NOBODY EXPECTS THIS VENN DIAGRAM

Back when I was in seventh grade, the big thing in education was “The New Math.”

I’m still not sure what-all The New Math entailed, but I remember learning about sets, bases (other than the familiar 10 of our decimal number system), and Gawd knows what else. It was a confusing mess, and my ability to comprehend mathematics got partially derailed... at least, until I got into high school where they taught “The Regular-Ass Math” - algebra, geometry, trigonometry, and calculus. That stuff I could understand.

One of the things we learned in seventh grade set theory was how to show how sets combined and overlapped graphically. The best way to do that is with a Venn diagram, in which individual sets are shown as circles. To show set intersections, these circles may overlap with one or more other circles. Easy-peasy!

Want an example? Courtesy of Big Stupid Tommy (who posted it on his Facebook page), we have this fine example of a seasonally themed Venn diagram, created by one Stephen Wildish. (You can see more of his excellent work at his website, as well as at his redbubble page.)


Why, it’s nothing less than the founding document for some sort of religious institution!

REMEMBERING

Seventy years after: Oil still seeps from the grave of the USS Arizona.

Today marks the seventieth anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

Hindsight is a powerful lens with which to look at history. It can be argued, in retrospect, that the attack - despicable as it was - was a blessing in disguise, insofar as it awakened the sleeping American giant and drew us into World War II.

From a strategic standpoint, it was a colossal blunder on Japan’s part. At best, the near-destruction of the U.S. Pacific fleet yielded a temporary advantage to the Japanese armed forces, but the superior American industrial and resource base enabled us to crank out replacement war materièl at an unprecedented pace. Japan could not hope to keep up.

The attack, and its aftermath, shaped the world in which we live today.

Let us remember the 2,402 that died in the attack and the 1,282 that were wounded. They woke up on that Sunday morning seventy years ago not planning on being crushed in the gears of History. They did not give their lives in vain.

More thoughts on Pearl Harbor from the Archives:

Bookends

Pearl

LIMITS, WE GOT LIMITS

“There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. If we wish to make it louder, we will bring up the volume. If we wish to make it softer, we will tune it to a whisper. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can roll the image, make it flutter. We can change the focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity. For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear. We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your television set. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Outer Limits.” – The Control Voice (opening narration)

I recently treated myself to something unusual: I purchased a television show on DVD.

Between the Missus and me, we have a few teevee shows in our DVD and/or Blu-Ray library. We’ve got several years worth of Seinfelds in the cabinet; I have all of the Venture Brothers shows; and somewhere or other I’m pretty sure SWMBO has a few seasons worth of Friends, Golden Girls, and Gawd knows what else. But when I saw that I could get the entire run of The Outer Limits on DVD for not much more than a double sawbuck, I hit the “Add to Cart” button on the Amazon site faster than you could say “There is nothing wrong with your television set.”

Ahh, The Outer Limits. I’m talking about the original black-and-white show that aired for not quite two seasons: 1963-64 and 1964-65 - not the longer lived 1995 remake version.

I was not quite eleven when The Outer Limits first aired. At the time, I was a big fan of The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling’s brilliant anthology series, which I would watch with emotions alternating between utter fascination and shivery horror. The Zone had it all: fantasy, science fiction, weirdness, aliens, mysteries, and just plain old stories... usually with some kind of twist at the end, either ironic or macabre.

The Outer Limits was something else. It stripped away all of the fluffy shit from the Twilight Zone concept, mostly focusing on science fiction, horror, and bizarre-looking aliens... with unnecessary love stories thrown in most weeks to add sex appeal. As soon as that discordant opening chord sounded and you heard the Control Voice intoning the weekly introductory mantra, you knew you were in for something a bit more...intense. Most of the time, it scared the shit out of me.

With a half-century (thereabouts) of retrospection, I think TZ holds up better as a series... just as it was a better series when it was on. But The Outer Limits was much darker, lacking the sermon-like tone that TZ had all too often, and its best episodes are as good as - or better than - anything offered up by its anthological competitor. Provided, of course, you can overlook the (mostly) amazingly cheesy special effects.

As for the worst OL eps, there are a few of them that are mind-bogglingly stupid... and yet that is part of their charm.

