One of the sad things about middle age, medications, and a less than optimum diet for the single man, is that mornings are frequently marked by a disquiet of the stomach. Coffee, although a great blessing, is not of any great help. It does, however, lead one to conclude that one would have made a great colonial administrator on the frontiers of empire: Upper Burma, the Khyber Pass, Greater Syria, and American Universities. All places where heathens, ghazees, headhunters, and illiterate savages would like to hold sway.
As a man exposed to much colonial history, Indonesian languages plus Latin, and accounts of early twentieth century conflict, I would have been anxiously awaiting my next shipment of books, newspapers, potted shrimp, thick cut marmalade, and fine tobacco, while organizing church raffles for the villagers drawn to Christianity and the benefits of literacy.
Otherwise known as keeping the horrid missionaries happy.
While strenuously avoiding their company.
When I first got to Berkeley many years ago, potted shrimp, decent marmalade, good tea, and sambal of any sort, were impossible to find. It was almost like some horrid Protestant commune! The only light in the tunnel was that exceptional tobacco was available.
Naturally I have read Kipling, Maugham, and Orwell. In addition to a lot of Dutch East Indies literature (the brightest spots in an expanse of otherwise dreary stay-at-home scribbling in the same period). From the fall of Napoleon till the nineteen fifties was both a dreaful time and a golden age. Since the hippie era, however, Western society has gradually become more self-righteous and puritanical, disapproving of nearly everything that is good. And Americans have always shied away from stuff like potted shrimp (no great loss) as well as any actual pleasures of the flesh. We thoroughly enjoy reading about other people indulging in such things then falling deservedly off their pedestals -- hence the popularity of celebrity biographies, pornography, and food writing -- but mentally most regular people in America would be quite at home in the Midwest or Tennessee.
That probably accounts for Maga roaches sneering at California.
We've got hot tubs, hot sauce, and hot weather.
It's self-indulgent, is what it is.
We are sinful!
*****
Excuse me while I light some patchouli and dance around a craven image.
Okay, back now, sorry for the interruption.
It's a California thing.
******
Recently I acquired six bottles of a hot sauce for which there will be a several months-long production hiatus due to insufficient chili harvests. It takes over a hundred days of consistent hot weather to produce a satisfactory crop, and the region where that company sources their material from has been experiencing drought for a few years. Unfortunately it's become a cult favourite -- everyone except vegans in Berkeley and emotionally crippled savages living in the fly-overs has glommed onto their product -- and demand is too great to ensure a consistent supply of the prize condiment.
There won't be enough to re-start production till late August at the earliest.
Assuming that this year they have a decent harvest.
Which is a big if.
*****
Time for more burning incense and twirling.
Surely you understand the need?
*****
Six large bottles. That, plus several other chili producst, should keep me happy until supplies resume. Life in these parts is darned well unendurable without hot stuff. Chilies, as you know, are a valuable source of fibre, vitamins, and essential nutrients. And they make bland American food edible. It's like British food with far less grease.
I cannot for the life of me understand why we have an obesity problem here.
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