BIG NIGHT

Fifteen years ago, Stanley Tucci, Tony Shalhoub, Ian Holm, Isabella Rosselini, and Minnie Driver appeared in a fine little movie about a Big Night.

The story centers about two brothers, Primo (Shalhoub) and Secondo (Tucci), Italian immigrants who arrive in the Golden Land of Opportunity - New Jersey - where they run a restaurant showcasing Primo’s excellent (and uncompromising) fare. Unfortunately, offering authentic Italian cuisine to food-ignorant Americans in the 1950’s is like casting pearls before swine. Their restaurant lacks a steady clientele...

...but Pascal (Holm), who operates a competing eatery nearby, has no such problem. A showy, larger-than-life personality, he has figured out the secret of success: Give the rubes what they want. Spaghetti, meatballs, flaming dishes prepared tableside, stereotypical music - it’s crap, but Pascal is doing quite well offering it up.

He’d like Primo and Secondo to sell out to him - they’re at the end of their financial rope - but they refuse. Pascal then offers to invite Louis Prima to come to dinner at their restaurant. A massive crowd is virtually guaranteed, and the brothers go all out to put on the Feed of the Century. But will Prima show?

We had our own Big Night this Saturday evening just past. Our friends Jackie and Johnny Tabs had received a pile of pasta-making equipment from Jackie’s mother, and several months ago they hatched a plan to have a small army of friends over to eat freshly made pasta.


Johnny Tabs and Jackie show off the fruits of our labors: a passel of pasta.

The pasta in question was a joint project, requiring the combined efforts of Jackie (who had grown up watching her mother make the stuff), Johnny Tabs, and me. We assembled mid-day Friday and proceeded to crank out a substantial batch of trenette (a long linguini-like pasta) and fettucini.

Crank out - literally. For once the pasta dough is made by carefully combining flour and eggs and kneading until satiny, the process involves repeatedly running the dough through hand-cranked metal rollers, squeezing it down to a uniform thickness. Then the skein of dough is run through the cutting rollers, creating long strands of the desired width.

We’ve all eaten plenty of dried pasta, the kind that comes in a box from the supermarket, and it’s a perfectly adequate Tomato Sauce Conveyance Device... but the hand-made stuff is another thing entirely. Cooked down to a perfect al dente degree of doneness and properly dressed, it is a true delight.


Fresh pasta: trenette (back) and fettucini (front).

We elected to serve our pasta three ways: with Jackie’s red sauce and SWMBO’s meatballs; with Houston Steve’s pesto (made with his home-grown basil); and with sautéed garlic, broccoli rabe and chicken andouille sausage. It turns out that trenette is the pasta of choice for serving with pesto (trenette alla pesto genovese being a signature regional dish) - who knew?


Pasta with pesto (top left), with red sauce and meatballs (top right), and with broccoli rabe, garlic, and sausage (bottom). Serious yum.

Laura Belle and JoAnn concocted a couple of monster antipasto platters, and I threw in a jar of my home-preserved marinated roasted peppers. A tasty salad, a few bottles of Chianti, a caffè correto, Marc and Shelly’s trifle, and Jackie’s pizzelle rounded out the picture.

Just as in the filmic Big Night, Louis Prima never showed. And just as in the filmic Big Night, everyone had a blast anyway. The only thing we were missing was the timpano.

WE REMEMBER

We remember. Original artwork by Elisson.

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years,
Thine alabaster cities gleam,
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown Thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

It has been ten years now, and I still cannot sing the rarely-heard third verse of ”America the Beautiful“ without getting a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

I was lucky. I had no friends or family among the victims of the September 11 terror attacks. My loss was that same loss that all of us Americans suffered that terrible day, the loss of innocence. It was a collective failure of our imaginations, that we could not have envisioned terrorists flying hijacked planes - not to distant ports for ransom, but into buildings as jet fuel-laden bombs.

I remember that day. I was in the car on the way to the office when SWMBO called. Turn on the radio, she said - there was something going on in New York. Something involving a plane - was it a Cessna? was it something bigger? I thought - crashing into the World Trade Center. A feeling of nervous dread crept over me. Turning on the radio, the first thing I heard was that a jet airliner had collided with one of the twin towers. Moments later, when a horrified newscaster reported a second plane striking the other tower, that nervous dread became a sickening certainty: We were being attacked. What was next? Moments later, we knew.

We remember the smoke billowing from the doomed towers, papers fluttering down like snow, hopeless people jumping in despair.

We remember the First Responders, the courageous firefighters and police officers who dashed into the buildings in the hopes of rescuing as many as possible.

But I also remember...

...the New York of my younger days, when the Empire State Building ruled Manhattan’s skyline from its perch in Midtown, the gleaming Art Deco spire of the Chrysler Building a silvery second banana. Alas, that is the skyline we see once more, an empty space at the island’s foot where the towers once stood.

...the first time I saw the World Trade Center up close, seeing its sheer massiveness.

...dining in Windows on the World, looking north over the entire island as the setting sun cast a reddish glow over the city.

...business meetings at the World Trade Center, amidst the hustle and bustle of the New York workday.

...countless flights into Newark International, the towers by then a familiar landmark to the east.

I remember the world as it was. It will never again be the same.

ADVENTURES IN VETERINARY MEDICINE

Hakuna is nothing if not perceptive.

Despite our (thus far successful) efforts to keep her apart from Bernadette - Hakuna does not play well with Strange Kitties - we’re sure she has figured out that there is another cat somewhere in the house. Her body language gives her away.

Hakuna’s angst at dealing with fellow felines, however, pales in comparison to her loathing of the annual Veterinarian Visit. As soon as she spots the green Sherpa carrier, she immediately tries to slink away and make herself scarce.

These days I have a couple of advantages. Hakuna, being sixteen years old, is still pretty spry - but she has slowed down somewhat. It’s a lot easier to corner her in our bedroom, because she can’t cram herself under our new bed. And it’s a lot easier to to grab her once she’s cornered. The growling and yowling generally subside after a couple of minutes.

Today, as soon as she saw the Sherpa, she tucked her tail between her legs and slowly crept off to the bathroom, attempting to don her Cloak of Kitty Invisibility as she hid behind the door adjacent to the toilet. It did not work, alas.

Once we got to the vet, things proceeded without incident. ’Kuna may hate that green Sherpa when she sees it at home, but once at the vet, she clings to it like a life raft in heavy seas. And once she is out, she sits quietly on the floor, looking every bit like one of those big-eyed kittens in the Cheesy Black Velvet Paintings whilst making herself as small as possible.


Maybe if I give him the Big Eyes, he won’t give me... The Needle!

What is it with this distaste for the Kitty-Medico? Do the sounds, smells, and surroundings bring back unpleasant memories of early kittenhood? Does she recall being poked, prodded, having blood drawn, getting injections, and having a thermometer jammed up her ass from the last visit? I can certainly empathize, being no fan of the annual physical myself.

Or are her concerns more... sinister?

Has Hakuna heard the legends - legends communicated quietly in the dead of night between Household Beasts, much as human children might tell ghost stories around a campfire - legends about a place where cats and dogs go to get The Needle? Is she thinking about Matata, who one day went to the vet and never came back?

Bernadette: potential replacement?

Is she worried that we’re going to kick her to the curb, throw her under the bus, boot her right over the Rainbow Bridge? I can just imagine what she’s thinking:

“Uh oh - the Goofy One brought the Green Thing out. That can only mean one thing: We’re going to the Place of the Little Room with the Metal Table. I hate that stinking place! I hate listening to those damned yappy dogs!

“Oh, crap - he’s closed the door. I’m trapped. Trapped! Maybe if I make myself look real small he won’t see me. No, damn it - here he comes! Ooof-ah!

“Shit. I just thought of something. That other cat! I know she’s in this house somewhere! Maybe she’s my replacement... and today’s the day they’re gonna give me The Needle! I am so screwed!”

Don’t worry, little Hakuna. Bernadette is simply a guest, not a potential replacement sent here for a trial period. All we’re doing is making sure you’re as healthy as possible so we can enjoy each other’s company as long as possible.

And sorry about that thermometer up the ass. It’s just business.

Update: Friday Ark #353 is asail, ably captained by Steve the Modulator... and Carnival of the Cats 9/11 is up at Mind of Mog. Go pay a visit, y’heah?

THE SIREN SONG OF LABOR DAY

The Missus and I had a pleasant enough Labor Day. Brunch with a few of our friends, followed by several hours of sitting in front of the television set watching the bright red blobs on the weather maps dance across the screen.

The local tornado sirens got a workout. Every half hour or so, they would begin wailing their song, warning us that a funnel cloud was whirling its way through some part of Cobb County. West Cobb - and southern Cherokee to the north - were getting a pounding, thanks to the remnants of Tropical Storm Lee. All told, about four tornadoes touched down in the area. We were more fortunate here in east Cobb, where all we got was a badly needed drenching.