The Outer Limits, much more than The Twilight Zone, relied on the “bear,” a monster of some kind that always had to make some kind of appearance in the first half of the show. (Several of these “bears” ended up being recycled, making appearances on Star Trek in its first incarnation. For that matter several Outer Limits actors, such as William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, and James Doohan, were similarly recycled.) As defined by co-creator Joseph Stefano, the “bear” was any monstrous creature whose purpose was to “induce wonder or tolerable terror or even merely conversation and argument.” Think of the Mutant (one of Velociman’s icons). Think of the Big-Headed Future-Dude played by David McCallum in his pre-Illya Kuryakin days. Or the dopey giant ants with evil human faces in “The Zanti Misfits.” Them’s your bears. They’d make you piss your pants in terror if you were an impressionable young kid... and even today, a few of them still are able to grip you emotionally, mainly because of the good characterization and storytelling that marked the best Outer Limits shows.


The Mutant (Warren Oates, above); Big-Headed Future Dude (David McCallum, below) - two of the better-known “bears.”

I’ve got a lot of shows to watch, now. Don’t tell Ivan, though... he’ll get eat up with the DVD Envy.

FREEDOM

Yesterday, the Missus and I did something we had never done before.

We purchased alcohol in Georgia on a Sunday. Legally. And I’m talking retail, not by the drink in a restaurant or bar.

Last month, DeKalb County (along with numerous other jurisdictions throughout the state) voted overwhelmingly to remove the old blue-law restriction on Sunday package sales, “package” in this case referring to bottles of wine, beer, or spiritus frumenti. Which means that now we can drive down to Dunwoody and buy booze at Costco... or raid Total Wine for the vinous beverage of our choice.

It’s about fucking time.

Even Texas has permitted package sales on Sundays for the past few decades. Sure, you have to wait until after noon, but at least the beer aisles in the local Randall’s or Kroger aren’t dark all day long.

Looks like Georgia is finally growing up.

We bought three bottles of wine... simply because we could. And we didn’t take it home and guzzle it right up, like some of our esteemed state legislators apparently must have feared we’d do. (“Dayum, it’ll be th’ end of civilization as we know it, Merle!”) We simply exercised our right to purchase something that we could buy any other day of the week and - until a few weeks ago - could not buy on Sunday. Freedom!

DECEMBER GUILD EVENT

Peachtree Road snakes its way through the heart of Buckhead in this view from 42 stories up. Downtown Atlanta is off in the distance on the horizon, just left of center.

I always look forward to the December Guild event, which is typically constructed around the Bubbly Stuff: sparkling wines and Champagnes. This year’s event will be hosted this evening by two of the Guild members at their private residence in Buckhead, a home with a spectacular view of downtown Atlanta replete with the twinkling lights of the season.

I’m hoping Denny, the Curmudgeonly Superannuated Paraplegic, is able to come. This time I’ve even convinced the Missus to join us. She’s not a regular attendee at Guild events, but, well - Champagne!

Here’s the carte des vins:

Speaker’s Wine:
Villa Sandi Prosecco Di Valdobbiadene NV - Veneto, Italy*

First Flight:
Kluge “SP” Blanc de Blancs Brut 2004 - Albemarle County, Virginia*
Gruet Brut NV - New Mexico
Wolf Mountain Blanc de Blancs Brut 2009 - Georgia

Second Flight:
Pommery Brut Royal NV - Champagne, France**
Gosset Brut Excellence NV - Champagne, France***
Pol Roger Brut Reserve NV - Champagne, France**

Third Flight:
Perrier-Jouet Brut “Fleur” 1999 - Champagne, France***
Taittinger Blanc de Blancs Brut “Comtes” 2000 - Champagne, France****
Krug “Grand Cuvée” NV - Champagne, France**

Dessert:
Riondo Moscato d’Asti NV - Piedmonte, Italy*

All of this will serve to wash down an elegant array of hors d’oeuvres and to lubricate several hours of pleasant conversation. And if Houston Steve and Denny both show up, some of that conversation may even have a political component to it. But unlike our elected representatives, at least Steve and Denny are civil - even (dare I say it?) friendly. The lesson? More wine in government!

Update: My favorites, as usual, are indicated with asterisks.

Alas, neither Denny nor Houston Steve were there to entertain us and enjoy the eleven - count ’em! - different sparkling wine offerings. But the Missus and I enjoyed ourselves anyway.

GOING TO SEED

We’ve been happily resident in the East Cobb suburb of Atlanta for the past thirteen years. The excellent Cobb County schools are no longer of particular interest to us, given that our children are now well past their public education years, except insofar as they bolster local property values... and continue to employ She Who Must Be Obeyed. The traffic, which grows ever denser (as do the drivers themselves) is an annoyance, but one we are used to dealing with. The main attractions for us have been the proximity of our good friends, the pleasant climate, and the reasonable cost of living. Reasonable when compared to the Northeast, anyway.

