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!
Friday, August 8, 2014
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
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...
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?]
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?]
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
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
Sunday, August 3, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
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.
Monday, July 28, 2014
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.”
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?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
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.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
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...
Saturday, July 19, 2014
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.]
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.]
Thursday, July 17, 2014
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.
Monday, July 14, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, July 7, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, July 4, 2014
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.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
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.
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.
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