The vile weather meant that the ribs we were going to enjoy for dinner would need to undergo Oven-Cookage rather than being smoked outdoors on the grill. But they turned out fine, thanks to liberal lashings of Billie Bob’s Sooper-Seekrit Barbecue Rub, augmented by a dose of Chinese five-spice and chipotle powder. Fall-off-the-bone tender, they were. Sautéed wild mushrooms and some broccolini stir-fried with soy, garlic, and sesame oil completed the menu.

We may complain about a few things in life. We’re not crazy about the remodeling job we did in the upstairs bath, the house needs painting, et cetera, et cetera... but we’re really quite lucky overall. Our neighborhood has been spared some of the heinous weather we’ve seen here both yesterday and in late April, and our friends and family managed to get through Hurricane Irene without too much difficulty. And we have more than enough to eat. Who says you have to wait until Thanksgiving to be thankful?

FROZEN ASSETS

It looks like a slice of cake, but it’s no cake: A chunk of Frozen Chocolate Mousse awaits my eager desserty appetite.

Thirty years ago, I purchased a book that would change my life.

It was Maida Heatter’s Book of Great Chocolate Desserts. I liked chocolate, and I liked desserts. How could I not buy that book?

What set that book apart was Maida’s engaging writing style. Her recipes were meticulous and precise, with no detail, however trivial, left to the imagination. Yet instead of being tedious and persnickety, she walked you through each step like a patient teacher and confidante. If you followed her instructions, you couldn’t fail.

And ohhh, those chocolate desserts. When I think of the Heatter dessert oeuvre, I am reminded of my friend Gary’s comment about ice cream: All ice cream flavors are good; some just taste better than others. Maida’s confections were all excellent. It was only a question of which ones you liked best.

Chocolate mousse. Chocolate pots de crème. Mexican chocolate icebox cookies. Frozen white chocolate mousse. Made-from-scratch chocolate pudding. The best honkin’ hot fudge sauce on the planet. Torte soufflé au chocolat. Sachertorte. Chocolate cheesecake with amaretto. Chocolate angel pie. Chocolate Regal. Brownies. Chocolate chip-coconut macaroons. Craig Claiborne’s Rum Chocolate Dessert. Good Gawd, you could eat yourself to death... and this was just the tip of the Choco-Berg.

Later, I would investigate other Heatter desserts, recipes from her other books. But the chocolate dessert book remains my main go-to guide when I want something that is reliably, ridiculously decadent and delicious. It hasn’t disappointed me yet.

Frozen Chocolate Mousse with Mexican Chocolate Crust

[I made this a few nights ago for a dinner party - the first time trotting out this particular Heatter recipe in about 25 years. It’s too dangerous to keep around the house, which is why we don’t have it more often. This time I added my own little twist by jazzing up the crust with some Mexican spice.]

Crust:
8 ounces Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers
1 tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
¾ stick unsalted butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Take a 9-inch springform pan and grease the sides - not the bottom - with butter.

Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers come in a nine-ounce package. Take four wafers out of the package; set aside or eat. Put the rest in a food processor fitted with a metal blade and process until you have fine crumbs. (Alternatively, seal the wafers in a plastic ziplock bag and beat the crap out of them with a hammer or rolling pin... or use Eric’s technique of painstakingly grinding the wafers with a mortar and pestle.) Add the cinnamon, black pepper, and cayenne; blend well. Dump the crumbs into a bowl and blend with the melted butter.

Put about ⅔ of the crumbs in the pan and, tilting the pan, press them against the sides of the pan with your fingers to create uniform sidewalls. Then add the rest of the crumbs to the pan and press against the bottom of the pan to form a uniform crust. Bake for 7-8 minutes. Set the pan aside on a rack to cool completely.

Filling:
1 tbsp dry instant espresso or coffee (I used a single-serving packet of Starbucks Via)
½ cup boiling water
12 ounces semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
1¼ cup granulated sugar
4 eggs, large or extra-large, separated
3 cups whipping cream
⅛ tsp cream of tartar
Pinch of salt

You can use any good-quality semisweet chocolate in this recipe. I’ve made it with Nestlé’s Toll House chocolate chips with excellent results. Most recently, I used a blend of half semisweet and half bittersweet Callebaut chocolate. Just make sure you use real chocolate. If it contains any fat other than cocoa butter, it’s not real chocolate - it’s chocolate-flavored shite, and it does not belong in your kitchen.

In a small, heavy saucepan over medium heat, dissolve the instant coffee in the boiling water. Add ½ cup of the sugar (reserve the remaining ¾ cup) and stir until dissolved. Turn the heat down low and add the chocolate, stirring until melted and completely smooth. Remove from the heat and allow to cool for a minute or two, then add the egg yolks, one at a time, beating with a wire whisk after adding each one. You should end up with a smooth, thick chocolate mixture. Set aside to cool.

In a chilled large bowl, beat the cream just until it holds a shape. (Don’t beat it until it’s too stiff. You want whipped cream, not butter.) Set aside.

In a second bowl with clean beaters, beat the egg whites until foamy. Add the salt and cream of tartar. Beat until the whites begin to hold a shape, then slow down the beaters and add the remaining ¾ cup of sugar, a spoonful at a time, beating until well-incorporated. Speed up the beaters and beat until the whites hold a definite shape but are not stiff or glossy. Fold a third of the chocolate mixture into the whites, then fold in another third. Then fold the whites into the remaining third of the chocolate.

In a large mixing bowl, fold the whipped cream into the chocolate mixture. Then pour the mousse into the prepared crust and smooth or swirl the top. Stick the whole mess into the freezer. After about an hour cover the top with cling wrap or aluminum foil and wrap the whole thing up airtight. Freeze overnight.

To serve, use a heavy knife to cut around the sides of the pan, then release the sides and remove. If desired, you can use a wide spatula to remove the mousse from the pan bottom before serving, but this isn’t necessary.

Cut the mousse into slices with a heavy knife; it will slice easily and cleanly. You can serve it with a little whipped cream or just as-is; either way, it’s ridiculously delicious and completely decadent.

And if your ass gets fat, blame Maida. I still do.

SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE GREEN FRIEND

Williams-Sonoma is one of my favorite places for kitchen gadgets and Foodie Exotica.

They’re past masters at the art of repackaging. They can take ten cents worth of cupcake mix, stick it in a fancy box with a retro design, and sell it for $12.95 to suburbanites with more money than brains. But I give them credit for having pretty much any cooking-related device I might decide I need... including a fine array of top-quality colanders.

(You’d think they would set up a perimeter when they see me coming, but no. Not yet, anyway.)

And here’s something I never thought I would need: a Hulk spatula. Pancakes wouldn’t dare stick to the griddle with one of these around.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

Evil twins, separated at birth?





These images remind me of the 1938 B-movie classic Angels with Dirty Faces, starring James Cagney and Pat O’Brien and featuring the Dead End Kids. As the movie begins, young hooligans Rocky Sullivan (Cagney) and Jerry Connolly (O’Brien) are robbing a railroad car. A cop gives chase, and as the two are making their escape, Rocky saves Jerry’s life by yanking him out of the way of a train. But Jerry is the faster of the two, and he is able to get away, while Rocky is collared and sent to reform school. He grows up to become a career criminal, while Jerry takes the opposite path, becoming a priest.

Could this be what happened here? Did Bozo (here pictured using advanced transportation to visit an array of ethnic stereotypes) run just a little faster, evading whatever passes for the Railroad Bull in Clowny World, leaving his twin brother to spend a life behind bars? One can only speculate.

FRIDAY CAT BLOGGING

“OK, so it’s my turn. Now what?”

Once upon a time, Friday was the day of choice for bloggers to post photographs of their cats. That, of course, was before cats took over the Internet.

I’ve been lax about posting pics of Hakuna lately. As a Matronly Dowager-Kitty, she tends to sleep a lot during the day, and I don’t like to pester her overmuch with the camera. And Bernadette, who is bunking in with us while the Mistress of Sarcasm travels around the Northeast, is notoriously shy, so capturing her on film a CCD sensor is tricky business.

Rahel, however, has not let me off the hook... and so, submitted for your approval is the above shot of Hakuna as she considers her next move in the Chess Game of Life.

DINNER WITH MISTER DEBONAIR

My Esteemed Readers will often ask me, “Mister Debonair, how should I go about the business of impressing a Special Someone?”

This is a timely question, because I found myself in that exact situation only yesterday. It was SWMBO’s birthday, and I wanted to celebrate the occasion in an appropriately festive, yet romantic, manner. Most people would choose to spring for an expensive feed at some intimate boîte... but I am not most people. No, this occasion demanded something with a certain je ne sais quoi.