It’s a great place to live... but perfect, it ain’t.

One of the minor frustrations has been the relative dearth of good restaurants in the immediate area. Oh, there are plenty of places to eat, and some of them are pretty decent. Yet it seems that all of the newer local offerings are either Mexican or Chinese (not that there’s anything wrong with that, but Enough is Enough); or are outposts of popular chain restaurants. Color me unimpressed.

Whenever we want to tie on the feedbag for a serious restaurant meal, we always seem to find ourselves heading up to Roswell or Alpharetta, or down to Sandy Springs, Buckhead, or midtown.

Things are changing, though.

Last night, a group of us dined at Seed Kitchen and Bar, a new place that opened just a few weeks ago, hard by the new Whole Paycheck Foods Market. Based on our experience, there’s no longer any need to schlep to Buckhead for an excellent restaurant meal, unless we want to for the sake of variety... because the meal we had at Seed was about as good as any I’ve ever had in Atlanta.

Seed bills itself as a chef-driven, modern American neigborhood restaurant that supports local growers and strives to be socially responsible. That green business is all good, but having a solid menu - and executing and serving the dishes properly - is crucial. The best grass-fed local beef can still be converted into a crappy burger served cold, twenty minutes after everyone else at the table has been served. Happily, that was not the case here... and there was not a single alfalfa sprout on the menu.

I started off with a Sazerac, a classic pre-Prohibition cocktail that few bars offer, and even fewer get right. These guys got it right, using real rye whiskey, Herbsaint, and Peychaud’s bitters. (OK, they dropped the lemon twist into the drink instead of hanging it on the side of the glass... a very minor miscue, and the only one of the evening.)

Houston Steve and I, by way of an appetizer, shared a charcuterie plate. Yes, there was a chunk of Sweet Grass Dairy’s Green Hill, SWMBO’s favorite bloomy-rind cheese, but what won me over was the meltingly soft duck-breast pastrami. Oh. My. Gawd.

My main course consisted of beef short ribs braised in Chinese spices, served atop a pile of garlic mashed potatoes and caramelized onions. The spice provided a gentle, not overly assertive backdrop for the meltingly tender, unctuous meat. She Who Must Be Obeyed had ordered the North Carolina flounder, accompanied by roasted cauliflower and caramelized Brussels sprouts in a Thai herb vinaigrette. It was superb. Gary had the hanger steak, perfectly prepared, napped with a caramelized onion and red wine reduction and with a pile of crispy, Parmesan-laced pommes frites alongside. Houston Steve, meanwhile, selected a dish of sweet potato ravioli in a brown butter-sage sauce with winter mushrooms. Those ravioli would have been good enough by themselves, but coated in their film of delicious, nutty brown butter, they were massively, ridiculously good.

We shared a bottle of 2008 Hall cabernet sauvignon. I could have been perfectly happy just sticking my face in the wineglass and luxuriating in its intoxicating aroma, but that’s not how I roll. No, I drank it. And it was mighty, mighty fine.

We did not stay for dessert and coffee, which had been arranged at a different venue. But everyone at the table - eleven people in all - raved about their meals. And for my part, I thought the quality-to-price ratio was quite reasonable.

Wow - a real grown-up restaurant in East Cobb! Maybe it’s a sign that our neighborhood is finally coming of age. For sure, it means fewer trips to Buckhead and midtown.

Now, going to Seed is a good thing.

WEEKEND WITH BERNIE

Bernadette Catstro demonstrates the classic Meatloaf Position.

Well, OK - not the weekend. But part of the weekend.

Upon arriving at the Mistress of Sarcasm’s place the Sunday before Thanksgiving, we had a chance to get reacquainted with Bernadette Catstro, who had been our houseguest a few months back.

When she was staying at our house, Bernadette was very shy and aloof, preferring to spend her time parked under the bed or roaming the house away from any human presence. This might have been a result of our efforts to keep her separated from Hakuna, who - based on our experience with the Mistress’s late kitty Neighbor - does not play well with others. Maybe there was a vibe in the house that brought out her shy side... or maybe it was the absence of the Mistress, whom she loves deeply.

But now that she is established in her new home, Bernadette is positively affectionate. She may not run out of her room to hang with the humanfolk, but she at least will suffer herself to be petted and loved. Lookee:


Call: A cat is not a hat.
Response: It is if you wear one on your head!

She even tolerates Ellie May, the Resident Hound. Hell, she even tolerates me!



