ROWDY RENAISSANCE

A Reuters photographer recently shot a photograph of a brawl in - of all places - the Ukrainian Parliament.

That, in itself, was not especially noteworthy. Sure, you don’t necessarily expect a country’s lawmakers to be duking it out in the midst of a legislative session, but this was Ukraine, after all. Besides, governmental civility has been on the decline in our own country for years. We might not have reached bottom yet, but who is to say that fistfights won’t be breaking out in the House of Representatives after the next election?

What was remarkable about the photograph was not so much its subject matter as its composition. Inadvertently, the image was an almost perfect exemplar of a beloved Renaissance compositional technique involving the use of the Golden Spiral. Caravaggio would have understood this photograph perfectly, although he might have wondered just what exactly a Parliament was supposed to be.


Art is where you find it: Ukrainian solons duke it out in a manner befitting Michelangelo or da Vinci.

(I tweaked the lighting a bit and “oilpainterized” the image before sticking it in this frame, in case you were wondering.)

ON THE SEINFELDIAN CATCHPHRASE

One of the best things about watching Seinfeld back in the 1990’s - aside from the fact that Jerry grew up in my hometown and would throw in the occasional local reference - was the high probability that you would hear a catchphrase in the making. Nobody before or since could coin popular verbiage like Jerry Seinfeld and his gifted team of writers.

Even today, two decades later, those Seinfeldian catchphrases linger in the American pop culture consciousness:

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“These pretzels are making me thirsty!”

“Can you spare a square?”

“There was shrinkage!”

“No soup for you!”

[I’m sure you have your favorites. Feel free to stick ’em in the Comments.]

Well, art - and catchphrases - are where you find them, and I found one that would have done Seinfeld proud. Well, maybe not, but I will let you adjudge that for yourself.

A few weeks ago, I was at a local get-together, where I heard a young lady relate a story about having locked her Vacation Essentials - a week’s supply of cash and weed - in her hotel room’s electronic safe.

You’ve seen those little safes, haven’t you, lurking in the closet of your (somewhat upscale) hotel room? You stick your valuables in ’em, close the door, punch in a four-digit code, and the door locks. When you want to retrieve your personal effects, you enter the same four-digit code to unlock the door, hoping all the while that the hotel’s corrupt security staff hasn’t absconded with Aunt Minnie’s pearl necklace. The young lady who was relating this story had stowed her stash of hash and cash in her room’s little safe, but when it came time to open up the box, the box did not want to cooperate.

Not having any viable alternatives, Little Miss Cannabis called security, who promptly sent someone up to assist. Turns out the problem was simple: The little battery that powers the safe’s locking mechanism had died. A replacement was installed, the code was entered, and the door began to swing open...

...when the young lady realized that she didn’t want the security guy to see the contents of the safe, for reasons that should be obvious to the casual observer. So, in a triumph of Quick-Witted Thinking, she gave him a perfect reason to avert his eyes:

“Don’t look in there! It’s full of dildoes!”

Not only was she able to recover her supply of weed ’n’ wampum, Little Miss Cannabis had inadvertently birthed the best non-Seinfeld Seinfeldian catchphrase I’ve ever heard. There’s gotta be at least ten thousand creative uses for that sentence, a phrase that rolls so trippingly over the lips...

“Sir, is everything OK with your meal?” “It’s full of dildoes!”

“Would you care to order dessert?” “It’s full of dildoes!”

“How does your mom like it at the assisted living center?” “It’s full of dildoes!”

Go ahead... try coming up with your own!

BOOKENDS

[This was originally posted at Blog d’Elisson in May 2008 after Elder Daughter and I had returned from our Japan trip. Given that today is the 69th anniversary of the atom-bombing of Hiroshima, I thought it was appropriate to repost it now. It is especially apropos in view of the discussions concerning the unfortunate deaths of civilians in Gaza.

War is never pretty. War is hell, as General William Tecumseh Sherman famously observed. But sometimes war is necessary, and the death and destruction resulting therefrom are an alternative to even more death, destruction, and human misery.]




Twenty-three years ago, when She Who Must Be Obeyed and I visited Hawai‘i for the first time, we spent a goodly chunk of one day visiting the Pearl Harbor Memorial: the site where a devastating attack by Japanese forces compelled the United States to enter World War II.

It was a moving and sobering experience. Standing there over the sunken remains of the USS Arizona, oil from which continues to seep to the surface of the harbor, brought tears to our eyes. And as if that were not enough, there were veterans of that terrible morning among us, men grizzled with age and care, who were there to tell their own stories of what they saw, what they lived through on that day.


Oil still seeps from the grave of the USS Arizona.

Seven years later we were back at Pearl Harbor, this time with Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm in tow. Having been there once before did not make our second visit any less moving. In fact, now that the novelty of being in Hawai‘i was gone, we could focus more on the emotion of being in a place where so many lives had been lost, where such destruction had taken place.

It was a little strange to note the astonishing number of Japanese tourists....even more than had been there in 1985.


Japanese tourists at Pearl Harbor, 1985.

Back in the early 1990’s, when the Japanese economy was flying high and Japanese sararimen were beginning to feel their oats, many of them dared to actually take vacations instead of working 24/7. Hawai‘i was, for them, a favorite destination for obvious geographic reasons...and Pearl Harbor, being of significant historical and touristic interest, was a frequent stopping place. They were, by and large, young people, people for whom the events of December 7, 1941 were the dry stuff of history books.

I could not truly begrudge their presence there, if for no other reason that the events of that day created the world we live in now, a world that includes a newly-rebuilt Japan arisen from the destruction of war, a Japan that has worked its way into the position of a first-world economic colossus. Learn about history, I thought, seeing them. Understand what happens when national interests collide. Understand that when you fuck with the bull, you get the horn.

Fast-forward sixteen years.

When Elder Daughter invited me to build the itinerary for our recent trip to Japan, I knew it would have to include a stop in Hiroshima.  It wasn’t only that I had known the story of that ill-fated city - the first city ever to suffer a nuclear attack - since I was a young Snot-Nose. It was because I wanted the other Bookend.

Bookends. Pearl Harbor at one end, Hiroshima at the other, enclosing a four-year shelf containing tomes filled with misery, death, and devastation. It was important that I see both ends of that terrible War-Shelf.

One month ago today, we were there... in that very place that, on August 6, 1945, was kissed by a man-made sun and turned into a charnel house.

Hiroshima is a City with a Mission these days. Its chief industry appears to be the promotion of world peace and disarmament, a sermon this city’s history uniquely qualifies it to preach.

The Peace Museum does not soft-soap Japan’s militarism or the events that led to the United States involvement in World War II. It appears to adopt a cool, analytical stance with respect to its portrayal of the events that culminated in Hiroshima’s selection as the first sacrifice to the Nuclear Gods. [Factors such as good weather and having suffered no prior bombing damage were critical. Low clouds saved Kokura from being Target #2; Nagasaki got that bomb instead.]



Diorama at the Peace Museum in Hiroshima shows the devastation wrought by “Little Boy” - a single 15-kiloton U-235 gun-method bomb detonating at 580 meters altitude. The red ball illustrates the size and position of the fireball one second after detonation, at which time it was 280 meters in diameter.

There are plenty of Western visitors to Hiroshima, and among them many Americans. Americans are not resented here, so many years after the Bomb - as is the case elsewhere in Japan, we are astonishingly well-liked. Maybe not a mirror image of things in Hawai‘i, but close enough.

The Genbaku Domu - the Atomic Bomb Dome, the former Prefectural Industrial Promotional Hall that was one of the few structures standing after the Bomb dropped - stands as a mute witness to terrible events, surrounded by the new city grown Phoenix-like around it. The vast number of people who died that day were victims of a chain of events that had been set in motion well before the attack at Pearl Harbor.


The Genbaku Domu, surrounded by a modern Hiroshima reborn from the ashes.


The Peace Memorial Hall for the Atomic Bomb Victims.


The hypocenter...580 meters directly below where the Bomb went off.

I will not second-guess the people whose decision it was to drop that Bomb. The alternative, best as they could envision it, was a bloody, drawn-out invasion of the Home Islands, an invasion that would have killed far more Japanese than did the bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But Japanese lives were not the main consideration at that point. Victory - and American lives - were.

We looked past the thousands upon thousands of paper cranes, the uncountable memorials, the silent specter of the Genbaku Domu, to a vibrant city where the Hiroshima Carp were beginning a new baseball season and where we were greeted with smiles. We sat down and enjoyed a hole-in-the-wall lunch of okonomiyaki (a thin pancake covered with soba noodles, Hiroshima’s famous local oysters, bean sprouts, sweet soy sauce, and a thin omelette) and jizake (the local brew), and thought...of bookends.