As I thought about options for the evening, I remembered a time long ago, back in the earliest days of our relationship, when I fixed a home-cooked meal for the young lady who would eventually become The Missus. Then, as now, I believed that an elegant meal, personally and painstakingly prepared in the Home Kitchen, is far more impressive and romantic than anything you could get at a restaurant. (That, and you need not worry about tipping the surly waitstaff for expectorating in your mashed potatoes.) Then, unlike now, I believed that SWMBO would enjoy the exact same foods I do, including lamb.

After over thirty-five years, I am still a believer in the grace and elegance of a home-cooked meal. But I know better than to serve leg of lamb to the Missus, who would sooner pound nails into her skull with a ball-peen hammer than eat of the tender, wooly beast.

No: the evening’s menu would be simple, yet appetizing... and fully acceptable to She Who Must Be Obeyed. No lamb. No duck. No dark meat chicken. No goat cheese. No excessively frizzy lettuce, raw onions, or beets.

I opted for hanger steak, a flavorsome, yet relatively lean cut of beef, which I pan-seared and served with sautéed shallots and a red wine reduction. Accompanying this was a salad of vine-ripened tomatoes with fresh basil, a sprinkling of fines herbes, a splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and a light dusting of Balinese sea salt. By way of a vegetable, I roasted off some Brussels sprouts and dressed them with chopped capers and preserved lemon.

The drinky part of the meal was a lovely 2007 Mandolin pinot noir.

We dined by the light of candles, the two of us, and SWMBO’s grey-blue eyes reflected their soft glow, just as they did in the days when we first met. I don’t know whether the dinner impressed her - but she still impresses the hell out of me.

So take Mister Debonair’s advice: If you want to make a big romantic splash with that Special Someone, get out your pots and pans... and don’t forget the candlesticks! (I’d rethink the Brussels sprouts, though. Nothing will kill a Romantic Evening faster than a bellyful of Fart Balls.)

OVERHEARD AT THE CHICKEN PLACE

Just in case you think LeeAnn is the only one who is exposed to bizarre Slice o’ Life Dialogue in the course of her daily toils, here’s an actual conversation that was overheard - and reported verbatim - by one of the Mistress of Sarcasm’s friends while grabbing a quick meal at a local KFC outlet:

Chicken-Loving Patron: Gimme a 21-piece bucket of chicken.

Cashier: Is that for here or to go?

Chicken-Loving Patron: Mutha Fucka! How I’m gonna eat 21 pieces of chicken here?

Cashier: Bitch, I don’t know your life!

INFINITELY MORE LOVELY

She Who Must Be Obeyed, flanked by the Mistress of Sarcasm and Elder Daughter.

Today marks the completion of yet another Trip Around the Sun for the Missus.

We’re getting to the point in life at which we don’t take those trips for granted. She Who Must Be Obeyed has already outlived her father, the legendary Billie Bob of blessèd memory, and I hope to do the same for my mother sometime in early 2013.

Nothing, however, is guaranteed, which means we have to enjoy life as it comes: the company of our family and friends, good food and drink, opportunities to teach and to learn, new experiences. And birthdays!

This whole past week has been a birthday present of sorts for the Missus. Elder Daughter has been visiting, enjoying a break from her summer on the farm and giving us ample (but never sufficient!) time to enjoy the company of both our daughters at once. She and the Mistress of Sarcasm are now enroute to the Northeast, where the Mistress will be doing a bit of reconnaissance before deciding where to settle down for the next few years.

Time is a trickster. Even as it hammers our bodies with the cumulative effects of gravity and age, it allows us to accumulate wisdom and memories, both of which can make us better, more fully realized human beings. In the case of the Missus, Time is graciously minimizing the effects of the former two while allowing the latter two free rein. The SWMBO of today is, in my eyes, infinitely more lovely than any earlier version of herself. She, being modest, would no doubt disagree - and she is, after all, entitled to her opinion, no matter how ridiculous it may be.

Happy birthday, my love - may it bring a year of health and happiness without any limit to any good thing, and may there be many, many more to come... with me around to enjoy them with you, of course!

MORNING REFLECTION

Getting old: everybody wants to do it, but it’s a bumpy fucking ride. - She Who Must Be Obeyed

Every day we get up in the morning; every day we are increasingly displeased by what we see in the mirror staring back at us. There’s a new wrinkle here, a tiny imperfection there, and the gradual cumulative effects of time and gravity are ever-present. Hitherto unfamiliar infirmities lurk.

But I figure if I can still make it into the bathroom to see that baleful reflection, things just Ain’t All That Bad.

A SPECIAL SHABBAT

Heavenly, hot-from-the-oven challah, courtesy of Elder Daughter.

Even as the ground shakes and the wind blows in the east, the wheel of Time continues to turn. And this week it brought us a very special Shabbat.

Look, I am nohow a punctilious keeper of the Sabbath. I do many things observant Jews would never consider doing on the Sabbath: turning lights off and on, shaving, handling money, driving, et cetera. (I do try not to do any actual work, but that’s not an effort I confine solely to the Sabbath.)

But there is something magical about Friday evening if we allow ourselves the privilege of entering the precincts of sacred time, however imperfect our observance. And this Friday evening was especially magical, because both Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm were with us at the Sabbath table.

We ushered the evening with traditions that our family has followed more in the breach than in the actual performance: singing Shalom Aleichem, blessing the children, and the appropriate blessings over wine (Kiddush) and bread (Motzi). Our daughters are adults now, and I thought of all of the lost opportunities, all those weeks of their childhood when I did not recite the Priestly Benediction with my hands laid upon their heads... and yet this moment, in some small way, made up for it.

Dinner was chicken, a Sabbath tradition, and this one (an Alton Brown recipe involving a metric buttload of shallots and garlic cloves) was especially worthy of the evening. The wine was a Lenz merlot from the north fork of Long Island, a connection with my geographic roots. And the bread... ahh, the bread. The bread was a heavenly loaf of challah, made by Elder Daughter’s own hands, served piping hot from the oven.

In keeping with an untraditional (but meaningful) tradition Elder Daughter has begun observing recently, we all shared words about the things for which we were grateful this past week... and I needed only to look about me to find inspiration.

GOODNIGHT, IRENE

All this worry about the latest hurricane to hit the eastern seaboard sits like lead in my belly.

Irene is taking dead aim at Long Island, where resideth Eli and his missus, Toni... and my brother, the Other Elisson. I’m hoping that the barrier beaches provide adequate protection against the effects of the storm surge, because there’s nothing quite as nasty and destructive as rising water.

This, of course, follows right on the heels of an earthquake - not a California-size temblor, to be sure, but still the biggest seismic event to hit the East Coast in over six decades. It was enough to crack the Washington Monument and to split the spires of the National Cathedral. Yeef!

All of which demonstrates the truth of that old Yiddish proverb: Men tracht; Gott lacht. Men may make their puny plans, but a single act of God renders them ridiculous.

To all of those in harm’s way - and in the final analysis, isn’t that all of us? - may you be safe, and may you find shelter from the storm.

A BUTTLOAD OF QUALITY IN EVERY BOX

Remember when Archie Bunker scandalized the nation by daring to flush the toilet (offscreen, mind you) on prime time television back in the 1970’s on “All in the Family”?

Those times are lone, long gone.



The ongoing coarsening of popular culture eventually is reflected in television advertising. Does it make you cringe? Or laugh out loud? Whichever, ya gotta love the sheer audacity of it.

ELISSON: YOUR DIAGNOSTIC TOOL

As befits someone of my age, I sometimes exhibit signs of CRS (“Can’t Remember Shit”) syndrome. That’s generally not a major concern, but every so often it causes concern. Is it just Plain Old CRS, or am I at risk for developing Alzheimer’s disease?

Alzheimer’s disease - these days I try not to be snarky and call it “Old-Timer’s Disease” - is a frightening possibility for anyone who attains advanced age. Scary indeed: It is incurable, it is degenerative, and the average lifespan following diagnosis is about seven years. And early-onset Alzheimer’s, which is defined as a diagnosis before age 65, is unusual but not unheard-of.

I think of SWMBO’s late grandmother, who, while never diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, clearly began to develop symptoms of mild dementia toward the end of her life. She would do odd things, like lining a bread basket with toilet paper instead of the usual napkin... or put plastic dishes in the oven... or sprinkle a casserole with Rice Krispies instead of cornflake crumbs. And she would hoard toilet paper and aluminum foil. Speaking of which...

Since the 1960’s, there has been a hypothesis floating about amongst some researchers that there is a link between aluminum and Alzheimer’s. The evidence is circumstantial, equivocal at best, and the supposed connection looks more tenuous every year. It is far more likely that age, environmental conditions, and genetic predisposition all play a role. And yet, I believe that aluminum may be a valuable diagnostic tool.