All of which makes us very happy... because there may be plenty of pettable, skritchable kitties out there, but there is none so soft and squishy as Bernie!

THE CHEESE AISLE DICTIONARY, Vol. 8

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...

wee-wee hours [wi-wi-aurz] (n) pl - The time between midnight and (usually) four a.m. when one typically awakens for the purpose of micturition.

ALL OVER THE MAP -A THANKSGIVING TRAVELOGUE IN THREE PARTSPART THE THIRD: PHILADELPHIA

Street art is everywhere in the City of Brotherly Love. This mural overlooks a parking lot in central Philadelphia.

One week ago today, we departed northwestern Connecticut and wended our way south towards Philadelphia, where we had planned to spend Thanksgiving with Elder Daughter.

Owing to the weather - a drizzly, blustery mess - and the pre-holiday traffic, what should have been a four-hour trip ended up taking closer to six. Feh. But we got to our destination as dusk fell, giving us enough time to get settled in before going out to secure the Essential Provisions.

Ya can’t make a Thanksgiving dinner without provisions.

Our first stop was the local farmer’s market, a few blocks walk from Elder Daughter’s apartment. After loading up a few bags there, we went to the Stupid-Market and a nearby Booze-Shoppe for the remaining items on our list. By then, we were getting a tad peckish, so we ran home for an improvised Asian-style dinner courtesy of Elder Daughter.

For (probably) the first time ever, it was going to be just the four of us at the Thanksgiving table. Elder Daughter’s roommates were away; we had the place to ourselves. Nothing to do but cook and converse all day.

The menu combined several of our traditional favorites with a few new goodies. She Who Must Be Obeyed prepared the sausage-rice stuffing that has graced our holiday table every year for almost three decades, while the Mistress made a sweet potato pudding using our friend Gary’s recipe. I have to say, her made-entirely-from-scratch version was appallingly good.

SWMBO simmered up a pot of butternut squash soup, aromatic with curry and garam masala. Elder Daughter busied herself with baking a loaf of home-made challah... and to keep herself busy while the dough proofed, she put together a cherry-apricot pie and a brace of apple tarts.


It’s knice to be kneaded: Elder Daughter rolls up her sleeves and makes challah for the Thanksgiving table. The Pilgrims should only have had it so good.

While all of this was going on, I was occupied with fixing a batch of cranberry-ginger chutney, using my own homemade crystallized ginger (the stores having been completely sold out). Once that was done, it was time to turn my attention to the turkey, which we braised in the same manner we had tried just a couple of weeks ago. With Elder Daughter’s able assistance, I made two pots of gravy: one was a thick, sagey, giblet-enriched sauce, the other unadorned for the sake of SWMBO and the Mistress, both of whom loathe Turkey-Innards of any kind.

Elder Daughter put together a salad of raw spinach, simply dressed with a little olive oil and garlic, and we were ready to dine. We probably could have cooked a few more dishes. Green beans... spinach-jalapeño cheese casserole... but what would have been the point? It was just the four of us.


Sausage-rice stuffing (top); sweet potato pudding “Gary” (bottom). No Elisson family Thanksgiving is complete without ’em.

Our meal was superb, not least because it was a true Family Effort. But for me, the best part was just being together with the Missus and our two wonderful daughters, there in the land of cheesesteaks and soft pretzels.

Neither of which we had during our visit, by the way.


A quiet lane in Center City. Except for the window A/C units, this street looks much like it did in Revolutionary times, right down to the cobblestones.

Friday was spent wandering around in Center City. We grabbed a coffee at Cake and the Beanstalk and some gelato (of course!) at Capogiro. Then, down to the south side for some sammitches at Paesano’s Philly Style and a look at Isaiah Zagar’s street art.


Sandwich heaven: Feeding my face with the celebrated Arista at Paesano’s Philly Style.


One of the many mixed-media mosaics created by celebrated street artist Isaiah Zagar, this one adorning the side of a building near South 7th and Passyunk. Inset: Zagar (left) with son Jeremiah (center) and wife Julia (right). [Click to embiggen.]

Before we knew it, it was Saturday: time to head back home. It’s never easy saying farewell to our girls, and this time was no exception. But knowing that they both are establishing themselves in their new homes and making the most of their individual talents is a great comfort. Surely, it’s yet another thing to be thankful for.

ALL OVER THE MAP -A THANKSGIVING TRAVELOGUE IN THREE PARTSPART THE SECOND: CONNECTICUT

Our business in New York having been concluded, we worked our way north, crossing back over the Hudson at the Tappan Zee and cutting eastward into Connecticut at the far northwestern corner of the state.

