing A Hole - The Beatles
Heavenly Bank Account - A Tribute Band for FZ
Act III: The Maos Dance - John Adams, Nixon in China
Luck Be A Lady - Skanatra
The Laughing Song - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks

There once was a boy who lived all alone by the sea
He was a charmer, a charmer of highest degree
But he was lonely and sometimes there was no one to charm
So this clever boy had a way to charm himself - he meant no harm
He’d dance and sing and laugh and smile
And after a while he’d roll right on the ground
He’d sing his song all day long -
Had no words, just this crazy sound...

Called the Laughing Song (all day long)
Called the Laughing Song (all day long)
Called the Laughing Song, all day long
The Laughing Song, he’d laugh, he’d laugh, he’d laugh
Ha ha ha - he’d laugh, he’d laugh

There were days when this boy was so wound up
He’d practically laugh his head off
Dancing and singing and giggling and wiggling
He got so silly, he could hardly let off
On one such day, a ship came by
And, to its surprise, heard the funny noise
The captain noticed the giggling swimmer and with a laugh cried,
“Look at that boy!”
When, in the middle of a backstroke, the boy noticed the ship
He laughed even more
And soon all the crew couldn’t help themselves -
They were rolling on the floor.

Called the Laughing Song (all day long)
Called the Laughing Song (all day long)
Called the Laughing Song, he’d laugh all day long
Laugh la la la la lala la
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Hee hee hee
Ho ho ho

The boy heard the crew say,
“You’re a secret charm - come with us, you’ll be a star!”
So off he went with the ship
Back to his native land, which wasn’t far
While rehearsing his act he made the grandiose mistake
Of living with his long-lost uncles
Could you blame them for wondering about a nephew
Who just couldn’t seem to lose the chuckles
But his song went on and on and on
And that’s about all he had to say
His uncles did not realize the wrong they did
When they had him put away

Called the Laughing Song (all day long)
Called the Laughing Song (all day long)
Called the Laughing Song, he’d laugh, he’d laugh, he’d laugh
Ha ha ha
Oh, he’s laughing...
Ha ha
Hee hee
Ha ha ha ha ha ho ho ho...
Club Limbo - Squirrel Nut Zippers

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

2010-03-19T13:03:00.003-04:00

Hakuna wishes to remind you that Friday Ark #287 is afloat at the Modulator. And that’s not all: Carnival of the Cats #314 goes up Sunday evening at When Cats Attack!

Update: CotC #314 is up.

TAKING LEAVE OF MY CENSUS

2010-03-18T11:50:00.003-04:00

Last night I found our 2010 U.S. Census packet in the day’s pile of mail. I had been expecting it.

When something arrives in the mail that demands my prompt attention, my usual modus operandi is to shove it into the ever-growing pile of correspondence on my desk, to be dealt with at a convenient time. Given my tendency to procrastinate, said convenient time is generally somewhere in the distant, nebulous future.

But this envelope bore an explicit threat: YOUR RESPONSE IS REQUIRED BY LAW. And even though it did not say “PROMPT RESPONSE,” I figured why take a chance? I opened that sucker up and filled out the form right away. Happily, it was the short questionnaire, not the onerous and incredibly nosy long version (“How many taint warheads have you and your family members had in the past two years?”), so it took all of three minutes to do my Civic Duty.

Jerry, over at Back Home Again, was inspired by his filling out his own headcount form to take a backward look at his Census Footprint: where he was during each of the census years of his life.

That inspired me to look at my own Census Footprint. I’ve been walking the planet long enough to have been counted six times now. Here they are:

Eight years old, living in Massapequa, NY with two parents and one brother.
Single, still in Massapequa, NY (in a different house) with two parents and one brother. In June of that year, I was graduated from high school; that fall, I moved to Princeton, NJ to attend college.
Married, with one child. Living in Hackettstown, NJ.
Married, now with two children. Living in Trumbull, CT.
Married; one child away at college, one still at home. Living in Atlanta, GA.
Still married... and still living in Atlanta, GA. Both children off on their own.

So: what does your Census Footprint look like? Where were you on those “zero years”?