Update: Call it synchronicity, but I find it fascinating that the golfer who just snagged his first PGA Tour win at the AT&T Classic (held last week at the TPC Sugarloaf northeast of Atlanta) was none other than Ryuji Imada, a native of (where else?) Hiroshima. Guy really knew how to bomb the fairways, I guess...

CINNAMON BUN

She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
Under her bed she kept an elephant gun
Ever since ’04 she’d been on the run
From the Kimchi ’n’ Cookie Cartel

She got a new tattoo every other week
The last one was a doozie – on her left butt cheek
Her voice was husky (when she cared to speak)
And she had me in her spell

She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
No woman I knew showed me more damn fun
She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun

She swore like a sailor and could hold her gin
She’d steal your heart with her crooked grin
Some said she was well-versed in the ways of sin
And might end up in Hell

One day she vanished – never said goodbye
All she left was a hairbrush and her good glass eye
And a recipe for kimchi that’d make you cry
From its garlic and chile smell

She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
No woman I knew showed me more damn fun
She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun
She wore her hair in a cinnamon bun

[This is yet another of my attempts to write a country song. What country? I have no idea. But I’d love to set it to music... anyone want to give it a try?]

DAY OF MOURNING

A completely inappropriate holiday greeting. [Of course this is not a real sign - it was made with the help of the infamous Church Sign Generator.]

O day of mourning, Tisha b’Av
It’s not a holiday we love

For nine days we’ve refrained from meat
Today, no leather on our feet
We do not drink; we do not eat
(A beefsteak would be indiscreet)

O day of mourning, Tisha b’Av
It’s not a holiday we love

We think of death and of the grave
We do not wash ourselves or shave
If one is a religious Jew
One will not try to cop a screw

We sit upon the floor at night
Chant elegies by candlelight
Recalling tragedies of yore
(That’s why we’re sitting on the floor)

A grunt or nod, but no “Good Day”
When next we trudge to shul to pray
That mankind’s hatred disappear
(A prayer that falls upon deaf ear)

O day of mourning, Tisha b’Av
It’s not a holiday we love

ON UNSPEAKABLE URGES

Has this ever happened to you?

Once in a while an idea comes along that is so spectacularly evil... so dastardly... that it becomes an obsessive drumbeat in the back of your noggin. Somehow or other, you have to find a way to confront that Unspeakable Urge, no matter how self-destructive it is, lest that drumbeat in your head drive you to the brink of madness.

When one of my friends from synagogue posted a recipe for Double Chocolate Chip Challah on her Facebook page, I knew I had an Unspeakable Urge to deal with, and I dealt with it in the classic, time-honored manner: by giving in to it.

Gawd forgive me.


Double chocolate chip challah, after the loaf has been shaped. This was a four-strand braid.

The resulting loaf is best described as the bastard offspring of the forbidden union of challah and chocolate babka. It’s sweet but not overwhelmingly so - a bit on the rich side, but not wet and obscene like the best babkas can be. You can eat it slathered with butter or (gasp!) cream cheese, although it’s perfectly good all by itself.


The finished product. Prior to baking, the loaf is glazed with egg wash and sprinkled with fleur de sel.

And of course, you can make French toast with it.



I would be ashamed of myself, but I have no shame.

SWEET SIXTEEN

Chez Elisson, in an HDR image taken July 2014. [Click to embiggen.]

As of today, we’ve lived here at Chez Elisson for sixteen years - this being the anniversary of our closing.

Neither I nor The Missus have lived under a single roof for that length of time anywhere else. The closest I came was fourteen-plus years at our Unqua Road home in Massapequa, New York, where I spent many of my formative Snot-Nose Years.

Over the long years, the tiny Japanese maples that flank the front door have gotten huge, and the magnolias on either side of the house have grown to astonishing size. Many of our other trees have had to undergo massive pruning. We have not gone quite so far as our neighbor across the street, who yanked out almost all the trees on his property after last year’s near miss with an EF-1 tornado.

Most recently, we’ve dressed up the old cheesebox bungalow with a new roof. Looks pretty snazzy, no? Plus it keeps the rain off our heads at night.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT: A 100-WORD STORY

Life in the Garden was wonderful.

The weather was always perfect, appropriate for a nudist resort. Food was always on hand, costing only the effort required to pull it from the trees. No rules... just right.

Well, one rule. Don’t eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.

The Serpent was having none of that. He persuaded Eve to eat, and the rest is Scripture: “I will greatly multiply thy pain and thy travail; in pain shalt thou bring forth children, and when thou art old, thou shalt be wrinkled.” 

“Shit,” thought Eve. “I never should have eaten that prune.”

PANEM ET CASEUM

Homemade three-cheese pizza with mozzarella, taleggio, Parmesan, and a shitload of black pepper.

Never mind bread and circuses... give me bread and cheese and I’ll be a happy camper. And what is a better exemplar of the glories of bread and cheese than the pizza?

[OK, there is the Grilled Cheese Sandwich. Made with good bread and a flavorsome cheddar or Gruyère, it’s a perfectly fine alternative... but that’s a story for another post.]

Having grown up in the New York area, pizza was a part of our lives from Day One. After all, I lived in Massapequa, a village on the south shore of Long Island that was called Matzoh-Pizza by many of the locals, owing to the relatively large proportion of Jewish and Italian residents. The local product consisted of two types of pies: the round Neapolitan, with a thin, floppy crust laden with cheese and tomato; and the Sicilian, a rectangular version with a substantially thicker and breadier crust. I was a Neapolitan fan from Day One... or at least as far back as I can remember.

When I left the northeast and moved to Texas, I was horrified to find that I had moved to a pizza desert. Oh, there was pizza a-plenty, but the Real Thing - that glorious Neapolitan pie of my youth - was thin on the ground, available in only a few places. Mostly there was the crap available from places like Pizza Hut and Pizza Inn... and, later, Domino’s. Year later, though, Houston was where I first discovered the Tuscan-style pie, with a shatteringly crisp crust that - as Laurence Simon was wont to say - you could slit your wrists with. Wow.

Pizza options abound these days. In our neighborhood - assuming you have no interest in the fast food offerings of Domino’s, Papa John’s, and the like - you have places like Capozzi’s, Aurelio’s and Uncle Maddio’s. Of these, Capozzi’s offers the closest thing to the Pies of My Youth. Oh, and there’s a California Pizza Kitchen, an outfit that I liked a lot more when they had duck sausage pizza with spinach on the menu. Oh, well.

It wasn’t until last week that I tried my hand at making my own pizza from scratch. That was a mistake. It’s way better than the commercial stuff, so now I have a new Food-Temptation to resist.

The key is to let the dough - made with a blend of finely ground 00 flour and all-purpose flour - rise in the fridge overnight or longer. The long fermentation allows all sorts of nice flavors to develop.

And what to enjoy with this cheesy delight? How about a Nantucket Red?

2 ounces white tequila
1 ounce Aperol
Juice of half a lemon
Grapefruit soda

Combine the tequila, Aperol, and lemon juice in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake vigorously and strain into a highball glass with ice. Top with grapefruit soda; stir. Garnish with a lemon peel.

One of the trendy Atlanta restaurants was advertising this drink, so I made my own version. It’s named, strangely enough, for a style and color of pants - presumably one that is popular in certain New England vacation spots. Nantucket Red: That sounds so much more appetizing than “Charleston Chino,” doesn’t it?

THE STING: A 100-WORD STORY

Don Giacomo Finocchio sat behind his enormous oaken desk. An incongruously tiny cup of espresso sat before him from which he sipped, pinkie finger upraised delicately.

His consiglieri had been pressing him to strike against the Nunzios for weeks now. Yet Finocchio had not acted rashly. There were negotiations to conduct, arrangements to finalize, before he could make his move.

Everything was ready now. “Fluttuare come una farfalla, pungere come un’ape,” he thought to himself as he raised his wand, unleashing his sting. Miles away, every Nunzio caporegime fell stone dead.

Being a fairy Godfather, Finocchio thought, had its advantages.

IVY LEAGUE DRINKAGE

The Princeton Cocktail: sophisticated, elegant, a bit arcane, and fully capable of Getting the Job Done.

I had never given much thought to the fact that there exist mixed drinks named after various educational institutions... but apparently, Ivy League cocktails have been around for quite some time, according to an article that had been graciously forwarded to me by Leslie, the Omnibus Driver.

Some of these cocktails sound like they’re worth a try, while others inspire a certain degree of fear and loathing... and that’s based solely on their ingredients, not on their names. Nevertheless, given my educational provenance (and given the contents of my little Lacquer Liquor Locker), I had to give the Princeton Cocktail a try. Here’s what to do:

2 ounces Old Tom gin (I used Hayman’s)
Couple dashes orange bitters (I used Fee Brothers)
¾ ounce ruby or tawny Port, preferably chilled (I used Warres Tawny)

Combine the gin and bitters with ice in a cocktail shaker. Stir well and strain into a cocktail glass. Carefully pour the Port into the glass along the side so that it forms a (mostly) separate layer at the bottom. Squeeze a bit of orange peel over the drink and discard (the peel, not the drink, Harvard Boy.)