It’s hard to imagine a greater contrast than that between the concrete and steel canyons of Manhattan and the rolling fields of northwest Connecticut. We had no trouble sleeping in New York; twenty-eight stories insulated us from street-level noise, and, as confirmed suburbanites, we’re used to a certain amount of sound at night. Hell, the Missus can’t fall asleep unless the teevee is on - so much for peace and quiet. But in the Mistress’s environs, the only thing that serves by way of a lullaby is the rustling of the breeze on the bare trees and the soft chuckling of a nearby creek.

It’s so pitch black at night, we’d take a flashlight with us to help us navigate between the Mistress’s house and our lodgings across the street. The alternative was to stumble around in the dark, risking an encounter with the local wildlife. Lions and tigers and bears, and suchlike. And wild turkeys.

Next time I go up there, I’m bringing my camping headlamp.

Monday morning was bright and temperate, a perfect day for a walk. We first went up the hill behind the Mistress’s house - a fairly steep climb on uneven ground - to visit the Moss-Covered Rock. Then we walked back down, crossed the road, and took a path that wended its way through dense woods. On one side was private property; on the other, state land. Not a place to wander around in a deer suit.





The path deposited us back onto the Mistress’s street a few miles away. As we continued in the direction of the house, we happened upon an old boneyard, and decided to take a look at the moldering stones.



Most of the markers were heavily weathered, almost (or completely) illegible. Some carried dates ranging from the 1850’s through the 1880’s. Some told sad little stories: siblings, neither having attained the age of ten, buried side-by-side with their parents... infants who never lived to be weaned... young brides. It was a tough world then.

But the Bury-Patch was not derelict. There was a fairly new marker with a 2005 date on it:



As I gazed upon this final resting place for what, evidently were the New(er) Arrivals, I thought that the name on the stone sounded familiar. Eliot Janeway... where had I heard that name before? And then, thanks to my exceptional powers of memory (I remembered that I had my iPhone in my pocket, that it was equipped with Google, and that there was a usable 3G connection where we stood) it came to me: Eliot “Calamity” Janeway had been a well-known economist and writer, an advisor to President Lyndon Johnson (and before him, FDR), and an influential forecaster of economic trends. The Eliot Janeway lectures on historical economics at Princeton University - my alma mater! - had been endowed in his honor.

And here he was, luxuriating in his Eternal Dirt-Nap, mere yards away from the Mistress of Sarcasm’s new home. Who’dathunkit?

We spent Monday evening enjoying the culinary pleasures of Millerton, New York, just across the state line. Tuesday, we ventured northwards, to Great Barrington, Massachusetts, where we had a fine lunch at the Barrington Brewery (their chocolate stout cake is not to be missed). Afterwards, we browsed the shops in the picturesque town center, including a small (but exceptionally well-stocked) cheesemonger, who was kind enough to mong me a few chunks of the Stinky Stuff. In Sheffield, a few miles to the south, we sat in on the Mistress’s ukulele lesson before crossing the line back into Connecticut to provision ourselves for a home-cooked meal.

Some of my Esteemed Readers might be wondering about Bernadette, the Mistress’s cat. You will be happy to know that Bernadette is doing fine. She has adapted beautifully to life in her new home and is back to her old, cuddly self. She even gets along with (or at least tolerates the presence of) Ellie May, the resident Kinda-Sorta-Basset Hound. Ellie May, for her part, loves Bernie.


A Bernadette’s-eye-view of Ellie May. The outstretched leg on the left belongs to Yours Truly, graphic proof that Bernadette loves her grandpa once again!

Rain moved in Tuesday night, but we didn’t care. The next morning would see us heading out to Philadelphia, the next stop on our Peripatetic Northern Wanderings... and the topic of the next post.


The Twin Oaks field in Sharon, Connecticut. The Sharon Land Trust purchased the land in 1998 to preserve this little piece of world-class scenery from encroaching development.

ALL OVER THE MAP -A THANKSGIVING TRAVELOGUE IN THREE PARTSPART THE FIRST: NEW YORK

Manhattan, seen from across the Hudson River.

Thanksgiving week had us all over the map. It was a map of the northeastern United States, true, but nevertheless we covered a lot of ground.

Our first stop was New York. Upon arriving at La Guardia, we caught a cab for midtown Manhattan and were, happily, able to check into our hotel room immediately despite the early hour. We weren’t there long, though: Within minutes we were on the subway, hurtling through the tunnel under the East River, headed toward Williamsburg, Brooklyn... and our rendezvous with the Mistress of Sarcasm and her friend Aaron.


