A bunch of vodka-sodden yobbos, while finishing the last of the home-brew, decide, "hey, let's see if this thing really works". Doesn't matter if they were Russians, Ukrainians, or tribal werewolves and rednecks from Donetsk. Moments later a Malaysian plane comes plummeting down. "Wow, Igor, look at what you've done!" "Yeah, but it worked, huh!?!"
I am not equitably minded about Igor.
It would be nice if whoever was responsible for this were drawn and quartered. Slowly.
At present, I cannot tell the difference between people speaking Russian and people speaking Ukranian. They are often on the bus at the same time as I am. I find their languages equally repulsive at the moment, and would rather not be forced to listen to them.
Must maintain calm, must maintain calm.
Not everyone speaking Russian or Ukranian is a vodka-drenched syphilitic subhuman gangster who dresses funny, eats too much, and smells bad.
Russian Cossacks in Donetsk, however, have a special place in hell. And it is a pity that the fires do not lick them yet.
I fervently hope that they soon outlive all their friends and kin.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Saturday, July 19, 2014
A NATURALLY CURIOUS MAN
I had not been paying any attention to their conversation before, but the girl with the irritating voice finally uttered something that made me sit up and say 'howdy'. It was a magical sentence, one that would make any red-blooded man take notice.
An incantation that commanded complete concentration.
"And then he got peanut butter on my bra!"
Sweetheart, I am as "creative" as the next man. Adventurous too. But in my entire life I have never gotten peanut butter -- or any other delicious spread -- on anyone's mammary containment modules.
Maybe I am less of a man for that omission.
In any case, don't leave us hanging, tell us what happened next.
Did he lick it off? Offer to buy you a new one?
Bung it in the wash?
Unfortunately, I could not hear anymore of the conversation, as she and her friend spoke indistinctly, and I would have had to move back two or three seats to listen in.
Before I could do so, they exited the bus.
I cannot help but wonder how the peanut butter got on her brassiere. Peanut butter normally is a rather stiff gloop, and doesn't drizzle or drip unless it's warmed up. It is entirely possible that "he" smeared it on hot toast, which, as he was eating while leaning over her, warmed up the substance to the point that it escaped from between the two slices of bread. Which may or may not have been a buzz-kill. Women tend to treasure their brassieres, as a good fit is, so I've heard, hard to find. Quite likely she was ambivalent about him snacking while her bosom was in the line of fire. She may have had other things on her mind.
Note to self: make sure that brassieres are removed when eating a peanut butter sandwich. It's the gentlemanly thing to do.
Not that there is any connection, but since I became a bachelor again four years ago, exposed brassieres (or any other feminine under or support garments) have not been in the same room at the same time in this apartment as peanut butter, to the best of my knowledge. Maybe my apartment mate eats breakfast in her skivvies, I just don't know. She and I have different schedules. The only times we're in the kitchen together is in the evening, often when I am fixing myself some noodles while fully clothed. I am not a breakfast person.
"And then he got peanut butter on my bra!"
A truly scientific minded man would promptly ask questions. Is it still there? Natural fabric or synthetic? Does it smell?
And then, to show that I am not entirely insensitive, "how does that make you feel?"
Bra and peanut butter. What am I missing?
Crunchy? Or smooth?
I'm a practical man, I can't help thinking about these things.
Also, I really believe that whatever the situation was, the male person involved may have suffered a lapse of judgement. There was a woman present, with her upper-torso nether garment exposed to the elements, or leastways to a nutritious bread spread. How did that come about?
Would it not have been wiser to ascertain the circumstances before proceeding with the repast?
Postpone your nutritious snacking, if only for a little while.
Maybe she requires some assistance.
Feedback, or advice.
Support.
I'm sure there's a very good reason why someone is wandering around wearing a brassiere while there is peanut butter, but for the life of me I cannot think of one.
It's never happened to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
An incantation that commanded complete concentration.
"And then he got peanut butter on my bra!"
Sweetheart, I am as "creative" as the next man. Adventurous too. But in my entire life I have never gotten peanut butter -- or any other delicious spread -- on anyone's mammary containment modules.
Maybe I am less of a man for that omission.
In any case, don't leave us hanging, tell us what happened next.
Did he lick it off? Offer to buy you a new one?
Bung it in the wash?
Unfortunately, I could not hear anymore of the conversation, as she and her friend spoke indistinctly, and I would have had to move back two or three seats to listen in.
Before I could do so, they exited the bus.