Submitted for your approval, Elisson’s remarkably effective way to differentiate between Just Plain CRS and Alzheimer’s.

If you hoard toilet paper and aluminum foil, you’re likely to be old... and you are definitely quirky.

If you forget where you put the toilet paper and aluminum foil, you have Just Plain CRS.

If you start wiping your ass with the aluminum foil and wrapping your leftovers with the toilet paper, you probably have Alzheimer’s.

AUGUST GUILD EVENT

My heavy travel schedule in July prevented my attending the Guild’s July event, but I will not complain too much: Being in Hilton Head, Southern California, and Orlando within a three-week span was enough fun for any one person.

But it’s August now. Sweaty, sweaty August... and probably the only time during the year that I might conceivably look forward to a tasting of white wines. And the Guild has been kind enough to oblige by arranging an evening of Sauvignon Blancs at Goldfish, conveniently located at Perimeter Mall.

Here’s what’s on the Food-Docket:

Speaker’s Wine:
2009 Mont Gras (Reserva) - San Antonio Valley, Chile**

Appetizer:
2008 Schiopetto Collio - Italy

Mushroon Ravioli with Extra Virgin Olive Oil and Aged Parmesan

First Flight:
2010 Walnut Block “Collectibles” - Marlborough, New Zealand***
2010 Nine Walks - Marlborough, New Zealand**
2010 Cloudy Bay - Marlborough, New Zealand**

Lemon Pepper Scallops with Asparagus, Tomato and Spinach Risotto

Second Flight:
2010 Provenance Napa Valley - Rutherford, California****
2010 Cliff Lede Napa Valley**
2008 Cakebread Napa Valley**

Pan Roasted Steelhead with Wild Rice, Fennel, Rainbow Swiss Chard, Vidalia Onions and Basil Beurre Blanc Sauce

Third Flight:
2008 Boschendal “1685” - Stellenbosch, South Africa*
2010 La Chablisienne Saint-Bris - Burgundy, France***
2010 Domaine Philippe Portier Quincy “Cuvee des Victoires” - Loire Valley, France*

Herb Roasted Chicken with Shiitake Whipped Potatoes, Garlic Green Beans and White Cream Sauce

Dessert:
2006 Chateau Guiraud (Premier Cru 1st Growth) Sauternes - Bordeaux, France*****

Almond Cake with Pear and Apple Compote

Lagniappe:
2007 Rudd Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc
2003 Château Carbonnieux Pessac-Léognan
1999 Etienne Henri Sancerre
2002 Henri Bourgeois Sancerre
2004 Clos Henri - Marlborough, New Zealand

Ahhh, you had me at 1st Growth. I’m looking forward to a fine evening... even if all the wines are white!

Update: I was pleased to see the Irascible Elderly Paraplegic, who graced us with his presence before heading off for his annual week of scuba diving in Bonaire... and his counterpart from the other side of the political spectrum, Houston Steve. It’s always entertaining when the two of them get together!

My preferences noted, as usual, with asterisks. I’ve also added the Lagniappe section above, for the wines that were not part of the formal proceedings but which were brought by various participants. A fine dinner, indeed.

THE SKIFFY-BOOKY MEME

When you’re desperate for content - or preoccupied with preparations for Elder Daughter’s impending visit - why not get sucked in by a meme?

This one is courtesy of El Capitan of Baboon Pirates, who snarfed it up from several other worthy Blog-Writers.

This is the NPR Science Fiction/Fantasy Book Meme, in case you’re curious. (I like El Capitan’s term “skiffy” - it seems to fit.) And, as with all memes, you don’t need to be a member of Mensa to play. Just copy the list below onto your site and boldface the titles you’ve read. Add commentary if you care to.

Anyway, here we go:

1. The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy, by J.R.R. Tolkien
I read these bad boys back in high school. Also made the mistake of reading Bored of the Rings, the Harvard Lampoon parody, after which the Tolkien version always seemed vaguely ridiculous.

2. The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, by Douglas Adams

3. Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card
I read this back when it was just a short story. It’s one of those rare books that wasn’t ruined in the process of expanding it to novel length... and it’s still a great read. (I’ve also read the rest of the Ender series, along with the Ender’s Shadow series.)

4. The Dune Chronicles, by Frank Herbert
All 6 Dune novels by Frank Herbert, plus one of the misbegotten Brian Herbert prequels.

5. A Song Of Ice And Fire Series, by George R. R. Martin

6. 1984, by George Orwell

7. Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury

8. The Foundation Trilogy, by Isaac Asimov

9. Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley

10. American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

11. The Princess Bride, by William Goldman

12. The Wheel Of Time Series, by Robert Jordan

13. Animal Farm, by George Orwell

14. Neuromancer, by William Gibson
Also Count Zero, Mona Lisa Overdrive, Burning Chrome, et alia.

15. Watchmen, by Alan Moore

16. I, Robot, by Isaac Asimov

17. Stranger In A Strange Land, by Robert Heinlein

18. The Kingkiller Chronicles, by Patrick Rothfuss

19. Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
I went on a Vonnegut binge when I was a college freshman... read every damn book the man wrote in the space of about one month.

20. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley

21. Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, by Philip K. Dick

22. The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood

23. The Dark Tower Series, by Stephen King
One of the few things by King I haven’t read.

24. 2001: A Space Odyssey, by Arthur C. Clarke
Plus 2010: Odyssey Two, 2061: Odyssey Three, and 3001: Final Odyssey

25. The Stand, by Stephen King
Both the version as originally published and the expanded version that came out later.

26. Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson

27. The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury

28. Cat’s Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut

29. The Sandman Series, by Neil Gaiman

30. A Clockwork Orange, by Anthony Burgess

31. Starship Troopers, by Robert Heinlein

32. Watership Down, by Richard Adams
A great book, and that’s no hraka.

33. Dragonflight, by Anne McCaffrey

34. The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, by Robert Heinlein

35. A Canticle For Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller
Brilliant... and heartbreaking. The sequel, published many years later, fell far short of the original.

36. The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells
Still the best time travel novel ever written.

37. 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, by Jules Verne

38. Flowers For Algernon, by Daniel Keyes
The short story is better than the novel.

39. The War Of The Worlds, by H.G. Wells

40. The Chronicles Of Amber, by Roger Zelazny

41. The Belgariad, by David Eddings

42. The Mists Of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley

43. The Mistborn Series, by Brandon Sanderson

44. Ringworld, by Larry Niven
Also Ringworld Engineers, all of the Known Space series, and most of the Niven/Pournelle collaborations.

45. The Left Hand Of Darkness, by Ursula K. LeGuin

46. The Silmarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien

47. The Once And Future King, by T.H. White

48. Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman

49. Childhood’s End, by Arthur C. Clarke
The first science fiction novel I ever read, probably when I was about seven years old. Years later I read it again and finally understood it.

50. Contact, by Carl Sagan

51. The Hyperion Cantos, by Dan Simmons

52. Stardust, by Neil Gaiman

53. Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson

54. World War Z, by Max Brooks

55. The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle

56. The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman

57. Small Gods, by Terry Pratchett

58. The Chronicles Of Thomas Covenant, The Unbeliever, by Stephen R. Donaldson

59. The Vorkosigan Saga, by Lois McMaster Bujold

60. Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett

61. The Mote In God’s Eye, by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle
Also The Gripping Hand.

62. The Sword Of Truth, by Terry Goodkind

63. The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

64. Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke

65. I Am Legend, by Richard Matheson

66. The Riftwar Saga, by Raymond E. Feist

67. The Shannara Trilogy, by Terry Brooks

68. The Conan The Barbarian Series, by R.E. Howard

69. The Farseer Trilogy, by Robin Hobb

70. The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger

71. The Way Of Kings, by Brandon Sanderson

72. A Journey To The Center Of The Earth, by Jules Verne

73. The Legend Of Drizzt Series, by R.A. Salvatore

74. Old Man’s War, by John Scalzi

75. The Diamond Age, by Neil Stephenson

76. Rendezvous With Rama, by Arthur C. Clarke

77. The Kushiel’s Legacy Series, by Jacqueline Carey

78. The Dispossessed, by Ursula K. LeGuin

79. Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury

80. Wicked, by Gregory Maguire

81. The Malazan Book Of The Fallen Series, by Steven Erikson

82. The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde

83. The Culture Series, by Iain M. Banks

84. The Crystal Cave, by Mary Stewart

85. Anathem, by Neal Stephenson

86. The Codex Alera Series, by Jim Butcher

87. The Book Of The New Sun, by Gene Wolfe

88. The Thrawn Trilogy, by Timothy Zahn

89. The Outlander Series, by Diana Gabaldan

90. The Elric Saga, by Michael Moorcock

91. The Illustrated Man, by Ray Bradbury

92. Sunshine, by Robin McKinley

93. A Fire Upon The Deep, by Vernor Vinge

94. The Caves Of Steel, by Isaac Asimov

95. The Mars Trilogy, by Kim Stanley Robinson

96. Lucifer’s Hammer, by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle

97. Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis

98. Perdido Street Station, by China Mieville
Just finished Embassytown. Brilliant.

99. The Xanth Series, by Piers Anthony

100. The Space Trilogy, by C.S. Lewis

OK, campers - how many of these have you read? And why are so many excellent SF series - like David Brin’s Uplift series, John Birmingham’s Weapons of Choice series, or Greg Bear’s Eon novels - not represented? Inquiring minds want to know!