And to think that I saw it on Lorimer Street: Nobody does Subway Signage quite like Little Olde New York.

Williamsburg is a pretty happening place these days. The streets are a-bustle with urban hipsters; the cafés and restaurants pack them in. We wandered the length of Bedford Avenue, where I made several happy discoveries. Not only was there a place where I could get big time lost in the cheese aisle, it was that very day when the Wafels & Dinges food truck put in an appearance.


De Wafel-Truck. Thomas DeGeest dishes out a Liège waffle to the Mistress from his Wafels & Dinges food truck.

The Bedford Cheese Shop is worth a post on its own. I’m not sure what I enjoyed more - looking at the amazing array of fine fromage and charcuterie, or reading the florid, sex-crammed descriptions that adorned the merchandise. As for the Wafel-Truck, its offerings, which included both crisp Brussels- and the chewier Liège-style waffles, brought back pleasant memories of long-ago visits to Belgium.

After lunch, we wandered in the direction of East River Park, where we stumbled into Smorgasburg, a sort of Saturday foodie flea market where local vendors and Grub-Artisans were showing off (and selling) their various wares. As fortune would have it, the day we were there was the last one of the season... and we were lucky enough to arrive not too long before the vendors began packing up to leave. That gave us enough time to browse and sample but not enough to do serious damage.


An assortment of tasty macaroons awaits the author’s slavering jaws.

The setting sun told us that it was Head Back Into Manhattan o’Clock. We freshened up at the hotel, then strolled downtown in the direction of Union Square. Time to meet Eli (hizzownself), Toni, and the other Elisson for dinner at Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill.


View of the setting sun from our hotel room.

Deciding where to eat in New York is an almost impossible task, with so many world-class options from which to choose. We wanted a place with excellent food, but one that was reasonably casual: no jacket and tie for this boy. The Southwestern fare at Mesa Grill looked like just the ticket. We were not disappointed.

Afterwards, we stopped in to call on Joyce, a friend of the Mistress whose pied-à-terre was conveniently located just a few blocks away near Gramercy Park. Cookies, conversation, coffee, and a fine Port awaited us there. After a very pleasant visit, a brisk walk along Park Avenue took us back to the hotel.

The next morning found us navigating the PATH train to New Jersey, where we picked up the Mistress’s car and headed off towards Connecticut. And that is a story for another post.


The Empire State Building, in all its towering Art Deco glory.

SURREAL MOMENTS

Shalom Lewis - our rabbi - has had a few surreal moments in the past couple of weeks.

Two weeks ago, he, his wife, and his mother flew to Detroit to attend the premiere of the latest Hallmark Hall of Fame production, a Teevee-Movie based on Mitch Albom’s best-selling book Have a Little Faith. As documented in an earlier post, the movie concerns itself, in no small part, with Rabbi Albert Lewis - Shalom’s late father.

Surreal moment number one for him was sitting in the theatre and seeing his father portrayed on the screen, with the actor who played his father - Martin Landau - sitting right behind him. Nearby were his mother and the actress who played her. Also there was Laurence Fishburne, who played Pastor Henry Covington in the movie. But Shalom couldn’t look at him without seeing Morpheus, Fishburne’s character from The Matrix. (Perverse as I am, I would be thinking of another of Fishburne’s characters, Cowboy Curtis from Pee-wee’s Playhouse.)

Surreal moment number two was when he had the opportunity to speak at the I Am My Brother’s Keeper church, Pastor Covington’s spiritual home in Detroit, with the congregants tacking on the random “Hallelujah!” to his sentences... and with Landau, Fishburne, et al., in the audience.

The movie was broadcast this past Sunday evening. If you missed it, it will go on rotation at the Hallmark channel next week.

A SOIFEIT OF BOIDS

Boids is everywhere these days, I tells ya.

First there was Erica, the Wiseass Jooette herownself, whose complacent quotidian existence was thrown into turmoil (or, as she might say, toimerl) by the unanticipated arrival of one Doofus the Cockatiel.

Doofus (AKA Vlad the Impaler, on account of his purported viciousness) was clearly an escaped pet, cockatiels not being native to Sheepshead Bay. His owner evidently has been in no hurry to track him down, however, and it is not an unreasonable conjecture that said owner might have, ahhh, gently encouraged Doofus to escape.

Meanwhile, upon our recent arrival in northwestern Connecticut, we saw all manner of avian life.