I cannot help but wonder how the peanut butter got on her brassiere. Peanut butter normally is a rather stiff gloop, and doesn't drizzle or drip unless it's warmed up. It is entirely possible that "he" smeared it on hot toast, which, as he was eating while leaning over her, warmed up the substance to the point that it escaped from between the two slices of bread. Which may or may not have been a buzz-kill. Women tend to treasure their brassieres, as a good fit is, so I've heard, hard to find. Quite likely she was ambivalent about him snacking while her bosom was in the line of fire. She may have had other things on her mind.
Note to self: make sure that brassieres are removed when eating a peanut butter sandwich. It's the gentlemanly thing to do.
Not that there is any connection, but since I became a bachelor again four years ago, exposed brassieres (or any other feminine under or support garments) have not been in the same room at the same time in this apartment as peanut butter, to the best of my knowledge. Maybe my apartment mate eats breakfast in her skivvies, I just don't know. She and I have different schedules. The only times we're in the kitchen together is in the evening, often when I am fixing myself some noodles while fully clothed. I am not a breakfast person.
"And then he got peanut butter on my bra!"
A truly scientific minded man would promptly ask questions. Is it still there? Natural fabric or synthetic? Does it smell?
And then, to show that I am not entirely insensitive, "how does that make you feel?"
Bra and peanut butter. What am I missing?
Crunchy? Or smooth?
I'm a practical man, I can't help thinking about these things.
Also, I really believe that whatever the situation was, the male person involved may have suffered a lapse of judgement. There was a woman present, with her upper-torso nether garment exposed to the elements, or leastways to a nutritious bread spread. How did that come about?
Would it not have been wiser to ascertain the circumstances before proceeding with the repast?
Postpone your nutritious snacking, if only for a little while.
Maybe she requires some assistance.
Feedback, or advice.
Support.
I'm sure there's a very good reason why someone is wandering around wearing a brassiere while there is peanut butter, but for the life of me I cannot think of one.
It's never happened to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 18, 2014
CHINESE GIRLS HAVE SHORT STUMPY LEGS
I was sitting in the teevee room happily cruising for kitten pictures, smut, and recipes on the internet, when the voice spoke: "Chinese girls have short stumpy legs".
This was not precisely the revelation I had been looking for.
Expecting felines, filth, or food, I was surprised.
But there it was. Short stumpy legs.
Under Chinese girls.
Ten minutes later, the voice informed me "lord, so much ugly crap out there!"
Just like with the first news flash, I did not know how to respond. What should one say when the person behind the other computer announces that she has long ago realized that Chinese girls had somewhat shorter legs than supermodels and angular Norwegians?
It's especially problematic when one should not go overboard on the "there there, you look fine" conversational tack.
My apartment mate is a Chinese girl.
"I've always thought your luscious shapely gams were worth committing war crimes over."
Erm, nope. Stay the heck away from that comment.
"'Strewth, your curvy thighs look fabulous. Verily."
Nah, that's dangerous too. Especially as I would never say something so creepy. And it might lead her to assume that I've been scoping out her two pedal appendages, and who knows what other stalkerish things my filthy eyes have been doing when nobody was watching?
I haven't actually seen any legs in years.
"Do your legs reach the ground? Well then!"
That, too, is not an entirely unproblematic approach.
Not reassuring at all.
So I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and smoke a cigarillo, instead of confronting the statement about Chinese legs head on.
Always avoid discussing one's apartment mate's physical attributes, especially if one is not romantically involved with them. It leads to discomfort. There are landmines all over that stretch of territory.
Diplomatically shutting the heck up seems a wise choice.
Let us therefore not mention her legs.
In any way at all.
The second comment, a complete non-sequitur to the first, indicated that she was internet shopping. That also is a patch of dangerous ice. I myself do not internet-shop, ever, seeing as I am a typical man and thus totally pre-occupied with cute kitten pix, high quality nastiness, and things to do with chilies, pork, and ginger. Men do not shop.
There's a lot of ugly crap out there.
I totally agree.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This was not precisely the revelation I had been looking for.
Expecting felines, filth, or food, I was surprised.
But there it was. Short stumpy legs.
Under Chinese girls.
Ten minutes later, the voice informed me "lord, so much ugly crap out there!"
Just like with the first news flash, I did not know how to respond. What should one say when the person behind the other computer announces that she has long ago realized that Chinese girls had somewhat shorter legs than supermodels and angular Norwegians?
It's especially problematic when one should not go overboard on the "there there, you look fine" conversational tack.
My apartment mate is a Chinese girl.
"I've always thought your luscious shapely gams were worth committing war crimes over."
Erm, nope. Stay the heck away from that comment.
"'Strewth, your curvy thighs look fabulous. Verily."
Nah, that's dangerous too. Especially as I would never say something so creepy. And it might lead her to assume that I've been scoping out her two pedal appendages, and who knows what other stalkerish things my filthy eyes have been doing when nobody was watching?
I haven't actually seen any legs in years.