THE MALT SHOP: A 100-WORD TRAGEDY

Friday nights, the kids from Riverdale High would gather at Pop’s Malt Shop after the football game.

Archie and Reggie would trade insults, Betty and Veronica competing fiercely for their attention. Moose Mason would administer beatdowns on anyone he suspected of making eyes at Midge, and Jughead would inhale his weight in cheeseburgers.

This happy state of affairs ended when Pop took ill and was forced to sell the business.

Under Duncan Macallan’s ownership, the Shop became even more popular... until a drunken Reggie died in a flaming car wreck.

After that, the Riverdale kids avoided Macallan’s Single Malt Shop.

MISTER SANDMAN

...I understand you’ve been running from the man
Who goes by the name of the Sandman.
                                            - America, “Sandman”

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream
Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen
Give him two lips like roses and clover
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over.
Sandman, I’m so alone
Don’t have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.
                                           - The Chordettes, “Mr. Sandman”

These days, that’s me: Mister Sandman. But I’m not bringing anyone any dreams, oh, no.

’Cause I’m long, and I’m strong, and I’m down to get the friction on. I’m smooth. And when I’m done, everything I touch is smooth. I am Mister Sandman.

Right now, I’m sanding down the walls in our guest bathroom. They’ve gotta be smoooooth, you see. We don’t want a lumpy, bumpy paint job, now, do we?

Let me tell you right here and now that there are few things that are a greater pain in the ass than painting over a wallpapered wall. Removing a corpse from a cesspool comes to mind. (OK, that was maybe a little over the top as far as analogies go. But we are talking Serious PIA here.)

When the wallpaper is crappy, and when it has been layered over even crappier (and far uglier) wallpaper, the job is far tougher. You have to remove as much as you can, mud over everything, and then sand it all down.

Sanding over wall compound generates an amazing amount of fine gypsum dust. It’s probably what the Devil uses for talcum powder. It gets everywhere, plugging up air conditioning and vacuum cleaner filters. Confining it to the point of origin is next to impossible. Yecch.

But here I am writing when I should be applying a coat of paint. Until later, Esteemed Readers!

JUST PEACHY

Half-pints of Peach Preserves with Amaretto await their destiny atop a scoop of ice cream, or as accompaniment to a toasted English muffin.

I am often disappointed by the peaches here in Georgia, but these were terrific - full of the flavors of summer sunshine. Couldn’t eat ’em all, so I decided to convert ’em into something that would keep: Peach Preserves with Amaretto.

There’s a peach kernel floating in each jar, cracked out from a peach pit. (I roast the pits first to remove any traces of cyanogenic glycosides the kernels may contain.) Those kernels contribute an elusive aroma that is complemented by the Amaretto.

This stuff practically cries out to be dumped atop a scoop or two of vanilla ice cream.

A CHILL IN THE AIR

A chill in the air would be welcome right now. This has been the hottest summer we’ve ever lived through in the Atlanta area... and as I write this, the HVAC boys are banging around in the attic, replacing our upstairs air conditioning unit.

The old gal had a long run, but it was time to retire her. Alas. She had been undersized and overworked to begin with, and over the past several years her age was beginning to show. It was getting to be predictable: we would leave for a week of vacation and come home to a stifling house, some component or another having gone kaput in our absence. Finally, she developed leaks that were serious enough so that recharging her with Freon - palliative care - was no longer an option.

We could have cheaped out by simply replacing the evaporator coil, but that would have been a temporary fix at best. No: There is a point at which one must Suck It Up and invest the money in doing the job right.

Damn.

Air conditioning has become, pretty much, a necessity here in the South. In days gone by, if you lived in a one-story frame house, you could get by with a few fans, open windows, and a porch upon which you could sit sipping lemonade... but summertime would not be especially pleasant. With the advent of larger two-story homes, however, you needed something to remove the hot air, especially from the upper level where it would accumulate.

The ability to keep houses cool is what enabled the South to grow, making the region habitable to legions of carpetbaggers Northerners who would otherwise stay away in droves. And it has spoiled us.

For the past several nights, She Who Must Be Obeyed has slept downstairs where it has been a comfortable 76 degrees. But there’s room on the couch for one person only, and after folding myself up and trying to sleep on the adjacent loveseat, I decided that I’d be better off sleeping in our bedroom. Yes, it has been a bit of a sweatbox - last night it was 91°F - but I managed to get a decent night’s sleep all the same. (Well, half-decent, anyway.)

It’s not an acceptable long-term situation, though, and with today’s new unit, this evening should be much more pleasant. Hey, it’ll be more efficient, too - maybe I’ll save enough on the electric bill so that the thing will pay for itself in, oh, I dunno - thirty years?

SEEN ABOUT TOWN

Just about every day, I see fascinating things as I travel about town...


Someone evidently loves Hello Kitty a whole lot.


Here’s a driver with a license plate that practically shouts, “Weak Bladder!” May I suggest that he keep a Traveler’s Friend with him at all times?


A few Mug Shots from Phreddy’s vast collection of Royal Doulton character jugs. [Click to embiggen.]


Rosy-fingered Dawn in Marietta.


Some feesh at the local feesh market. “Hey, check out the dude with the mullet!”


A gaggle of Red Hat Ladies at the Marietta Diner.

Seen anything interesting in your neck of the woods?

STUFFING THE FACE

It was a cranberry sorbet
The kind you find at the grocery store
- Prince Blintz

This Saturday evening past, I had planned to grill a few thick ribeye steaks.

I love a good thick steak - who doesn’t? - and I have learned, over the years, that the simplest treatment is the best. A sprinkling of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper a couple of hours prior to grilling is pretty much all you need. The salt penetrates the meat and helps to make it even more tender and delectable than it already is.

The big problem with really thick steaks is getting them to cook to a nice medium-rare (or medium to medium-well, as the Missus prefers) while at the same time building a flavorful crusty char on the outside... and without creating a band of overcooked meat just beneath that crust. You can butterfly the steaks, but then you end up with two thin steaks in lieu of one honkin’ thick one. What I ended up doing was to stick the steaks in a 275°F oven for 25 minutes before throwing them on the grill to finish them off. (I could also have finished them on a hot skillet, but that would have greasified Darth Stover more than I cared to deal with.)

They came out perfect. Absolutely perfect, with a nicely carbonized crust... and beautifully cooked through. Credit where credit is due: I learned this technique from Cook’s Illustrated. Worth the price of the subscription, it was.

I normally don’t dress my beefsteaks up too much after grilling them. Steak sauce? Pfaugh. Worcestershire? That’s for marinating ’em before grilling, if you care to use it. Ketchup? Oy. But sometimes it’s nice to have something to decorate that yummy meat.

Béarnaise sauce - Hollandaise’s refined cousin - is too rich for my taste, although it lends a high tone to a slab of Châteaubriand. And creamy horseradish sauce is more appropriate for prime rib. (Yeah, I know it’s the same cut of meat - except prime rib is roasted before being sliced into steaks.) But what about a steak?

The Argentines have an answer: chimichurri sauce, the main ingredients of which are parsley, olive oil, and vinegar. And chimichurri is fine as far as it goes, but it put me in mind of a similar green sauce, the recipe for which appeared in Saveur magazine several years ago.



Saveur’s green sauce, intended to be served with a thick sirloin steak, is nothing so much as a chimichurri jacked up with anchovies, capers, and garlic. (You can also add preserved lemon to give it another layer of flavor.) I hadn’t made it in years, but after serving it with that delectable steak, I wondered why I had waited. It was a fine complement to the rich meat, having just the right acidity along with the springtime kick of the parsley.

To keep alla that Beef-Flesh company on the plate, She Who Must Be Obeyed put together an heirloom tomato and arugula salad and a pile of oven-roasted sweet potato slabs; I sautéed up some zucchini and squash with garlic and shallots, along with a goodly load of mushrooms with smoked paprika.