FRED AND BLARNEY

2010-03-17T15:52:00.002-04:00

Laden with blarney though I may be, there’s no point in pretending that there is even the tiniest speck of Irish in me. Unless you count residual whisky.

Sometimes I am envious of our brethren from the Emerald Isle, though. I mean, when was the last time anyone wished you “the luck of the Jewish”?

I thought not.

But they say everyone is Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day, the day that commemorates the life of the ancient Saint Padraig, he who drove the snakes out of Ireland... and directly to China, where they were converted into soup and snake-bile wine.

That’s why, come evening, a small group of us will descend on one of the local establishments to enjoy a supper of corned beef and cabbage. Corned beef is one of those meats that both the Irish and the Jews appreciate, after all.

As for breakfast, what did I have?

A couple of green eggs, sunny side up, fresh from the steaming nethers of my pet leprechaun!

MAX

2010-03-16T22:17:00.009-04:00

Back in the early 1930’s when Max was a lad, he would often play soccer with his friend Karl. In those days, it was, perhaps, unusual for a Jew and a Catholic to be friends - more so because this was in Poland, a place where Jews were often treated with contempt and loathing by their countrymen. But in the town of Wadowice, a stone’s throw from Kraków, the Jews and Poles played soccer together. Karl, a skilled goaltender, even would play on the Jewish team if they were shorthanded.

One day, Karl came around to see if Max could kick the ball around. But it was Saturday - Shabbat - and Max told him he could not, for on that day he would accompany his mother to synagogue. Karl may have been momentarily disappointed, yet he did not let on. Instead, he said Max should be proud that he was honoring his mother and upholding his religious traditions.

Over time, the boys went their separate ways. Karl eventually became very successful in his work, and Max soldiered on in his own business ventures. But then war broke out... and that changed Max’s life forever.

He enlisted in the Polish army, eager to fight the German enemy. It was not too long, however, before he was captured by the Russians. They shipped him off to various labor camps, where he did whatever kind of backbreaking work his taskmasters set before him. It was a rough life, but Max survived. Most of the rest of his family did not, having stayed behind to face the tender mercies of the Nazi death machine. The ovens of Auschwitz swallowed them all.

Emigration to Palestine was a temptation, then, but Max wanted to stay and help rebuild his homeland. He ended up in the electroplating business, running several factories. But the Communists came, and life - difficult enough in a land still riddled with anti-Semitism despite being virtually judenrein - became intolerable. With a handful of illegal passports, he gathered up his wife and two daughters and slipped out of the country quietly, taking the train to Paris. From there, a harrowing ten-day sea passage brought them to the shores of New York. It was 1962 when they caught their first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

Some years later, a mutual acquaintance from the old days paid a visit on Karl, who was living in Italy at the time. “Do you remember Max?” the friend asked.

“Of course I remember Moszek!” responded Karl. “How is my old friend?”

* * *
Today we buried Max in the red soil of Birmingham, Alabama, his home for most of the forty-eight years since his arrival in the States. He had lived to see his family grow, resurgent in his new homeland... and to see a granddaughter’s wedding.

Not incidentally, he had lived to see Poland, his old home, throw off the yoke of Communism. The events of 1989 had to have been soul-stirring for him, even at a remove of several thousand miles... not least because his old friend Karl had been instrumental in providing the spiritual impetus that enabled the Solidarity movement to rise up and win in that historic peaceful revolution.

As Jews, we don’t necessarily subscribe to the popular view of a Heaven amidst the clouds, with Pearly Gates, wings, and harps. We believe that there is a World to Come, details about which are necessarily vague... but that there is a portion there for all righteous people. (There’s no monopoly on salvation.)

And who knows, but that Max is now reunited with his old soccer-playing buddy, who arrived in that World to Come not quite five years ago amidst quite a bit of earthly fanfare. For Karl, you see, was none other than Karol Józef Wojtyła, who became very successful indeed in his work, rising to the top of his profession... and taking the name Pope John Paul II.

HONK

2010-03-15T22:12:00.001-04:00

Here’s a bumper sticker I’d like to see...

[Click to embiggen.]