"Do your legs reach the ground? Well then!"
That, too, is not an entirely unproblematic approach.
Not reassuring at all.
So I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and smoke a cigarillo, instead of confronting the statement about Chinese legs head on.
Always avoid discussing one's apartment mate's physical attributes, especially if one is not romantically involved with them. It leads to discomfort. There are landmines all over that stretch of territory.
Diplomatically shutting the heck up seems a wise choice.
Let us therefore not mention her legs.
In any way at all.
The second comment, a complete non-sequitur to the first, indicated that she was internet shopping. That also is a patch of dangerous ice. I myself do not internet-shop, ever, seeing as I am a typical man and thus totally pre-occupied with cute kitten pix, high quality nastiness, and things to do with chilies, pork, and ginger. Men do not shop.
There's a lot of ugly crap out there.
I totally agree.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 17, 2014
PINKY NEW FACE
Not entirely sure why he did it; it seems quite unrabbinic. But entirely in keeping with his character, given that he is the rosheshiva of the most influential academic environment in the five boroughs or the tri-tip area.
Seeing it has renewed my faith.
Ikh bin farklempt.
THE VISION!
The faithless may not know his true face, or utter his name.
Ve ha meiven, yaivin.
This image MUST be used for our school jersey.
Es iz a riezige mitzvah.
Mamesh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Seeing it has renewed my faith.
Ikh bin farklempt.
THE VISION!
The faithless may not know his true face, or utter his name.
Ve ha meiven, yaivin.
This image MUST be used for our school jersey.
Es iz a riezige mitzvah.
Mamesh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
SHREDDED GINGER, SHRIMP PASTE, AND PORK: 蝦醬蒸五花肉
A dish which will probably disturb very many people is actually quite delicious. And, if you are Chinese, it probably made you very happy. Not because you like disturbing people -- though when that happens, it's icing on the cake -- but because it was finger-licken' good.
Especially the juices.
One of the people it may disturb is your doctor, but only if he's very white.
It wouldn't disturb my doctor, because nothing fazes that man.
Most of his customers are elderly Cantonese.
Which means he's heard far, far worse than anything I could tell him.
The combination of incredible stubbornness, culinary adventurism, and near anarchic creativity with edible substances on the part of his patients has already added considerable surreality to his professional life.
Then he goes home and eats from that world.
Probably with moderation, but evenso.
It's home cooking.
Gusto.
Fatty pork. Ginger. Shrimp paste.
蝦醬蒸五花肉
STEAMED PORK BELLY WITH SHRIMP PASTE
['haa jeung jing ng faa yiuk']
One pound streaky pork belly.
One or two inches ginger, slivered.
Two TBS sherry.
One to two TBS shrimp paste.
Half Tsp. sugar.
A dash of Worcestershire sauce.
Minced scallion.
Cut the pork into chopstickable chunks, rub with the sugar and shrimp paste. Arrange in a flat bowl, add the slivered ginger, sherry, and Worcestershire sauce, and place in a steamer over a roiling boil.
Steam for an hour, then remove and strew scallion over.
Serve with white rice and vegetables.
Be sure to spoon the juices onto your plate.
If our own tribal ancestors had had chopsticks and steamers, history would have turned out very differently. This dish is a potent peace maker, darn well sacramental. So simple, so good.
I'd love to see Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Vegans, everyone in the Middle-East, sitting down and sharing this. It would change them profoundly. Improve their minds.
Betcha they'd all light up cigars afterwards, have coffee together, and change the world.
Sure, you could eat it with khubz baladi or lavash.....
But why?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Especially the juices.
One of the people it may disturb is your doctor, but only if he's very white.
It wouldn't disturb my doctor, because nothing fazes that man.
Most of his customers are elderly Cantonese.
Which means he's heard far, far worse than anything I could tell him.
The combination of incredible stubbornness, culinary adventurism, and near anarchic creativity with edible substances on the part of his patients has already added considerable surreality to his professional life.
Then he goes home and eats from that world.
Probably with moderation, but evenso.
It's home cooking.
Gusto.
Fatty pork. Ginger. Shrimp paste.
蝦醬蒸五花肉
STEAMED PORK BELLY WITH SHRIMP PASTE
['haa jeung jing ng faa yiuk']
One pound streaky pork belly.
One or two inches ginger, slivered.
Two TBS sherry.
One to two TBS shrimp paste.
Half Tsp. sugar.
A dash of Worcestershire sauce.
Minced scallion.
Cut the pork into chopstickable chunks, rub with the sugar and shrimp paste. Arrange in a flat bowl, add the slivered ginger, sherry, and Worcestershire sauce, and place in a steamer over a roiling boil.
Steam for an hour, then remove and strew scallion over.