If you don’t have Old Tom gin in your collection of spirits, you can concoct a rough approximation by using two ounces of Plymouth gin with a half-teaspoon of simple syrup.

Savor this cocktail slowly. Owing to the layer of Port at the bottom, its character changes with every sip. Have a few of ’em, and they’ll transport you to the verdant fields and Gothic spires of Old Nassau.



Update: I’ve now had a chance to try making one of these with Ransom Old Tom gin, and it’s also excellent, with a more complex malty character. Either way, a fine cocktail.

MAKE MINE A DOPPEL

Me and Stanley Tucci... separated at birth?

They say everyone has a doppelgänger, someone who bears an eerie resemblance to another individual. I’m not sure there is anyone who has the unfortunate lot in life to be my doppel, but at various times in my life, there have been a few that - some have said - at least looked vaguely like me.

In my high school days, it was Dustin Hoffman. After The Graduate came out, all too many people would greet me by saying, “Plastics,” a bizarre foreshadowing of my career with the Great Corporate Salt Mine. And later, during the long years when I sported a moustache, other comparisons were inevitable. 

Now that I’m a bit older and my hair has become, ahhh, significantly less in evidence, new comparisons have begun to pop up... like the one pictured above. Not quite a “Separated at Birth” moment - Mr. Tucci is eight years my junior - but still...

MOLE REMOVAL

The other day I went to see the doctor, and he removed a mole.

No, it’s not what you think. The doctor was not my dermatologist, and I did not go to his office to have something snipped off my skin. This was Dr. T., a personal friend, and he and I were taking an afternoon dip in his swimming pool. The good doctor removed said mole - the mammalian variety - from said pool, where it had drowned.

The mole is a creature of the earth: A swimming pool, being mostly filled with water, is not its natural habitat. The poor little feller was out of its element, and a mole in water will fare little better than a fish out of water.

[Those inclined to squeamishness should probably stay on this side of the jump.]

SUNBEAM

Astride a sunbeam, Stella seems to cast her own light.

Stella, the fluffy kitty
Has a very tiny nose
From looking at this picture
You might even think she glows

FISH ON A DISH

Roasted salmon with Montreal Steak seasoning, lemon zest, and piment d’espelette. Yowza.

Sometimes, to paraphrase the Incredible String Band, a fish on a dish is just what I wish. And when the good folks at Costco are selling slabs of wild-caught sockeye for a very reasonable price, how can I resist? I ask you.

I love salmon filets prepared any manner of ways, and simple tends to be best. I like to grill ’em on a well-soaked cedar plank, which gives them a nice light smoky flavor. The Missus will wrap them in heavy-duty foil and park them on the grill, a method that allows the fish to baste in its own natural juices. Delicious. And if that’s too complicated, twenty minutes in the oven at 350°F gets the job done nicely.

When it comes to seasoning the fish, there are all sorts of choices. Williams-Sonoma, purveyor of (mostly) overpriced foods and gadgets, sells an excellent rub under the name “Potlatch Seasoning.” Plain old salt and pepper work well, too, and you can go the Asian route with any number of variations on the teriyaki or ginger-soy theme. Lately, though, I’ve been happy with Montreal steak seasoning, a McCormick standard that works even better added to hamburger meat or sprinkled on fish. According to Wikipedia,

“...the Montreal deli Schwartz’s is credited with the creation of Montreal steak seasoning. The story of its creation is that, during the 1940’s and 1950’s, a Schwartz’s broilerman by the name of Morris ‘The Shadow’ Sherman began adding the deli’s smoked meat pickling spices to his own rib and liver steaks. Soon the customers began asking for the same. Due to its popularity, it eventually became a norm in Montreal delis and steakhouses such as the nearby Moishes Steakhouse and the Main Deli Steak House to spice their steaks similarly.”

This time I added another twist by adding a liberal amount of lemon zest and piment d’espelette, the fiery Basque red pepper.  Just what the doctor wishes he had ordered.

Oh, that green stuff on the plate? Arugula dressed with lemon juice and gremolata-infused olive oil. Sounds too frou-frou for you? Tough titty.

CAREER CHANGE: A 100-WORD STORY

Ron was sick to death of the shop.

He used to love the place, no question. It was only natural that he ended up there, helping brother George run things after Fred was killed in the War. But the stress of dealing with customers was nothing compared with the gut-grinding agita of working alongside George.

So he left, opening a golf shop that was equally popular with muggles and wizards... for Ron’s practice balls could work wonders, magically bouncing off water, avoiding sand, and veering away from trees.

People would queue up for blocks to buy buckets of Strange Balls.

I PITY THE POOR FOOL...

... who doesn’t like a tasty fool for dessert.


Lemon-Blueberry Fool.

When most of us think “British desserts,” we think of heavy suet puddings with picturesque names like Spotted Dick, Drowned Baby, and Treacle Sponge. And of course there’s the ubiquitous flaming Christmas pudding. All fine and dandy, but not what one would call summery.

There is a completely different sort of British pudding, though (pudding, that is, in the British sense - a generic name for dessert). That would be your fool, in its simplest form a concoction of berries and whipped cream.

The Lemon-Blueberry Fool shown above is a little bit more complicated. It combines two flavors that go together beautifully - lemon and blueberry, a match made in Food Heaven. The assertive sharpness of the lemon is tamed by converting it into a tart, silky lemon curd, while the blueberries’ flavor is intensified by gently cooking them into a compote.

The basic recipe is here at seriouseats.com. I made a few minor tweaks, to wit: (1) When making the lemon curd, I add the butter (cut into small chunks) after the sugar-egg yolk-lemon juice mixture is fully cooked, and (2) I strain the hot lemon curd before chilling it.

This stuff is light, yet satisfying. (Well, not too light. Butter, egg yolks, whipped cream, sugar. Oof.) It’s a perfect dessert for a warm summer evening... and it tastes every bit as good as it looks.

A FEW THOUGHTS ON A LOST ART

Today, July 7, is an anniversary of sorts.

I started keeping an Online Journal ten years ago today, with a post that, not surprisingly to those who know me, made mention of certain unmentionable digestive issues. (Online Journal sounds so more professional and important than “blog,” that distasteful-sounding nonce word that comes from hacking off the first two letters of “weblog.”) That was at a site I chose to call “Blog d’Elisson” out of a combined failure of creativity and a desire to honor my father. I was, after all, Eli’s son, and so that became my nom d’électron.

What was the point of all this? You may well ask. I had already accumulated a small pile of miscellaneous scribblings, and I suppose I was curious as to whether anyone else would find them amusing and/or worthwhile. All it took was a precipitating event to get me started. And, as I discovered later, there was the element of catharsis, as well: It felt good to write about certain things... even if they were painful. Writing as anodyne.  

The catchphrase I used on that site was “Another Monumental Exercise in Self-Aggrandizement and Time-Wastage,” the first such exercise having been the static website I started sometime around the turn of the century. I hesitate to try to calculate how many hours I have pissed away writing at both Blog d’Elisson and here, but when you consider that there is a combined total of over 5,000 posts at the two sites, you can assume that, at least, the Time-Wastage part of my mission has been successful.

As far as Self-Aggrandizement is concerned, blogging is not necessarily the most efficient way of tooting one’s own horn. (If that were my main concern, I would have been better served by simply renting a billboard on Atlanta’s Downtown Connector and slapping my grinning face on it.) My use of that term, originally, had been facetious... and yet I cannot deny the modest ego boost I got back in the early days of my bloggitry when I would get a new blogroll link - hell, any link - or a comment. Those, along with my pageview stats, meant that somebody out there in the Internet-Ether had read something I had written, sometimes liking it enough to lob a comment back over the net or plug a link into his or her own site. That somebody was most likely a total stranger, and yet those invisible linky connections, over time, sometimes morphed into real-life friendships. One element that made those friendships remarkable was their sheer unlikeliness: These were people I would probably never have encountered in everyday life - yet we became bound together solely by the strength of our ideas and our ability to express them.

That, to me, was what made Old-School Blogging special. It built communities... without necessarily intending to. And it did not rely on a self-selected network of “ffriends” to keep it going.

Alas, Facebook (which I refer to as “Farcebook” in my blacker moods) has eaten the guts out of blogging. That is, any guts that remained after the commercial interests jumped in. Most of the people who used to write personal blogs have given up and migrated to Facebook, where their connectivity is measured in their number of ffriends, their likes, their status updates, their shares. Blogroll links and comments just aren’t sexy any more.