CHERRY

2010-03-15T13:19:00.003-04:00

This morning, as I was returning to Chez Elisson after a wine-acquisition expedition, I saw an unusual sight: a 1962 Chevy Impala, tooling down the road in front of me.

The car was cherry, both in condition and color. It was being driven by a portly, white-haired gentleman who appeared to be about seventy years of age... and who seemed to be enjoying himself. And why not? It was a beautiful morning, and he was piloting a beautiful ride. A vintage ride, for sure - fully 48 years old. [And back when it was new, pretty much the only 48-year-old vehicle in existence was the Ford Model T.]

The 1962 Impala is not all that different from the 1961 Impala, a vehicle that Eli (hizzownself) purchased back in January of that long-ago year. It was the first new family car since the two-tone Dodge he had bought in 1954, when I was still a squatty little toddler... and so it was a Very Exciting Thing. It was a metallic beige color - “Champagne,” I’m pretty sure they called it, with the hyperbole typical of the automotive industry both then and now - and it had plenty of flashy chrome, inside and out.

It’s bizarre. I still remember the license tag number on that car: 1561-SB. In those days, New York plates were good for two years, so eventually those tags were replaced by another set bearing the number 9N-6661.

And there, Esteemed Readers, you have an illustration of the power of the Human Mind. For I can remember ridiculous ephemera such as the license tag numbers on cars my family owned fifty years ago... and yet if you asked me what the number is on the Elissonmobile - the car I drive every day, the very car that sits in my garage, even as I write this - I could not tell you to save my life.

DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS

2010-03-13T22:54:00.007-05:00

Last night, after stuffing our faces at Canton Cooks (a local place that serves authentic Hong Kong-style cuisine), we joined Johnny and Jackie Tabs at their home for a spot of dessert.

Jackie had made Cherry Peek-a-Boo Bars, shortcakey affairs with a layer of tart cherries... and to wash them down she had made a nice strong pot of coffee.

Jackie’s Cherry Peek-a-Boo Bars, the correct cake to enjoy with corrected coffee.

At Casa di Tabs, no cup of coffee is complete without a shot of sambuca, so I proceeded to doctor up my coffee appropriately, creating the famous Caffè Corretto, the “corrected” coffee of bella Italia.

Coffee is fine, in and of itself... but if you want it corrected, you add a shot of sambuca... or grappa... or brandy. These spirits transform a good cuppa Joe into a potent, soul-warming cuppa Giuseppe, a fine dessert accompaniment as well as an excellent morning eye-opener.

This got me thinking about other “corrected” coffee drinks. Spirits and coffee, of course, go together hand-in-hand. You can go the sweet route - Grand Marnier, Kahlùa, or Bailey’s Irish Cream are dandy - or you can add something even more potent. I still have warm memories of a Thermos filled with hot coffee, cream, sugar, and lashings of Scotch whisky, consumed on a cold fall afternoon at a football game over thirty-five years ago. (Of course, that would be blended Scotch, not single-malt.)

But for the finest Corrected Coffee outside of Italy, you have to head to the Emerald Isle for inspiration. I speak, naturally, of Irish Coffee.

There is something magic about the combination of Irish whisky and coffee that gladdens the heart, quickens the blood, and loosens the tongue. You brew up some strong coffee and dump it into a cup in which you have placed a few cubes of Demerara sugar and a liberal shot of the Irish. Stir to dissolve the sugar, then top with a spoonful of lightly sweetened, freshly whipped cream. None of that shit from a can, if you please... and none of that Cool Whippy ersatz schlag, either. The Irish deserves nothing but the best.

Now drink that sumbitch down. Have another, if you please... or two or three. Now, are ye not ready for the Feast of Saint Padraig, a mere three days away?

IEATAPETA DAY

2010-03-13T08:46:00.005-05:00

Monday, March 15 is not only the Ides of March. It’s IEATAPETA Day!

That’s International Eat a Tasty Animal for PETA Day, in case you are unfamiliar with the acronym. Seeing Meryl Yourish’s post yesterday served as a timely reminder; it reminded me, as well, of a very pleasant pre-IEATAPETA luncheon we enjoyed with Ms. Yourish two years ago.