A 2007 Educated Guess cabernet sauvignon was a fine accompaniment. For dessert? Light Apricot-Noyau Ice Cream, garnished with homemade cranberry sorbet... the kind you won’t find at the grocery store.

Listen: If you’re going to stuff your face, it pays to do it right. Good ingredients properly prepared can trump most any restaurant meal... plus you don’t have to worry about driving home after guzzling that bottle of wine.

KIDS SAY THE DAMNDEST THINGS

That’s pretty much what Art Linkletter used to say.

Yesterday being the first day of school, She Who Must Be Obeyed was introducing herself to her new students, telling them a little about herself. In the course of so doing, she revealed that we have a Siamese cat.

One of the students then asked what seemed (to him) to be a perfectly reasonable question:

“What part of your cat is stuck together?”

THE TURN OF THE SEASONS

This morning as I left the house, there was an uncharacteristic hint - just a hint - of crispness in the air. No, the frost wasn’t on the pumpkin just yet. It’s still dead-center August in the Southeast, in the midst of what may be the most ferociously hot summer we’ve ever experienced outside of Houston. Yet it was possible to feel the coming change, the inevitable turn of the seasons.

That change signaled itself yet again when I drove past a small mob of parents and their elementary school-age children at the neighborhood’s bus stop. Being the husband of a teacher, I had of course already known that today was the day the schoolkids returned to their classrooms after summer vacation. There’s a big difference, though, between knowing it and seeing it.

I smiled, right then, and waved to the crowd as I went by: None of those parents or kids knew me, I was certain, but it never hurts to be neighborly. Despite my outward smile, however, I was feeling a certain rueful nostalgia.

How long had it been since our daughters were in elementary school - or public school, for that matter? We used to have a tradition of photographing the girls on their first day of school every year. Somewhere in the bowels of Chez Elisson there is a series of pictures forming a sort of stroboscopic portrait of their respective childhoods, capturing their gradual change from little children to young women. I thought of my own Snot-Nose Days and my love-hate relationship with elementary school, the bittersweet excitement of returning after the lazy days of July and August, the endless speculation about what this year’s teacher would be like and which of my friends would be in the same class with me.

Those years are past me, now. It’s someone else’s turn to stand there waiting for the bus on the first day of school. Someone else’s job to take those First Day of School pictures. And that’s fine. It’s the turn of the seasons, you know.

The full moon hung low in the western sky as I turned onto the main road, another reminder of the passage of time. Full moon, third quarter, new moon, first quarter... phase after phase, the months and years tick by. There’s still plenty of summer left yet; Fall’s harvest moon is two months away. But it will be here, sure enough.

JOHNS

This morning we were driving north on Georgia 400, headed over to have brunch with our friends Phred and Deley. Just as we were passing the sign for Johns Creek, we realized that the flatbed trailer in front of us was hauling a load of Porta-Johns.

Bizarre coincidence or random juxtaposition of events? You decide.

GETTIN’ BUGGY WIT’ IT

Upon departing Houston Steve’s place a few evenings ago - we had just finished our regular Poker Night - we noticed a strange beast alight upon a fencepost:


Out of my skin over you: a just-molted cicada rests after clambering out of its old skin.

No, it’s nothing sexual, despite appearances... simply a newly-molted cicada having just emerged from its old skin.

When we lived in Houston, August days were marked with the constant thrumming of cicada-song, a science-fictiony drone that reverberated from every tree. Cicada skins, hollow and sere, could be found attached to almost any surface: tree trunks and branches, walls, bricks... anywhere the little guys could find purchase with their tenacious little claws.

And I still remember SWMBO’s younger brother Morris William, a mere sprat of nine years when I first met him - the same age his son is today - taking cicadas and tying their forelegs together with fine thread. Thus tethered, they would fly in circles around him until they were exhausted... or until he tired of playing with them.

There is a certain attraction in the idea of one being able to shed one’s old skin and to begin life anew with a tender new exterior, one that is not hardened by years of struggles. We can do it only in the metaphorical sense - it is one of the beauties of the Jewish Day of Atonement - but the cicada does it literally, several times in its brief lifespan.

And then, tender and vulnerable, it gets eaten by a fucking bird. Hey, that’s life!

STONE (FRUIT) SOUL PICNIC

“Everybody must get stoned.” - Bob Dylan

“Everybody must get stone fruit.” - Elisson



A bowl of rosy-cheeked apricots - the quintessential summer fruit.

One of the small delights of summer is the availability of stone fruit in season. Plums, peaches, nectarines, apricots - I love ’em all. They’re sweet and juicy when you catch them at their peak... and part of their appeal is that they are so ephemeral. That peak is all too brief: Eat ’em too soon and they’re flavorless lumps, too late and they’re mealy balls of mush.

This being the Peach State, you would expect delicious peaches to be common here. You would be wrong. Year after year, local nectarines and peaches disappoint. They’re picked way too early, in order to accommodate the logistical requirements of the modern Agricultural-Industrial Complex, with the predictable result that they end up tasting like chunks of wood. Once in a while I’ll find good peaches, and I grab ’em up when I do.

Apricots are what peaches hope they are reborn as in their next life, one step closer to nirvana. They have a delicate perfume that is distinct from that of any other fruit, one that is complemented by cherries and almonds.

I have made apricot curd, a thoroughly decadent confection that packs a huge Flavor-Wallop. Alas, it also packs an equally huge Calorie-Wallop, containing as it does some massive amounts of sugar, egg yolks, and butter. I’ve also made apricot ice cream before - yummy, but something to be eaten in small doses lest one’s butt become enhuged. Today, however, I found a way to capture that ephemeral apricot flavor in a less conscience-shattering form: Light Apricot-Noyau Ice Cream.

Noyau? WTF is that, you ask. It’s the kernel that inhabits the apricot pit. Smash the pits to get at these little goobers and their hauntingly beautiful flavor. If you like Amaretto, you know what noyau tastes like.

To make this ice cream, take about twenty or so little apricots - about 12-13 ounces of flesh without the pits. These go into a saucepan with 2-3 tablespoons of water over medium heat, where you cook them down until they’re completely soft and fragrant. Mash them through a sieve to make a purée. Put this aside.

While the apricots are simmering, put two cups of half-and-half (not the fat-free kind) in another saucepan with a half cup of baking Splenda (you could use a full cup of granulated sugar) and a tablespoon or two of light corn syrup. Take a goodly handful of apricot pits and smash them to get at the kernels, which you then grind up with a mortar and pestle. The ground kernels go into the half-and-half, and the whole mess over a medium flame until just short of simmering. Take it off the flame and leave it to steep for 30 minutes.

Strain the warm half-and-half into the apricot purée and blend thoroughly. Chill for a few hours, then freeze according to the directions on your ice cream freezer. Hoo-hah! (And the nice thing is, this stuff is comparatively low in calories compared to typical store-bought ice cream - so I can eat it without fear of the Dreaded Fat-Ass.)

UTTER DESTRUCTION

“When Av begins, happiness is decreased.” - Gemara, Masechet Ta’anit (26b)

“You can’t spell ‘bereaved’ without ‘Av.’” - Elisson

* * *
As the sun sets this evening, the blackest day of the Jewish calendar begins: the ninth of Av, AKA Tisha b’Av.

There is a whole litany of disasters and calamities that have befallen the Jews over the years, a disproportionate number of them on Tisha b’Av... at least, by popular and rabbinic attribution. Chief among these are the destruction of not one, but two Holy Temples in Jerusalem, 490 years apart. Each of these events led to a lengthy period of exile, the latter one lasting almost two thousand years. Not for nothing are we called Wandering Jews.

Many non-observant Jews don’t know a whole lot about the customs of the day - or, for that matter, its very existence. It’s not a jolly holiday by any stretch of the imagination. It doesn’t fall into the “solemn, but uplifting” category as does Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It’s just plain depressing.

On Tisha b’Av, prayers are not chanted or sung as they are every other day; they are recited in a quiet monotone. We chant the Book of Lamentations in a haunting, elegiac melody. Common everyday pleasures such as shaving, wearing leather shoes, and the Making of the Two-Backed Beast are off-limits, as is eating and drinking. We even refrain from saying “good morning,” acknowledging our friends and acquaintances instead with monosyllabic grunts: “Yo.” “Oy.”

It says a lot about our attachment to Jerusalem and the Promised Land, that we continue to mourn its loss after so many years. Do modern Italians bewail the fall of Imperial Rome, or Austrians and Hungarians the Hapsburg Empire?

In the spring of 2008, Elder Daughter and I found ourselves in the midst of a bustling, vibrant, modern city: Hiroshima, Japan. Six hundred meters above the very spot where I stood, Little Boy had exploded on August 6, 1945 - sixty-six years and two days ago - reducing the city to smoking, radioactive ruins. The Romans managed to do the same to Jerusalem without the help of fissile uranium, plowing the site of the second Temple and its surrounding precincts until no stick was left standing. Utter destruction.