That’s too bad, because - to me, anyway - blogs were where I discovered people whose politics were different from mine... or the same. People who looked at the same things I did and came away with completely different takes. People whose senses of humor were all over the map. People who saw the beauty in the mundane. People who were just plain nuts... but entertainingly so. People who could write... and make me want to read more. And people who interacted with you, people with whom you could have a dialogue.

Rob Smith, who styled himself Acidman on his famous - some would say infamous - blog Gut Rumbles, used to call his blogging “a ceaseless quest for adoration from people who don’t know me.” Sounds an awful lot like Self-Aggrandizement, doesn’t it? And that is hardly a surprise, for it is normal for males to seek the Three A’s: admiration, appreciation, and acknowledgement. Adoration and aggrandizement might be a bit more extreme, but they certainly fall somewhere in the spectrum with those other A’s.

Since mid-2010, I’ve been writing here at Lost in the Cheese Aisle, where the elements of self-aggrandizement and time-wastage, while still present, are no longer worth memorializing in the form of a catchphrase. The title of the blog comes from one of the Missus’s more endearing characterizations of me: when I’m acting especially distracted or confused, she calls it “being lost in the cheese aisle.” (I am actually capable of getting lost in the cheese aisle. Oooh, cheese!) That ADHD-ish facet of my personality can be exasperating, but I like to believe that it adds to my charm... at least, such charm as I may possess.

And I suppose I will keep writing here, albeit with diminished frequency. I started all of this Online Journalism for my own amusement - despite any and all appearances to the contrary - and as long as it continues to amuse me, I’ll keep flogging the beast.

BLOWN AWAY

That was my reaction to this video of fireworks in West Palm Beach, Florida... filmed from the midst of the explosions, using a GoPro Hero 3 silver camera attached to a DJI Phantom 2 drone.

Remarkably, the drone was not damaged despite its proximity to the bursting shells.



Now I wanna get me my own drone. At the very least, I can use it to terrify the local conspiracy theorists.

PATRIOTIC TOES

Our friend Arlene sports a snazzy July 4 toenail job.

On Independence Day, anything goes -
So get yourself some Patriotic Toes.
When red, and white, and blue adorn thy Nails,
Your Love of Country cannot ever fail.
Not all the Bombast of a Fireworks Show
Can match the Colors painted on your Toe.

INCONSOLABLE

When I am in a nasty mood,
Not all the spangled pulchritude
Of Vegas beauty pageant winners -
No porterhouses (grilled) for dinner,
Accompanied by dry Martinis,
And caviar-bespeckled blinis -
No cakes from the Cacao-Bean
Can serve to ease my vile mien.

TODAY’S PERFORATED HEADGEAR PINUP

If there’s a colander, I’ll wear it.
(If I’m feeling generous, I’ll share it.)

On this final day of June,
Check out my snazzy Colander-Spoon!

[Strainer positioning assistance provided by Elder Daughter.]

TOODLE-OO, TUCO

Eli Wallach (1915-2014) in his iconic role of Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Tuco has gone on to the Great Shoot-’Em-Up in the Sky: Eli Wallach, the actor who portrayed him in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, has died at the age of 98.

Wallach, strangely enough, was one of the first celebrities I actually saw in the flesh. And he had the distinction of sharing my own daddy’s first name, Eli. How could I not like the guy?

Requiescat in pace, Mr. Wallach. Regardless of what Tuco may have said, I hope you never feel the Devil bite your ass.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Velociman for the image.]

R. I. P., MISTER WATER-PIK

My Waterpik gave up the ghost the other day, announcing its demise in a schpritz of high-pressure water all over my midriff as I was waterflossing my teeth.

This was different from the faux pas of pulling the jet tip out out of one’s mouth while the machine is still running... a good way to get squirted in unexpected places: the eye, the right nostril, the armpit. (Don’t ask me how I know this.) No, I had the jet tip firmly ensconced in my mouth, and yet I was getting an impromptu shower. Fuck! thought I.

Sure enough, a hairline crack had developed in the hose that leads from the pump unit to the handle. It was, typically enough, right below the handle. This wasn’t the first time one of our Waterpiks had cacked in exactly the same way, so it wasn’t so much a surprise as a disappointment.

There was a silver lining in this damp cloud, however. She Who Must Be Obeyed had just been to Costco, where she had spotted Waterpiks on sale. Even better, it was a package deal: a full-size Waterpik along with a companion travel-size version, complete with its own carrying case. Perfect for those out-of-town trips. I had heard about this with only a mild amount of interest, but now, with a dead Pik on our hands, the Costco option was looking mighty attractive.

You don’t own a Waterpik? You should. These handy oral irrigator devices have been around for about fifty years, but not everyone owns one. That’s too bad, because waterflossing is really good for the gums and, in my case, has made a huge difference in the amount of calculus buildup my oral hygienist has to scrape off of my teeth every six months. Alas, being mechanical, they do not last forever... but the occasional need to replace our Pik is, to me, a cost of doing business. Nevertheless, I’d love it if there were some way to replace a cracked hose without having to buy a whole new appliance.

Update: According to commenter Jackie, replacement hoses are available from both Amazon and from the Waterpik website. Sure enough, they are. I’ll keep that in mind next time we blow out a Waterpik hose. 

FLOWERS FOR DANIEL

...P.P.S. please if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard...

- from Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes

Daniel Keyes, author of the tragically brilliant short story Flowers for Algernon, died last week at the age of eighty-six.

The story concerns Charly, an intellectually challenged man - in older, less politically correct days, he would have been called “retarded” - who is given an experimental treatment that raises his IQ to genius level. The story’s first tragedy is that his increased intelligence allows him to see that many of the people he regarded as his friends had, instead, been cruel and abusive. The second tragedy is far worse, however: The treatment is a failure because it is not permanent. With enhanced brainpower, Charly sees his future decline, his return to the world of slow-wittedness. It’s heartwrenching.

Keyes expanded his 1959 short story into a novel - not entirely successfully, in my opinion. But Flowers for Algernon has also seen several screen adaptations, notably the 1968 movie Charly, which featured Cliff Robertson in an Academy Award-winning role as the titular character. (I am a bit horrified that there has also been a musical based on the story as well.)

Who is Algernon? you may ask. He’s the mouse upon which the treatment is first tested, with positive results that are encouraging but ultimately all too fleeting: Algernon’s decline allows Charly to see what awaits him as well.

So now, if you get a chanse, please put some flowrs on Daniels grave. Ave atque vale, Mr. Keyes!

JUNE GUILD EVENT

This evening the Sommelier Guild returns once again to the Chops Lobster Bar. It’s time for the annual banquet, typically a monument to wretched winey excess.

My attendance at the Guild’s banquets has been hit-or-miss, given that June is usually our Traveling Season. But we’re back from our big summer trip now, and I suppose one more tying-on of the Feed-Bag won’t make too much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.

There will be a host of excellent wines, along with a few of my favorite proteins to accompany them on their voyage down my gullet. Here for your delectation is the evening’s List of Provender:

Reception
NV Collon Champagne Brut**

First Flight
2012 Domaine des Valanges Mâcon-Prissé “Le Clos” - Mâcon, Burgundy, France**
2009 Pegasus Bay Chardonnay - Waipara Valley, Canterbury, New Zealand
Lump crab cakes, mustard butter sauce

Second Flight
2000 Beaucastel Châteauneuf-du-Pape - Vallée du Rhône, France*
2007 Xavier Vins Châteauneuf-du-Pape Cuvée Anonyme - Vallée du Rhône, France**
Lamb rib chop, Brussels sprout leaves and mushrooms

Third Flight
2009 Anderson’s Conn Valley Right Bank - Napa County, California***
2007 Chalk Hill Estate Red - Sonoma County, California**
2007 Joseph Phelps Insignia - Napa Valley, California**
Filet mignon with two sauces, creamed spinach, organic mushrooms
(First half of filet served with sauce Béarnaise)

Fourth Flight
1998 D’Arenberg Dead Arm Shiraz - McLaren Vale, Australia**
2005 Bernard Faurie Hermitage - Rhône, Hermitage, France***
(Second half of filet served with sauce au poivre)

Dessert
2003 Bretz Bechtolsheimer Petersberg Eiswein - Bereich Nierstein, Rheinhessen, Germany**
2005 Heyden Oppenheimer Sackträger Beerenauslese - Bereich Nierstein, Rheinhessen, Germany*** (Half of the tables will receive the eiswein and the other half the beerenauslese)
Chef’s Surprise Dessert (Bread Pudding or Orange Crême Brulée)

Lagniappe
1995 Turley Aida Vineyard Zinfandel*****
2004 Andrew Will Sheridan Vineyard Red Wine**
2011 Redoma Douro*
2011 Gevrey-Chambertin Vieilles Vignes - Morceaux***
2010 Rhys Anderson Valley Bearwallow Vineyard Pinot Noir****
2007 El Olivar Malbec Viu Manent Single Vineyard
1993 Langtry Meritage**
2007 Weingut Bründlmayer Grüner Veltliner Alte Reben**

Update:
So far I have never been disappointed with the food at Chops Lobster Bar, and this dinner was no exception. Only later did it strike me that the one thing missing from the menu was any form of starch... and that was fine with me. No drab, dreary potatoes or pasta to get in the way of the perfectly seared lamb chop, the à point beef filet. The sides, consisting of tiny Brussels sprouts and sautéed mushrooms, were just the right counterpoint to the rich proteins. And the wines? With one exception - the unfortunate 2009 Pegasus Bay Chardonnay, which had a strange, dense flavor - the wines were anywhere from good to excellent. And if twelve wines on the menu were not enough, there were plenty of other bottles being passed around.