Flocks of mallard ducks graced the local lakes. Canadian Canada geese filled the skies with their characteristic V-formations, no doubt heading south to Georgia so that they could shit all over our neighborhood in our absence.

Monday morning, we saw a brace of wild turkeys in the Mistress of Sarcasm’s back yard. After pecking their way around the perimeter, they waddled off into the woods, up the mountain that sits behind the house. The Mistress informs us that they are daily visitors.


Gobble, gobble: Wild turkeys invade the Mistress’s back yard.

Are they tasty? I wondered. No, responded the Mistress. Apparently, that experiment has been essayed: The turkeys, disappointingly, are gamey, stringy affairs. That surprises me not at all, but still, I would be willing to try one. Think of it, a non-factory-produced bird fed on... whatever the fuck it is that wild turkeys eat. Slower wild turkeys, I imagine.

The weirdest Bird-Sighting we had, though, was the pheasants.

In Sharon, Connecticut, there is a pheasant farm that raises and sells Mongolian ring-necked pheasants. They’re beautiful birds, with their characteristic red head and white neck feathers; they also make excellent hunting and eating.

And they’re smart enough to recognize an opportunity when they see one.

Just before Hallowe’en, northwestern Connecticut was hammered by a rare early nor’easter, a storm that dropped a foot and a half of sodden, wet snow on trees that still were carrying most of their leaves. Predictably, a lot of limbs snapped off, wreaking havoc with the distribution of electrical power (the Mistress was off the grid for four full days) and damaging untold numbers of trees.

The pheasant coops at the Sharon Pheasant Farm were, apparently, no match for the storm’s destructive power. They collapsed, releasing over 6,000 pheasants into the Great Outdoors. I can picture it now, pheasants jabbering to each other in whatever passes for Pheasant-Language:

“Awright, guys... the wall’s down and there ain’t no screws in sight! Let’s make a break for it - anyone stayin’ behind ends up on a plate!”

Since then, pheasant spotting has become an Everyman’s Sport in Sharon and its environs. Sunday, as we passed through the town - even as the Mistress was relating the story to us - a solitary pheasant stood in the middle of the road, as if to dare motorists to flatten him. We approached cautiously and slowed to a standstill, whereupon the unperturbed bird marched to the other side of the road as if to inspire a retort to the age-old Chicken Riddle.

Boids. I tells ya, there’s a soifeit of boids in da Nawtheast!

BROTHERLY LOVE

I have a brother - the other Elisson - and I love him, but the post title refers to the salient characteristic of the city in which we now find ourselves. Philadelphia!

We got here late this afternoon after an excruciatingly long drive from the uppermost corner of Connecticut. Despite the dreary weather, it was scenic - at least, until we got to New York City. From there, it was all downhill. Traffic-wise, anyway. The New Jersey Turnpike, as it is wont to do on Erev Thanksgiving, moved at a snail’s pace.

I felt right at home.

It has been a busy week. We started it off Saturday in New York, roaming all the way from the spires of Murray Hill and Park Avenue to the far-flung boulevards of Brooklyn. Then, off to northwestern Connecticut, with side trips into New York and Massachusetts. Philly is the last stop on our itinerary before heading home Saturday evening.

There will be turkey. And dressing. And plenty of other Fine Comestibles. Elder Daughter has it in mind to bake a couple of pies... and perhaps a small pile of Mexican Chocolate Icebox Cookies. I won’t argue.

In a few moments, we will go out to complete our pre-Thanksgiving Food-Shoppage: SWMBO, the Mistress of Sarcasm, Elder Daughter, and I. Yes, we’re all together for the holiday... and for that, I am truly thankful.

PILLBUG PUDDY

Every so often, Rahel reminds me that I’m overdue for posting a photo of Hakuna, the Grand Cat-Dowager of Chez Elisson.

Mea culpa.

Without further ado, then, a Kitty-Photo, this one of Hakuna doing her best imitation of one of those little pillbugs:





Of course, if I ever encountered a twelve-pound pillbug, I’d crap a peach pit.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

Just wondering...

The other day, when I saw one of any number of TeeVee News pieces on Joe Paterno, I thought to myself, “Self, that guy looks awfully familiar. Yeah, I know it’s Joe Paterno, but he reminds me of someone else. Hmmmm... who could it be?

“Aha!!!”

With respect to the photo of Paterno, one could ask the question, “Why is this man smiling?” One could also ask, “What, exactly, is he saying with those shrugged shoulders and that shit-eating grin?”