Today, flowers grow in Hiroshima. Life is persistent, and it returns where it is welcome. And after almost two thousand years, we have come home.


Flowers in Hiroshima.

There are some that believe that upon the arrival of the Messianic Era, Tisha b’Av will no longer be observed as a fast day, but rather as an occasion of joy. I don’t see that happening any time soon, yet there is a silver lining even so.

The destruction of the Temple marked the beginning of a long, painful period in Jewish history... almost two millennia of stateless wanderings. Yet it also was the end of the sacrificial cult, the Old-School religion that called for thrice-yearly pilgrimages to Jerusalem and the slaughter of untold numbers of lambs, bullocks, rams, goats, birds, et alia.

After our people passed through the fiery furnace of the Roman conquest, we emerged on the other side as a nation with a belief system that no longer demanded the blood of animals, but instead stressed ethics and learning. Two thousand years of exile would have erased every last Jew from the face of the earth if we still practiced the ancient Jerusalem-centric ways. Instead, we now have a faith that is as portable as a prayerbook, one that can fit in the space of a human heart. We have evolved, and we are the better for it.

May this Tisha b’Av bring hope in the power of the human heart to heal... and in the power of faith to grow and evolve.

THE CHEESE AISLE DICTIONARY, Vol. 5

Still more stuff that should be in the dictionary but isn’t.

Long-time readers of my previous site may recall the Blog d’Elisson Dictionary, installments of which may be found in that site’s Archives.

For other entries in the Cheese Aisle Dictionary, simply click on the sidebar link for Cheese-Dic.

And now for the Word of the Day...

Kabbalapitalist [ka-ba-lap-i-ta-list] (n) - someone engaged in commercial activities involving merchandise intended to appeal to an audience with a deep interest in, and an equally deep ignorance of, Jewish mysticism; a seller of red thread and Kaballah water.

“Madonna’s music sales have been in the toilet for years, but she’s not worried about where her next meal is coming from since she became a Kabbalapitalist.”

[A tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Barry R. for this one!]

ROLY POLY FISH HEADS

A roly poly fish head smiles back at me after having been converted into fish stock.

Some time back, I wrote about my culinary adventures with fish heads.

Most folks in this part of the world want as little as possible to do with fish heads. She Who Must Be Obeyed fits into that category... yet, surprisingly, she has, of late, developed a taste for grilled hamachi kama, the collar of the yellowtail tuna. It’s as close as you can get to a fish head without actually getting the head itself. Delicious, low in calories, and packed with omega-3 fatty acids, it’s one of those underappreciated delicacies that serious Japanese food aficionados know about.

A couple of weeks ago, we ordered the hamachi kama at a wonderful little hole-in-the-wall place in Orlando - Sushi En - and were immediately treated like family. It’s as though we were in on the Big Secret.

Today, as I was casting about for something to prepare for dinner, I recalled that Whole Foods had whole bluefish for sale for something like $3.69 the pound. Bluefish! It’s popular up north, a veritabobble staple in the New York area, but if you ask for bluefish around here people will look at you like you just sprouted a second head. It can have an assertive personality, and it tends to be oily... both positives in my Fish-Book.

I selected a modest-sized example, just shy of two pounds, and asked the fishmonger to fillet it for me. (No sense getting fish blood all over my kitchen counters.) He did so, expertly, as I watched. I also asked him whether he made a decent living selling fish; he told me he worked for scale.

The fillets ended up in the oven, one with Old Bay seasoning, the other with smoked paprika, both misted with olive oil. Fifteen minutes at 375°F and they were perfectly done: tender, flaky, and surprisingly mild. But I also had the rest of the fish-carcass to deal with. Why not make fish stock?

Into a saucepan went the head and bones of the fish, along with a few handfuls of chopped celery, a diced onion, a smashed head of garlic, a few whole peppercorns, a bay leaf, and a small heap of parsley stems. Two hours on the simmer, strain and cool, and Bob’s your uncle: Fish stock!

It will make a fine chowder, that stock... and meanwhile, that fish head was mighty tasty. Lots of meat in there if you’re willing to dig for it. Eat them up, yum!

Postscript: Sissy Willis, in the comments, says “It’s the eyes that get me...”

For eye-bugging delight, you’ve gotta love shrimp heads, ’cause the eyes are not just staring at you, they’re on convenient little stalks. Lookit:

SON, FETCH ME A LOAF OF THAT TIME-TRAVEL BREAD

I couldn’t resist posting this viddy - it’s an advert for Hovis bread that shows one hundred years of British history as seen through the eyes of a young lad bringing home a loaf of bread.

I figure Houston Steve will get a kick out of it, given his English ancestry. You will, too.



[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Erica for the link.]

MEET BEAN

For the moment, Elder Daughter is living with friends on a farm in Western Massachusetts, pending her relocation to Philadelphia.

Somehow, I never pictured Elder Daughter - an urban (and urbane) arts maven and world traveler - living the life of the Bucolic Peasantry. But there she is, and she’s savoring every moment: slaughtering chickens, milking the pigs, slopping the cows. (OK, I made the last two up.)

And - at least for the time being - she has a Tiny Kitteh!



Meet Bean, the littlest Barn Cat-in-Training. I figure it won’t be too long before Bean is making regular mouse carcass deposits in front of Elder Daughter’s door.

ANOTHER PITHY OBSERVATION

“Arsehole longa, vita brevis.” - Elisson

Life is too short to deal with... aw, you know.

SCREW-VIA

I found a new love, a natural true love
That comes from a little green leaf.
Easy is as easy does -
It gives me such a lovely buzz,
And help me forget all my grief.
Cannabis sativa, I had no idee-va,
I want to smoke you by the sheaf.

When was the last time you got excited about a little green leaf? Too bad stevia ain’t it.

Those Truvia ads that appear on the Food Network every thirty-seven seconds manage to strike the perfect balance between catchy and intensely annoying. The cutesy jingle has a sort of new-wave alt-rock tune that sticks in the head like a mouthful of bad peanut butter clings to the palate... but what bugs me the most is that I loathe Truvia.

Finally... an artificial sweetener that manages to make me want to avoid anything sweet. Hey, if I wanted a vile aftertaste, I’d chew on a satchel of saccharin. This stuff is far nastier.

I love the way Truvia and other stevia extracts have captured the hearts and minds of the granola eaters. “It’s natural!” they say. “It‘s made from a plant!” Yep: It’s a natural artificial sweetener. Oxymoron much?

Well, shit is natural, too. For that matter, so is tobacco... and tobacco is far less processed than the stevia plant is in the course of grinding out Truvia. An oil refinery does less work on a barrel of crude than Cargill does to that little green leaf.

Feh, says I.

BEAUTY IN UNEXPECTED PLACES

My blog-buddy Sissy Willis uses her camera lens to find beauty in unexpected places. But sometimes all you need is a pair of ears. Here, for your delectation, is a true story that took place sometime in the 1970’s, related to me and Barry this afternoon by our friend Chris:

A young, upwardly mobile professional goes to the token booth in the New York subway, with the intention of purchasing a subway token. He hands the man in the booth a pile of loose change.

The man in the booth is pissed off at having to count this pile of coins, and the yuppie hears him muttering under his breath: “Gawd-damned chickenshit change...”

Whereupon the yuppie becomes a bit irate, stating, “What’s your problem, man? It’s exact change. You don’t even need to count it.”

The token vendor shoots back: “Man, I was soliloquizing. I can’t help it if you’ve got ears!”

BETWEEN THE BALUSTERS

Hakuna’s head, en repose, is framed by the balusters of our staircase.

Is there a form so perfect as that of a cat?

FISHY, or THE YEARS OF COD AND SALT

Mark Kurlansky, in his book Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World, credits that ocean-dweller with all manner of impact on human commerce and history.

Cod, once salted down and dried, provides a relatively spoilage-resistant and nutritious source of protein... a tall order in the days before refrigeration. Thus it was that some five hundred years ago, when Europeans discovered the cod-packed fisheries of the Grand Banks off Newfoundland, salt cod became a key export of the North American colonies. It was shipped to the British colonies of the Caribbean, there to feed the slaves that toiled in the sugar cane fields. Those colonies, in turn, would export rum and molasses... and the colonies would use their trade surpluses to purchase manufactured goods from Jolly Olde.

But salt cod was not only nutritious - it tasted good. Once subjected to a lengthy soaking to remove the salt, it could be used as the base for any number of dishes. The Portuguese had their bacalhau, the Spanish their bacalao, the Italians their baccalà... and they loved it in all manner of preparations.