Gotta try to make these banquets more often... this one rocked!

A FATHER’S HANDS

[Originally published on Father’s Day, June 20, 2010.]

 

These are the hands that raised me. They are my father’s hands.

As a child, I would watch those fingers fly over the valves of his trumpet as his foot would tap out the metronomic beat. He would then sit down at the grand piano and those same fingers would coax beautiful music from hidden strings.

The hands are older now, spotted with age.  But they still make that same beautiful music, and it makes my heart sing with sweet memories.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Postscript: I wrote the above post on Father’s Day of 2010. It is especially noteworthy because it was the first - and only - time my (notoriously technology averse) father ever left a comment on one of my blog posts. Here’s it is:

Eli (hiz own self) said...

It is absolutely amazing but I recognized my own hands immediately! Thank you for the sweet thoughts. It’s good to be a Dad who is appreciated and loved. D.O.D.

For the curious, D.O.D. stands for Dear Old Dad, which is how Eli styled himself in the cards and letters he would send me. He’s gone now, but that beautiful music will always be in my memories.

GOING BACK... AGAIN

Detail from a vintage 1930 Wedgewood plate featuring Princeton University’s Blair Hall... my home for junior and senior years.

Beginning tomorrow, the Missus and I will be making our once-every-five-years pilgrimage to my Alma Mater in order to attend Reunions. It’s a big event, with attendees ranging from doddering old gentlemen from classes in the mid-1930’s to the newly minted graduates of the Class of 2014. Our class falls roughly halfway between those extremes: we’ll be celebrating our fortieth year.

Forty years. Hard to believe, innit? We are now those semi-elderly alumni in their venerable class blazers, the ones we never could imagine ourselves as when we were the new kids on the collegiate block. We’re now the ones with (in some cases, at least) grandchildren almost old enough to start thinking about college themselves. Great Googly Moogly.

There will be plenty of catching up with friends of long standing... getting to know some of the classmates we missed out on knowing when we were undergrads...shooting the breeze... drinking and partying until the wee hours. (We old goats still have our stamina.) It’s why I always look forward to going back to the Best Damned Place of All.

There’s a certain synchronicity that attaches to the weekend, as well. This coming Saturday, our dear friend Houston Steve will celebrate the fiftieth (!) anniversary of his Bar Mitzvah by chanting the haftarah - the prophetical selection that follows the traditional reading from the Torah. Although we won’t be in Atlanta to hear him, the week’s Torah portion is Nasso (“take a census”): what could be more appropriate for the weekend when we will be going back to Old Nassau?

MAY GUILD EVENT

This evening will bring yet another Sommelier Guild event, this one a celebration of the wines of Italy. Italian Stallions, the invitation calls ’em, and I am hoping that appellation refers to the heartiness of the selections we’ll be drinking and not any possible resemblance to Horse-Piss. We will be dining and drinking at La Grotta in Buckhead, a place with pleasant associations for both me and She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Based on the evening’s menu (thirteen different wines! six dishes!), I will be eating and drinking way, way too much. Is that bad? You decide:

Reception
2012 Abbazia di Novacella Stiftkellerei Neustift Kerner***
Prosciutto di Parma, fresh melon, mint, aged balsamic glàce, salmon tartare in pastry cups

First Flight
2011 Vestini Campagnano Pallagrello Bianco
2010 I Pentri Castelvenere Falanghina Flora
Seared calamari, basil pesto, EVOO

Second Flight
1999 Dalla Valle Pietre Rosse Sangiovese
2009 Monsanto Chianti Classico Riserva**
Beef short rib-stuffed tortellacci, red wine brodo

Third Flight
2010 Passopisciaro Rosso Nerello Mascalese**
2008 Col d’Orcia Brunello di Montalcino**
Tortelloni stuffed with braised onions, cooked prosciutto, fresh thyme and mascarpone cheese with fresh oregano tomato sauce

Fourth Flight
2010 Paitin Serra Barbaresco***
2010 Paitin Sori Paitin Barbaresco***
2009 Produttori del Barbaresco***
Risotto, wild mushrooms, Parmesan,white truffle oil

Fifth Flight
2007 Castello del Terriccio Tassinaia
2009 Tolaini Valdisanti***
2010 Giacomo Grimaldi Barolo**
4-ounce filet mignon with Gorgonzola cheese in a Barolo and Pommery mustard sauce, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, seasonal vegetables

Lagniappe
1997 Castello di Brolio Chianti Classico**
2009 Rosso di Montalcino Le Ragnaie
2010 Beaulieu Vineyard Georges de Latour Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon**
2007 Punset Barbaresco
2004 Lamborghini Campoleone

Update:
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli. And don’t forget the vino rosso.

A fine collection of foodstuffs set off by a very agreeable palette of wines... enjoyed al fresco thanks to the weather having been cooperative. I’d call this Guild Event a success. 

A CANAJAN COCKTAIL

The Robertson Davies Elderflower Rye.

Appropriately enough, as we prepare to head for the Great North Woods for (part of) our summer travels, here comes a cocktail of Canadian origin: the Robertson Davies Elderflower Rye.

Being from south of the border, I had no feckin’ clue who Robertson Davies was until I did a bit of Online Research. Turns out he was one of Canada’s most celebrated authors, The Deptford Trilogy being among his notable works. Hmmm... a few more books for me to read after I clear away the existing pile on my nightstand.

I have no idea whether drinking this cocktail will help inspire the writerly impulse, but it can’t help to try and find out. Here’s how you make one:

2 ounces rye whiskey (The Fairmont Royal York uses Knob Creek rye)
1 ounce Aperol
1 ounce St. Germain elderflower liqueur

Combine in a cocktail shaker with ice; stir and strain into an old-fashioned glass with a honking big ice cube. Drink several and then write about the experience.

Postscriptum:
Well, I’m enjoying one of these bad boys as I grill a dry-aged New York strip steak and prepare a vat of asparagus-spinach soup. And it’s Just Fine.

[Tip of the Elisson fedora to Ben René for the recipe.]

A BAKER’S BROMIDE

A lively, foaming bucket of home-grown sourdough starter, resurrected after having been kept in the freezer since before Passover. After thawing it out, a few daily feedings were sufficient to wake it up and keep it happy.

This is my starter. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My starter is my bread’s best friend. It is my loaf’s life. I must master it if I want lively loaves. My starter, without me, is useless. Without my starter, I am useless. I must feed my starter well. I must ferment my dough better than my competitors who are trying to outbake me. I must bake or be baked. I will...

My starter and I know that what counts in baking is not the number of loaves we bake, the clatter of our pans, nor the aroma we make. We know that it is the taste of our loaves that counts. We will bake tasty loaves...

My starter is made of cells, even as I, because it is a living being. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its components, its behavior, its leavening power. I will keep my starter well fed and ready, even as I am well fed and ready. We will become part of each other. We will...

Before Gawd, I swear this creed. My starter and I are the defenders of our dough. We are the lords of our leavening. We are the saviors of our sandwich bread.

So be it, until we can boast of our baguettes and drink a toast to our toast!

IT’S CRACKERS

“It’s crackers to slip a rozzer the dropsy in snide.” - Magersfontein Lugg


The Seed 75 cocktail, a perfect way to use that bottle of Old Tom gin you have in the back of your Booze-Box. (What, you don’t have a bottle of Old Tom gin in the back of your Booze-Box?)

One of the nicer local eateries hereabouts - Seed Kitchen and Bar - offers a cocktail called Capture the Flag, a concoction that includes Maestro Dobel tequila, lemon juice, a house-made port-pineapple syrup, and Ramazzotti, the last being an Italian amaro. It’s probably the Missus’s favorite cocktail, and I can’t say I blame her for liking it as much as she does. It is sweet, but not overly so, and it has layer upon layer of flavors. Oh, and it also packs a wallop, something to watch out for, as that alcoholic fist is well disguised in a highly drinkable glove.