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

AN EARLY THANKSGIVING

A bed of mirepoix (onion, celery, carrot) and other goodies such as parsley, garlic, and dried porcini mushrooms. This is the flavorful base upon which Mr. Turkey will be braised in wine and stock... an alternative to the usual roasted bird.

It’s become a sort of tradition among our circle of friends: Most Friday nights, we will get together for dinner. Some weeks, when everyone feels like taking it easy, it will be at an uncomplicated local eatery like Panera. Other times, it will be at someone’s home, with each couple bringing a Foodly Contribution assigned by the hosts. Since many of us are Red Sea Pedestrians, we use the occasion to welcome the sabbath in more-or-less traditional manner, with the appropriate blessings over wine and bread.

This past Friday, the rotation came to Chez Elisson... which suited us just fine, because we had something special in mind.

We wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving early.

See, we plan to spend Thanksgiving - the real one - with Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm up in the Northeast. But that means that our usual practice of having a small army of our friends over for turkey ’n’ trimmings would go by the wayside. That, we reasoned, would never do.

She Who Must Be Obeyed, ever clever, came up with the idea of having an early Thanksgiving-cum-Shabbat dinner. Instead of the traditional dishes, several of which we have been serving every year for over a quarter-century, I suggested trying new versions of the basic Thanksgiving food groups.

Instead of oven-roasted acorn squash, we would kick things off with steaming bowls of butternut squash soup, jacked up with a goodly dose of curry and garam masala.

Instead of a roasted turkey, we would have a turkey braised in stock and white wine.

Instead of plain old cranberry sauce, we would have cranberry chutney with ginger.

Instead of Gary’s sweet potato pudding, we would have a sweet potato and Yukon Gold hash.


Sweet potato and Yukon Gold hash. Downright tasty, it was.

I’m here to tell you, it all turned out rather nicely. SWMBO, who can be quite persnickety in matters having to do with Thanksgiving turkeys, was extremely pleased with the braised bird... and the freshly home-baked loaf of challah that kicked off the meal, as well as the homemade French vanilla ice cream (accompanied by brandied figs) that was but one among several desserts didn’t hurt a bit.

The best thing? Enjoying a good meal with good friends. If that isn’t something to be thankful for, what is?

OVERHEARD AT THE SALON

Here followeth an actual dialogue between the (male) proprietor of a local Hair Cuttery and She Who Must Be Obeyed:

Proprietor: “How long have you been married?”

SWMBO: “It’ll be 35 years next June.”

Proprietor: “Wow, that’s a long time... I’ve been together with my partner for six and a half, but that’s about 350 in lesbian years.”

THIS YEAR’S MODEL

Yesterday evening, Cook’s Warehouse - a purveyor of kitchen supplies whose latest outlet is conveniently located adjacent to the new Whole Paycheck Foods Market in our neighborhood - hosted a Grand Opening celebration. We, along with several of our friends, decided to make an evening of it.

In addition to raffling off numerous Cookly Goodies (none of which we won, as it happens), they were dispensing all manner of free food and beverage samples. And the place was packed to the rafters with excited Foodie Suburbanites.

Of course, there was one guest they may not have been counting on...


This year’s new and improved Colander Borg-Man!

Yes, any time there’s a store that’s chock-full of Objets de Cuisine, there’s sure to be a colander among all of that nice, shiny merch... and Colander Borg-Man will be on it like stink on shit white on rice.

It’s what he does.

ELEVEN ELEVEN ELEVEN

Today is Veteran’s Day.

It is also November 11, 2011, the shorthand abbreviation for which is 11-11-11.

I’m posting this at eleven minutes and eleven seconds after eleven o’clock: 11:11:11.

[Alas, I won’t be around to do this again the next time it’s possible, one hundred years from now... so I may as well have my fun now. And I suspect that every other hammerhead in the Bloggy-Sphere will be doing pretty much the same thing.]

Being that it is Veteran’s Day, it’s a good opportunity to post a few pics of the family vets...


Billie Bob, the father of She Who Must Be Obeyed, photographed in his Navy days.


Uncle Phil, who served in the ETO in World War II where he had some harrowing experiences. Fortunately for us, he managed to survive ’em.

Eli, hizzownself, also served during WWII, doing stints in India and China. Alas, no photographs handy... but there’s a huge box of old pics tucked away in his attic, containing such little treasures as an autograph from one Lucille Ball, back in her B-movie actress days.

A tip of the Elisson fedora - nay, the fedora comes off! - for the men and women who have served, and who continue to serve, our country on this calendrically special Veteran’s day.