A few months ago I had put up a batch of marinated roasted red and yellow peppers. Along with the recipe for the peppers, I had in hand Eugenia Bone’s instructions for preparing a fish-based salad that used those peppers to accent the flavor of salt cod. Here’s my quick ’n’ dirty adaptation:

Baccalà and Marinated Roasted Pepper Salad



[I made this with marinated peppers I canned myself. You may, if you wish, substitute a commercial product.]

Soak one pound of salt cod plus three cloves of smashed garlic for two days in cold water, changing the water twice a day. (Keep the fish refrigerated while you do this!) Drain the fish and garlic and place in a pan; cover with cold water, bring to a boil, and simmer for fifteen minutes.

Dump the fish into a colander to drain; let cool for twenty minutes and then use forks to pull it into small chunks. (Yes, sometimes I use colanders for their original intended purpose.)

Take a good-size handful of well-scrubbed fingerling potatoes and drop them into a pan of boiling salted water. Boil for ten minutes; then drain. Slice the potatoes into discs.

In a large bowl, combine the sliced potatoes and fish chunks. Take a half-pint of marinated roasted peppers and drain off the liquid; reserve. Using scissors, snip the peppers into pieces and add to the mixture in the bowl. Add enough of the reserved pepper marinade to moisten - you don’t want it too sloppy or oily. Throw in a handful of freshly chopped Italian parsley, toss well, and voilà! You have a delicious Fishy Salad that partakes of the Noble History of the Cod, the fish that changed the world.

FRESH FROM THE FARM: A 100-WORD STORY

After the Great Protein Shortage of 2029, the genetic engineers started getting creative.

People needed protein, and the existing sources weren’t getting the job done. Beef cattle were practically extinct after the BSE epidemics in the late teens. Fish were laden with heavy metals, poultry with pesticides. Legumes were fine - except for their unfortunate vaporous side effects.

But then a brilliant Belgian geneticist had a breakthrough. An excellent protein source: animals that lived in a farmable colony. Roughly three apples high, they made a perfect portion. And in time, people got used to the color.

Smurf and Turf, anyone?

[Originally published in January 2007 at Blog d’Elisson. I thought this story was especially apropos in view of today’s release of The Smurfs, Hollywood’s big-budget live-action fillum featuring the little blue buggers.]

GRAND OPENING

An eager horde awaits the opening of the new Whole Foods Market.

This morning we joined a horde of people for an eagerly anticipated local event: the opening of a new Whole Paycheck Foods Market here in east Cobb County.

You’d think we were at a Beatles reunion concert, given the size of the excited mob that queued up for a chance to be among the first to check out the spotless aisles crammed with wholesome organic foodstuffs. (The fact that the store was also giving away a free breakfast might have provided additional incentive for showing up.)

The parking lot was already bulging at the seams an hour before opening, when She Who Must Be Obeyed and I treated the Minyan Boyz to breakfast at the local Caribou Coffee shop. This was in accordance with our long-standing tradition: a person observing a yahrzeit (the anniversary of a loved one’s passing, as reckoned by the Hebrew calendar) buys breakfast for those who have, by their presence, helped ensure the quorum necessary for the recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish. Today it was SWMBO’s turn, it being her sister’s thirty-sixth yahrzeit.

Fearing a massive jam in the Whole Foods lot, SWMBO wisely selected a parking slot halfway between there and Moose-Café. And after a leisurely morning repast, we hoofed it over to where the crowd, already sizable, was milling about and standing in line for their free plateload of fruit and bakery items. We bypassed the Food Queue and headed straight for the mosh pit that had gathered at the front door, where bands and cheerleaders from the local high schools were doing their best to keep everyone entertained.

As the nine o’clock opening hour approached, an assortment of Whole Foods honchos and local officials took turns speechifying... and then the Great Moment arrived, whereupon a ceremonial loaf of bread was cracked open. The doors were flung wide and the crowd surged in.


A brightly colored assortment of cage-free olives.

Like many of the newer Whole Foods stores, this one is huge; being brand-new, it is also immaculate. The products offered therein include a cornucopia of exotic grains, organic vegetables and meats, locally sourced produce, and numerous sustainably produced items. For me, it’s a chance to cut the fourteen-mile roundtrip to Harry’s Farmers Market (the nearest Whole Foods affiliate) down to two miles, making it easier to score my German pumpernickel, beet roots, bison roasts, grain-fed hummingbird tongues, beef hanger steaks, free-range paper towels, and obscure seasonings. It won’t replace my regular expeditions to Publix or Trader Joe’s, but the folks at Fresh Market should be scared to death: Whole Foods is taking dead aim at the core of their target market.

Not only that, Whole Foods operates a slew of foundations whose missions include eradicating third-world poverty, reducing obesity among American children, and curing colon cancer. (OK, I made that last one up.) I may joke about some of the seemingly excessive earnestness of this outfit, but they do seem to take seriously the idea of improving the world we live in, and for that they should be commended.


Fancy-pants Vosges chocolate bars.

I was almost sorry to happen upon an impressive display of Vosges chocolate bars. Choccie lovers who crave the exotic get Food-Stiffies for these tasty - and costly - treats. Bacon, sea salt, goji berries, pink peppercorns, cardamom... if you can think of any random weird shit to put in your chocolate, the good folks at Vosges have probably beaten you to it.


Didja think I’d forget the Cheese Aisle?

I’d be remiss if I did not mention the cheese aisle, stocked with a fresh assortment of hormone-free grass-fed fromage. A slab of five-year-old Gouda, with its characteristic butterscotch-caramel undertones and the crunch of tyrosine crystals, and a wheel of soft, buttery Sweet Grass Dairy Green Hill, and we were good to go.

Alas, not the place to find duck foie gras or whale bacon. Or Wonder Bread, for that matter. But that’s why God invented Piggly Wiggly. And Japan.

GIT ’ER DONE

Maybe Larry the Cable Guy ought to be running things. He’s got the right idea, anyway: Git ’er done.

Here’s my message to our country’s leaders, and it’s a simple one.

We have a potential economic crisis barreling down the road at us and there’s not a lot of time for your grandstanding, blame-casting, and narrative-spinning. Man up, sit down together and work out a deal. Now.

If you fail to do so, thus allowing this country to default on its obligations, you should be fired, each and every one of you, and replaced by people who can work with each other for the good of this country. That means you, Mr. President, and you, Mr. Boehner... and every single one of the rest of you in Congress. I don’t give Shit One whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican. It took both parties to create this mess; it will take both, working together, to dig us out.

“Throw out the incumbents!” should be our rallying cry if the Debt-Shit hits the fan.

If you can’t work together, go home - and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

THE NEXT GREAT FACEBOOK PHENOMENON

“Dude, planking is so June 2011. Owling is where it’s at.” - Zonker


Elisson planks the fountain at the Gaylord Palms Resort and Convention Center.

Anytime you think you may have captured a whiff of the Narrischkeit-Zeitgeist of the moment - that spirit of foolishness that seems to animate and infect us all at any given time - it proves to be as elusive as the will-o’-the-wisp. We make a grab for the Snark; it inevitably turns out to be just another Boojum.

I wear a colander on my head and post silly pictures of myself on the Internet. An Austrian dude takes it one step farther down Silliness Road and makes international headlines by having his driver’s license photograph taken with the selfsame apparatus atop his noggin... and the Narrischkeit-Zeitgeist moves on.

When I first put up a photo on Facebook illustrating my nascent Mad Planking Skillz, one of my ffriends commented thusly: “Now can you demonstrate ‘owling’ for us eager disciples?” Then, when I put the same picture up here, Zonker chimed in with the quote at the top of this post. That told me right away that planking had ceded its position as Dopey Activity of the Day to something equally (or more) ridiculous.


Yes, it’s ridiculous... but not ridiculous enough for some people.

I am nothing if not accommodating, and so here I am, owling. I do confess, it has a certain loony charm:



But owling is likely already passé, outmoded and driven into obsolescence between the time I first heard of it and the date of this post. It’s so mid-July 2011! Feh!

It’s time for something that is even nuttier, while at the same time meeting all of the fundamental criteria of planking:

1. You have to be a little bit crazy to do it;
2. It poses somewhat of a physical challenge, especially if attempted in difficult places;
3. If you do it in a really ill-chosen place - like on a hotel balcony - you can kill yourself;
4. It is amenable to viral, meme-like transmission via social media.

Enter Storking!


Storking - the next great Facebook phenomenon! (Remember, you saw it here first.)

Next step, of course, will be to attempt the above stunts whilst wearing a pasta strainer. It’s the Elisson way!

ON ORTHOGRAPHY

To learn to spell an arcane word
Like “syzygy” or “tuchus,”
Go get thee to a library
And read a lot of buchus.