The only problem I see with this Adult Beverage is that I cannot, as yet, make it at home - that is, until I manage to convince one of the bartenders at Seed to fork over the recipe for the port-pineapple syrup. But in the meantime, there is another tipple on offer there that I can make at home: the Seed 75. And it is a fine drink. It’s simply Hayman’s Old Tom gin, lemon juice, and pomegranate grenadine. The last one I made, I used 2 ounces gin, the juice of half a Meyer lemon, and a scant ounce of my homemade grenadine, and it was superb. (You really need to use an Old Tom gin for this; the more familiar London dry gin style doesn’t really work.)

What to eat while you’re sipping on your Seed 75? How about some Cheesy Smoked Paprika Crackers, courtesy of those fine folks over at Serious Eats? I ran up a batch of these bad boys a few days ago and now I’m regretting it, for they are powerfully addictive.


Cheesy Smoked Paprika Crackers. These decadent little bastards are sprinkled with smoked sea salt and fleur de sel.

Postscriptum: The quotation above will be familiar to anyone who read Mad magazine in the 1950’s or early ’60’s. It was a recurring catchphrase - at least, in Mad - that had been lifted from The Fashion in Shrouds (1938), one of Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion crime novels. It means, “It’s crazy to pay off a cop in phony money,” in case you’re curious.

Postscriptum the Second: See that tray of crackers? There were a handful of ’em left over from Friday evening, nicely wrapped for future use. But not any more. (Urp.)

A DAY FOR CELEBRATION

Elder Daughter, in a photograph taken six years ago during our legendary Japan trip.

Today, May 11, is a celebratory twofer: It is Elder Daughter’s thirty-fifth birthday (!) and it is, appropriately enough, Mother’s Day as well.

Yes, it was thirty-five years ago today that She Who Must Be Obeyed delivered unto us our firstborn daughter. Dr. Phil’s tiresome catchphrase - “This is going to be a changing day in your life” - was never more apropos, for that day indeed changed our lives forever.

Until the moment she arrived, I looked forward to the Blessèd Event with a mixture of eagerness and stark, staring fear. Being a Daddy, after all, was a huge new responsibility, and I did not want to be found lacking in the necessary skills to do the job right. All uncertainty and doubt evaporated the moment we saw our beautiful new daughter: It was love at first sight in the deepest and most abiding sense.

She’s a wonderful woman now, thirty-five years down the road, with a keen insight for people, an ebullient personality, and a unique creative intelligence. I could not be prouder to have her as a daughter.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without the motherly part of the equation - She Who Must Be Obeyed - and it is a happy coincidence that Elder Daughter’s birthday so frequently coincides with Mother’s Day, as it does this year. SWMBO has contributed far more than half of Elder Daughter’s DNA. She has been a gentle guiding hand; a source of wisdom, love, and support; and an unflinching advocate for both our daughters. I could not ask for a finer mother for my children, and I love her with all my heart.

To Elder Daughter, happy birthday! May you have long years in health and happiness, without limit to any good thing.

To She Who Must Be Obeyed, happy Mother’s Day! Our daughters are the most wonderful gift you ever could have given me, and so much of their thoughtfulness and insight are the result of their having your example from which to learn.

To the other mothers in my life - Mimi, Mamacita Chelo (¡mi querida!), Toni, and all the rest - happy Mother’s Day! For where would we be without mothers? Nonexistent, that’s what. And without their love, we might exist... but it would be a miserable existence.

AHHH, FRIDAY

I look forward to Fridays.

Even though I’ve been retired from the Great Corporate Salt Mine for over five years, I still have a keen awareness of what day of the week it happens to be at any given time... and Fridays are one of the good ones.

We generally get together with a group of friends for Shabbat dinner, a dinner that we sanctify with the lighting of candles and the appropriate blessings over wine and bread. Much of the time, that bread consists of home-baked challah, a couple of loaves of which are just about ready for braiding and shaping even as I write this. The wine may or may not be kosher, but that’s OK with our group.

Tonight the main event will be thick beefsteaks, carved by Yours Truly from a massive primal cut and grilled to what I hope will be perfection. She Who Must Be Obeyed will prepare a fish dish for those who do not partake of the beefness. Others have been tasked with the preparation of side dishes - vegetables and starches, et al. - appetizers, salad, and dessert. It’s a sort of Foodly Crowdsourcing, a potluck supper with some structure. And it’s always a delight.

May your weekend be pleasurable and (for those of my Esteemed Readers who are Red Sea Pedestrians) may your Shabbat be filled with love and peace.

THE ELISSON BOOKSHELF

It’s been a little over six months since my last Bookshelf Post, so I suppose it’s as good a time as any to bring you, my Esteemed Readers, up to date on the books I’ve been reading.

As I pointed out in my last bookly summary, the above photo is somewhat misleading, filled as it is with Dead Trees. More and more I find myself gravitating toward books in electronic form: This past six months, exactly half of my reading has moved to my iPad and iPhone. Electronic books are eminently portable, and new ones can be delivered unto my devices in seconds at the touch of a button (or, more likely, the click of a mouse, accompanied by the instant drainage of bank account.) When I use my iPad, I can read in the dead of night without the need for a reading lamp... and I can adjust the size of the font all the way from microscopic to Old Blind Guy. Hardcopy books, on the other hand, still deliver a more satisfactory tactile experience... and when the electrical supply fails, I can still read by natural light.So there’s that.

Enough prefatory drivel! Here are the last few months’ worth of reads, with electronic versions marked with an asterisk:

October

• Command and Control: Nuclear Weapons, the Damascus Accident, and the Illusion of Safety - Eric Schlosser

This book will scare the ever-loving crap out of you. The Damascus accident is not something that took place in Syria - it was a fire in a Titan II missile silo that came very close to wiping Arkansas off the map. And it is by far not the only close call involving our arsenal of Doomsday Weaponry. When you learn how vulnerable nuclear weapons are to simple accidents, you realize that it is a thoroughgoing wonder that in the time since these devices were invented almost seventy years ago, there has not been an accidental nuclear detonation. Yet.

November

• Relish: My Life in the Kitchen - Lucy Knisley
  
  Lucy Kinsley tells the story of growing up and being exposed to Good Food in an unusual combination of memoir, graphic novel, and cookbook.


• Insane City* - Dave Barry
  
  Nobody captures the complete nuttiness of south Florida quite like Dave Barry. This novel includes Haitian refugees, a giant snake, a horny orangutan, a billionaire, and a good-intentioned, somewhat nebbishy young man who is trying to juggle all of the above without blowing his Big Wedding.
  

December

• Doctor Sleep* - Stephen King
  
  The long-awaited follow-up to The Shining, one of King’s great novels from the 1970’s, catches up with Danny Torrance many years after the horrific events in The Overlook. Informed by the author’s own struggles with alcoholism, it’s vintage King: horror, but with a warm heart beating at its core. 
  
  
• Fate is the Hunter - Ernest K. Gann
  
  Ernest K. Gann, author of The High and the Mighty, recounts his adventures as a pilot in the early days of commercial aviation... a considerably more hazardous business then than now, and as always one that requires grace under pressure, the ability to make quick decisions, and a cool head. 
   
• The Simpsons and their Mathematical Secrets* - Simon Singh
  
  Given that the writing staff for “The Simpsons” has an exceptionally large percentage of talented mathematicians, it is hardly surprising that they would cram all kinds of subtle (and not-so-subtle) mathematical jokes into the show. This book has the lowdown on the ones you saw... and the ones you may not have noticed.
   
• Tartine Bread* - Chad Robertson
  
  Chad Robertson, the mad genius behind the Tartine Bakery in (where else?) coastal California, shares his knowledge on making amazing sourdough breads. It has become my sourdough bible, and it’s where I learned to make great sourdough boules, baguettes, and English muffins.
  

January

• Frozen in Time: An Epic Story of Survival and a Modern Quest for Lost Heroes of World War II* - Mitchell Zuckoff
  
  The adventures of a band of American soldiers stranded on the Greenland ice cap during World War II... and of the salvors who, half a century later, searched for and located their wrecked plane.
  

February

• As a Driven Leaf - Milton Steinberg
  
  A novel set during the early Rabbinic period, this is the story of the moral and intellectual struggles of a scholar who, disillusioned with the faith of his people, seeks enlightenment among the pagan Romans who occupy their land.
  

March

• Russka*- Edward Rutherfurd
  
  A novel of sweeping historical scope and turgid phrase, this book nevertheless provides the reader with some insight into the history of both Russia and the Ukraine and the fraught relationship between the two.
  
  
• The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World's Greatest Piece of Cheese* - Michael Paterniti
  
  The title says it all. After having read this book, I want to live in Spain where I can drink wine and eat cheese.
  