The point of observing IEATAPETA Day is to figuratively thumb one’s nose at PETA, an organization that sees nothing wrong with comparing the consumption of food animals to slavery... or to the Holocaust. This four-year-old post of Meryl’s says it all:

The [notorious 2003] PETA ad campaign compared the slaughter of chickens for food to the slaughter of six million Jews by the Nazis. They traveled the country with a series of billboards that used Holocaust imagery next to images of animals. They lied to the American Holocaust Museum to obtain permission to use these pictures in their ad campaign.

It’s a well-known fact that PETA has always chosen sensationalism in their ad campaigns. They’re usually stupid and offensive, but this campaign caused enough pain that a child of Holocaust survivors wrote me a letter asking if there weren’t something we could do about it. That’s why I created the first International Eat an Animal for PETA Day...

...Don’t get me wrong. I am utterly against animal cruelty. But I am also utterly against cruelty to humans, and especially against the misuse of Holocaust imagery to get a point across.

I see nothing evil about the idea that humans, who sit atop the food chain (unless one is in the jungle or deep in the woods), should use animals as a protein source. If you’re squeamish about eating animals qua animals, there are plenty of animal-derived products - eggs, milk, butter, and cheese - that do not require that animals give up their lives. But to PETA, even this is unacceptable. To them, even keeping company with Animal Companions - pets - constitutes unacceptable exploitation. They forget that the domesticated animals with whom we share our planet have mutually evolved, along with us, to be what they are today because of their having been “exploited” by humans for their food value... or for their company.

What am I gonna eat? Well, having just polished off a lovely brisket of beef last night, perhaps we will move on to beasts somewhat higher on the Cuteness Scale. A lambie, or a duckie, perhaps. Or, in deference to the Missus (who will let neither lambie or duckie cross her lips), a nice veal chop. I also have a few nice chunks of Bambi in the freezer...

Alas, whale bacon is not on the menu: You can’t get it here.

Update: How did I celebrate IEATAPETA Day? I breakfasted on eggs (stolen from exploited chickens) and cheese (from cows enslaved by The Man). Since I wasn’t overly hungry, I had a simple suppler consisting of a couple of slices of Strasburg Pie: fatty duck liver baked into a puff pastry crust. What it lacked in volume it made up for in Caloric Concentration. Yummy!

YOUR GOVERNMENT AT WORK

2010-03-13T07:54:00.004-05:00

It being 2010, it’s time once again for the Great Decennial Head-Count here in the United States. Yes: the Census!

The process is simple, really. You get a form in the mail, you fill it in, and you send it back. [How easy it is to fill in depends largely on whether it’s the short form or the incredibly nosy long form.] And if you merit special attention, a real live census taker may show up at your door.

Now, there’s a profession that might just be trickier than it sounds at first blush. Asking people how many folks are living in their house? Piece of cake... until you run into Hannibal Lecter:

“A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.”

Sure, he’s a fictional character... but whaddaya bet census taker recruitment took a big hit after Silence of the Lambs came out?

Taking the census is an expensive proposition, but it’s a Necessary Evil. At the very least, you need to know how many people inhabit a given state so that the appropriate number of ~~political whores~~ congressional representatives may be assigned to that state. And population data is essential to critical governmental functions such as gerrymandering, pork barreling, log-rolling, cheese distribution, et cetera.

Given that it is expensive, however, you wonder whether the People in Charge are doing everything they can to save a few bucks when they can. After all, the economy is still in the bog (by which I mean the toilet, not the swamp), and we need to conserve as many dollars as we can, the better to donate them to incompetent Wall Street investment bankers and sloppily-managed corporations.

So why did I get a letter from the folks at the Bureau of the Census a couple of days ago, the sole purpose of which was to tell me that I would be shortly be receiving - wait for it - another letter from the Bureau of the Census containing the actual questionnaire I would need to fill out?

I don’t need a fucking letter to tell me that I will be getting a letter. How many millions of taxpayer dollars were pissed away to send that letter? Don’t the bean-counters ever talk to the head-counters?

Why, it makes no sense-us!