  
• A World Lit Only by Fire: The Medieval Mind and the Renaissance - Portrait of an Age* - William Manchester
  
  Manchester puts forth the thesis that Ferdinand Magellan’s historic voyage - his expedition succeeded in circumnavigating the globe, even if Magellan himself did not survive it - spelled the end of the Dark and Middle Ages, a lengthy period that is in itself an instructive cautionary tale concerning the effects of an insufficient separation of Church and State. An excellent book that has an enormous amount of information about just how nasty things were Back in the Day.


• Calculating God*- Robert J. Sawyer
  
  Aliens arrive in Toronto (yes, Toronto), looking not to meet our leader but to study prehistoric extinction events in an effort to better understand the nature of God.
  
  
• The Stars My Destination* - Alfred Bester
  
  A science fiction classic from the 1950’s that introduced the idea of teleportation by mental power alone (the “Jaunte”), it’s one that I had managed never to read... until now.
  
  
• The Golem and the Jinni - Helene Wecker
  
  A love story involving characters of very different backgrounds. This is Helene Wecker’s debut novel; I believe it is the beginning of a fine career as a novelist.

April

• The Man Who Ate Everything - Jeffrey Steingarten
  
  Jeffrey Steingarten manages to overcome his loathing of Greek food after he is appointed food editor of Vogue magazine. A collection of food-related essays - many amusing and most of them informative. (Thanks, Cappy!)
  
  
• Religious Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know - and Doesn't - Stephen Prothero
  
  The premise of Stephen Prothero’s book is that Americans are the world’s most vocal proponents of religiosity, but at the same time they are by and large completely ignorant of what’s actually in those Bibles that they love to thump... not to mention the basic tenets of other major world religions. Faith is a powerful force in today’s world, as anyone who remembers the 9/11 attacks can attest, and this ignorance does not serve us well.


• Dark Summit: The True Story of Everest’s Most Controversial Season - Nick Heil
  
  The 2006 climbing season was the deadliest since 1996, that latter captured in Jon Krakauer’s riveting account Into Thin Air. Everest has since become ever more commercialized, but the dangers still persist - as evidenced by the massive death toll in 2014 after an avalanche on the Khumbu Icefall struck a group of climbers and their Sherpa guides, wiping out twelve. I am happy to leave the mountain climbing to others, thankyouverymuch.
  

So what have you been reading lately?

APRIL GUILD EVENT

Our April Guild event will be this evening at The Shed at Glenwood and will feature wines from the Rhône region of France, home to great reds like Châteauneuf-du-Pape and Hermitage.

I’m a sucker for a good red wine, and I’ll even put up with a good white wine... so I’m in. So, happily, is Houston Steve. The wine will flow, and so, too, will the conversation, laced with bad puns recounted in an East London accent. Here’s what we’ll be consuming:

Reception Wine
Domaine Achard-Vincent Clairette de Die**
(90% Muscat Blancà Petits Grains, 10% Clairette)

First Flight
2011 Domaine Lafond Lirac Blanc**
(50% Grenache Blanc, 30% Roussanne, 20% Viognier)
2010 Fortia Châteauneuf-du-Pape Blanc
(60% Clairette, 30% Roussanne, 10% Grenache Blanc)
MV Avril “Petit Avril” Blanc*
(98% Marsanne, 2% Chardonnay)
Antipastos and baguettes (olives, cured meats, mozzarella)
Watermelon salad, fromage blanc, candied peanuts, basil

Second Flight
2010 Charbonnière Vacqueyras*
(60% Grenache,40% Syrah)
2011 Boissan Gigondas****
(80% Grenache, 20% Syrah)
2011 Cros de Romet (Alain Boisson) Cairanne**
Duck confit and terrine of local mushrooms, fava bean salad, chèvre

Third Flight
2011 Charbonnière Châteauneuf-du-Pape Vieilles Vignes***
(Grenache from 80 yr old vines and Mourvèdre from 100 yr old vines)
2011 Charbonnière Châteauneuf-du-Pape Mourre des Pedrix**
(Grenache, Syrah, Mourvèdre, Cinsault)
2011 Charbonnière Châteauneuf-du-Pape Brusquières*
(70% Grenache, 30% Syrah)
Smoked pork loin, jalapeño grits, huckleberry sauce, daikon
Brussels sprouts, cider vinegar, bacon, apple
Asparagus, chanterelle and saffron risotto, Parmesan

Fourth Flight
2011 Saint-Cosme Côte-Rôtie**
2009 Matthieu Barret (Coulet) Cornas “Les Terrasses du Serre”****
2010 Domaine du Colombier Crozes-Hermitage “Cuvée Gabby”**

Lagniappe
1999 J. Vidal-Fleurie Côte-Rôtie***

Update:
A few really excellent wines, including the 2009 Coulet Cornas Terrasses du Serre, which displayed a remarkably Bordeaux-like character (Houston Steve compared the bouquet to the aroma of the leather seats of his father’s classic Jaguar, and that’s a good thing.) It was also the most expensive of the evening’s wines, at $79.99 the bottle. But for only $29.99, the 2011 Boissan Gigondas was remarkably intense and aromatic, one that I would be happy to drink again and again.

The food? Well, they had me at duck confit, but the asparagus risotto was quite lovely, as was the loin of treif. All, in all, a very successful evening.

THE NOT-SCOTCH SCOTCH

Suntory Hibiki, 17 years old.

Most of us, when we think of whisky - that’s whisky without the “e” - we think of Scotland. That’s as it should be: If you want your whiskey with an “e,” you have to go to Ireland... or across the pond to America, where bourbon and rye reign supreme. Fine creatures all, but not at all the same as the wonderful Water of Life the Scots brew with their smoke and peat.

And then you have Japan, a country with a serious culinary tradition that is not well understood by most Westerners, who pretty much stop at the California roll. Japan, a country in which a single melon, offered at the peak of ripeness and aesthetic perfection, can command well over US$100. Japan, a country that is adept at taking Western ideas and technologies and putting their own unique spin on them. (The fabled Japanese Game Show is but one example.)

You can find no-e whisky in Japan, and I am here to tell you, it can be Mighty Fine.

You’re looking at the remnants of a bottle I purchased at Narita Airport six years ago when I made a pilgrimage to the Land of the Rising Sony with Elder Daughter. After having consumed most of it, I had tucked it into a hidden recess in my Lacquer Liquor Locker, where it remained until just a couple of days ago.

This particular whisky is a blended malt - a combination of several single malts but without neutral spirits. It is extraordinary, smooth with notes of toffee, vanilla, and caramel. Very much like a good single malt Scotch, but subtly, inscrutably different.

A little research has established that to replace this bottle, I would have to spend something on the order of $180 today... well above what I paid for it in Tokyo six years ago. A good investment, sez I.

GOLLY GHEE

Ghee. Tasty, golden, buttery, nutty ghee.

Sometime last summer, I was taken with the inexplicable urge to cook up a mess of Doro Wat, a fiery Ethiopian chicken stew. (Anything that has onions, chicken, and plenty of red-hot pepper is likely to appeal to me, so perhaps that urge was not quite as inexplicable as it seemed at first blush.)

The recipe came from a site called Nom Nom Paleo, which I had found as a link on my Farcebook feed. While I do not necessarily subscribe to the Paleo eating philosophy, I do know tasty when I see it. The Doro Wat was just that.

To make Doro Wat, the first thing you do is caramelize a bunch of hacked up red onions... and the preferred fat for this job is ghee, which has a high smoking point and which contributes a unique nutty flavor.

With its slightly scary-sounding Indian name, ghee may seem exotic... but it really isn’t. It’s nothing more or less than clarified butter, the same stuff one uses for dipping chunks of lobster. It’s easy enough to make... and waaaay less costly than the prepackaged version you’ll find at the local Whole Paycheck Foods. All you do is melt a pile of unsalted sweet cream butter (the highest quality you can get) in a saucepan over medium-low heat, let it come to a bubbly simmer, and skim off the foamy goop that rises to the surface. After about 10-15 minutes or so, the bubbles get smaller and subside as the moisture in the butter cooks off while the remaining milk solids drop to the bottom of the pan and begin to turn brown. Don’t wait until they burn - that’s the time to take the melted butter off the heat and strain out those browned solids. You should have a nice, clear, golden liquid. Pour it into a Mason jar and screw on the lid.

You can store ghee at room temperature, but if that makes you nervous, stick it in the fridge. (That’s where I keep it, mainly so I don’t clutter the kitchen counters unnecessarily.)

I made a quart-size batch last August - eight months ago to the day! - and only now has my supply run low. So this afternoon I made enough to replenish my inventory.

Damn, this stuff is delicious. I still like to use a squirt of olive oil for cooking my eggs, but a little bit of ghee gives them a wonderful buttery, nutty flavor. It’s a perfect “something extra” added to sautéed or steamed vegetables. I’ll bet you could use it to doctor up a passel of saltines, too. Golly ghee, whatever did we do without it?

GIVE ME THAT OLDE TYME ARTISANAL CRAFT BEER

Nacho Punch serves up this video of hipsters ordering beer. Elder Daughter can probably attest to its veracity. Snarfed from the HuffPo, of all places.

SMIT-WIT-FISS

Some people use clocks and calendars to measure the passage of time. I use my SMTWTFS.

Oh, you don’t know what a SMTWTFS is? It’s one of those little plastic thingumabobs that holds your pills. It has a separate box for each day of the week, each box labeled with the initial of the day: thus, SMTWTFS. I pronounce it “Smit-Wit-Fiss.”

Every evening, I pop open my SMTWTFS and remove that day’s supply of Old Man Medicine: baby aspirin, statin pill, fish oil capsules, vitamin D... plus an anti-allergy pill in the springtime, when pollen lies thick on the land. I swallow the small handful of pills and capsules in one gulp, chased by a shot of water straight from the bathroom tap. (She Who Must Be Obeyed is appalled by the fact that I drink bathroom water, believing that it somehow becomes contaminated by Poop-Cooties by virtue of its passage through pipes located within fifty feet of a Water-Closet. Go figure.)

Once all the boxes are empty, it is of course time to reload. I fill each of the seven compartments with my various medicaments, taking that evening’s dose directly out of the bottles. Thus I only have to recharge the SMTWTFS once every eight days. That’s efficiency for you!

And thus I gauge the passage of my days, eight at a time. O, how they fly in their octal progression, alas!

A COPROLOGICAL QUERY

Betimes a Food-Baby may be born
A-studded with golden grains of corn.
So, too, when the Elephant drops his load
Alongside of the jungle road,
Would it be crazy? Would it just be nuts?
To imagine it decorated with peanuts?
And doth it make the Grizzly merry
To see his scat festooned with berries?

SLIV ’N’ LIV

“If you are Jewish, this is the spirit that speaks to you. Drink enough and it speaks for you.” - Edward Serotta, regarding slivovitz

The eight-day festival of Passover presents a few challenges to those of us Red Sea Pedestrians who happen to enjoy the occasional (or frequent) Whisky-Drink... mainly because products made from grain, with the exception of matzoh, are verboten. That means that whisky - Scotch, bourbon, rye, and their happy cousins - is not on the drink card. It also eliminates most white spirits as well as beer. (Potato vodka is OK, as is rum... at least in theory.)

That unhappy gap is filled perfectly by slivovitz, an eau-de-vie distilled from Damson plums. It’s a popular item in eastern Europe as well as the Balkans, and many brands are officially certified to be kosher for Passover use. Perfect!

Well, maybe not perfect. There’s plenty of inferior slivovitz out there, and the bad stuff bears a remarkable resemblance, taste-wise, to Ronsonol lighter fluid. Also, it’s powerful. Most of the brands I’ve seen are bottled at or around 100 proof, not for the faint of heart. Nevertheless, there are excellent versions available if you’re willing to look around. Right now we’re working our way through a bottle of R. Jelinek’s Silver Slivovitz, a higher-end Czech product that is competitive with any of the finer eaux-de vie. Kirschwasser, meet slivovitz. Sliv, kirsch.

Gee, I'll bet it’s dandy with a bit of my homemade grenadine and a squirt of lemon. Hmmm.

Now: What to eat while you’re swilling sliv? Why, chopped liver, of course! Gehackte leber, as we might call it in Yiddish. The high-test character of slivovitz is perfect for cutting through the unctuousness of fine chopped liver.

You say you’re not a chopped liver fan? Well, it’s not for everyone... and neither are oysters, Champagne, and caviar. (OK, chopped liver is somewhat, ahhh, earthier than these other examples, but you can call it pâté de foie de volaille if you want it to sound classy.) If you don’t like liver, or if you have a loathing for organ meats in general, then chopped liver may not be for you.And that’s OK: More for me.

Although you can find perfectly decent chopped liver in your supermarket’s kosher section, this year I made my own. It’s easy enough.

Start with about a pound of chicken livers. (If you prefer, use beef liver. Weirdo.) Remove any connective tissue and cut into medium chunks. Melt about a tablespoon of chicken schmaltz in a large skillet and sauté the livers until cooked through. Set aside.

Now, hack up a couple of yellow onions: You should have about four cups of chopped onion. Melt four tablespoons of chicken schmaltz in that skillet and cook the onions over medium-low heat until very soft and just slightly brown. This may take half an hour, thereabouts - you want to do it low and slow to get the onions nice and soft and caramelized. 


Onions cooking gently in schmaltz. Goose schmaltz. Yummy, yummy goose schmaltz.

Now, after the onions and livers have cooled down a bit, run them through the coarse plate of a meat grinder. Then run the mixture through again, this time through the fine plate. (Alternatively, chop them up well in a bowl with a hockmesser - the half-moon shaped chopper known to Italian cooks as the mezzaluna.) Season with plenty of salt and freshly ground black pepper, and add some more schmaltz if it’s too dry. Presto! You have gehackte leber.

Some people like to add chopped egg to their livers. If you are this type of person, feel free to chop up one or two hard-boiled eggs and combine with the liver mixture. I elected to do without the egg, and I was extremely satisfied with the results.

Of course, I had a secret weapon. In lieu of chicken schmaltz, I used goose schmaltz, which is far richer and more flavorful. Having a goodly amount of goose schmaltz sitting in my freezer is a fringe benefit of my custom of roasting a goose once a year. (If you have no goose schmaltz near to hand, duck fat works beautifully.)

Yes, this batch of chopped liver was, dare I say, epic. (SWMBO might disagree, but then again, she does not partake of any sort of liver.) And, enjoyed with a shot of slivovitz - sliv ’n’ liv! - it was even better than epic: It was epicurean.

SHARP AS A MATZOH

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” - Shakespeare

“Merely touch it with your thumbs: Matzoh makes a lot of crumbs.” - Elisson

When my Daddy, the late Eli (hizzownself), wished to compliment someone, he would, like as not, state that that person looked “sharp as a matzoh and twice as crumby.”

Nonsense, sure, but as with all good nonsense, there is more than a grain of truth in it... or in this case, a crumb of truth. For there is nothing as crumby as matzoh.

We don’t call it the Bread of Affliction for nothing, yo.


Handmade shmura matzoh.

Not only is it famously constipation-inducing, but matzoh - the unleavened bread consumed by us Red Sea Pedestrians during the eight-day Passover festival that begins at sundown this evening - is incredibly crumby stuff. Simply look at it sideways, and little shards will break off, working their way into the tablecloth, your clothing, and any nearby floor. This time of year, our house is filled with Matzoh Detritus. Crumbs.

You cannot avoid them. They are everywhere. Matzoh-crumbs get onto every horizontal surface. They stick to many vertical ones, too, owing to their light weight and grabby little edges. Try to pick one up: Hydra-like, it multiplies, breaking into smaller, harder-to-pick-up chunks.

Funny thing about matzoh. It’s really not bad, this Unleavened Bread. Every year, I enjoy a Matzoh Honeymoon for the first few days of Pesach. We eat it happily, with charoset (the traditional relish of apples, nuts, and wine that is reminiscent of the mortar with which the ancient Israelites built Pharaoh’s cities), with horseradish, with cheese, or slathered with butter. But after five or six days, the honeymoon is over, and crumbs - those fucking crumbs! - are everywhere.

It’s traditional to clean the house thoroughly before Passover, in order to ensure the complete absence of leaven. But it’s at least as necessary to have another thorough cleaning after the holiday is over, in order to remove the quadrillion or so little matzoh-smithereens that manage to adhere to every surface.

“Bread of affliction,” indeed. Oy.

[Adapted from a post originally published on April 11, 2009.]

THE COOKIE KID: A 100-WORD ORIGIN STORY

Fidgeting, forehead glazed with sweat, Joe sat across from Max Schwartz, the vaudeville impresario, his toddler son cradled in his lap.

Nervous? Why wouldn’t he be? Max held Joe Junior’s future in his hands. Junior didn’t seem to be concerned, though. He sat quietly until his father asked him to demonstrate some of his dancing skills.

Max gnawed on a macaroon as he watched. The kid was good. Way better than good.

“We’ll need to give him a stage name,” announced Max. Absently regarding the half-eaten coconut cookie in his hand, he suddenly brightened. “That’s it!” he cried. “Mickey Rooney!”

[Mickey Rooney, who began his decades-long acting career at the tender age of seventeen months, passed away yesterday at the age of 93. Requiescat in pace, Andy Hardy!]