Serve with white rice and vegetables.
Be sure to spoon the juices onto your plate.
If our own tribal ancestors had had chopsticks and steamers, history would have turned out very differently. This dish is a potent peace maker, darn well sacramental. So simple, so good.
I'd love to see Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Vegans, everyone in the Middle-East, sitting down and sharing this. It would change them profoundly. Improve their minds.
Betcha they'd all light up cigars afterwards, have coffee together, and change the world.
Sure, you could eat it with khubz baladi or lavash.....
But why?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WORTHWHILE ADVICE ANENT MOSQUITOES; ASIAN AMERICANS, YOU'RE KINDA HOSED. SORRY.
Around this time of year, if you live in some parts of San Francisco, you become aware of something that surprises you: mosquitoes. You had happily forgotten about the little pests, because since you moved here from Alaska or Detroit, they weren't really on the radar. San Francisco is not prime malaria territory. And not really conducive to the mental or physical health of bloodsucking parasites. That's probably also the reason we have so few rightwing hose-bags, but that's a subject for a different post.
Parts of the Peninsula spray regularly at the height of summer to lessen the incidence of West Nile Fever, and Dengue is common in pockets of the Deep South, along with other mosquito-borne ailments.
Not San Francisco. We're moist, yes. But warm, no. Not usually.
Both fog and chill winds lead to torpidity.
Still, there are pockets.
Warm swamp.
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
I haven't strung up my mosquito net in years. When I still had a steamy relationship going on, it was an essential item from June through November, as my significant other would otherwise refuse to sleep in the same room. She'd always get bitten, or one of the little buggers would fly around in the middle of the night and keep her up whacking at invisible daemons with a pillow. Which is exciting oh boy howdy yes but not at all conducive to a good night's rest.
There are several things you can do to diminish the mosquito problem in your bedroom.
Mosquito nets, kelambu or kulambo in various Indonesian languages, muskieten gordijnen in Dutch, are not very expensive, easy to repair and clean, and make the bed-zone otherworldly. Could be very romantic, definitely old-school. Well worth your consideration. They can be ordered from companies in England and the Netherlands.
["Maagang taon na nakabitin ang kulambo, maulang magkano sa maraming buwan, at sa gayong nito walang pagpapatapon na lumubog..."]
Potted chrysanthemums are an anti-magnet for many insects, along with marigolds and lemon grass. Added benefit: lemon grass is a wonderful addition to stews, soups, and curries.
A metal tray of smoldering spent tea-leaves half an hour before bedtime will also drive them out.
Snow pear incense (雪梨香 'suet lei heung') repells mosquitoes, and leaves a delicate bookish fragrance.
Lavender or rosemary oil dabbed onto the temples and wrists at night also works.
So does the analgesic balm white flower oil (白花油 'baak faa yau').
Also effective: eagle wood incense (沉香 'cham heung').
But above all, travel with a female person of East-Asian ancestry when you visit the tropics. Trust me, it's magic. Mosquitoes, given a choice between a smelly white male tobacco smoker and a juicy woman with yellow skin, will avoid you like the plague and bite her.
During my first trip to South-East Asia I visited Mindanao accompanied by a Chinese businessman and his adult daughter, whom I knew from Berkeley. The two of them had one room, I slept in another. Every morning she'd show up for breakfast with her wrists and ankles looking like hamburger from the previous night's terrors, a veritable feast for the mosquitoes, whereas her father would only sport a few bites.
I myself, if I was lucky, might have just one.
It became a bone of contention.
Resentment.
Matters would have been better if I had been more diplomatic.
Instead I kept boasting about my uninterrupted rest.
That may have been the first time I ever heard "tiu, sei baak gwai, m-hou sik ga!"
[For the curious: 屌，死白鬼，唔好食噶！]
My ex, whom I mentioned earlier, is also a woman of East-Asian ancestry. South-East Asia is no place for a woman, especially a tender American, so while she and I were together any trips we made were to Canada and Western Europe. But I was much tempted, because the idea of roaming around Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines, with my own personal mosquito bait, appealed to me immensely.
I fondly imagined comfortable repose.
But it never came to that.
Since we broke up, the mosquitoes have not visited me.
I haven't hung the net around my bed in years.
Her, they're still tormenting. She's never taken the net in her room down, and the vermin struggle to get in. They like her, they hate me. She lives in the other side of the apartment, and occasionally I am awakened in the middle of the night by loud thumps, as she combats their assault with her pillows, swearing ferociously.
屌，死白鬼，唔好食噶！
Hee hee hee. Yes, I still occasionally light up some snow pear incense (雪梨香), which guarantees that I will not be bothered by the pests. But that's primarily to disguise the fact that I've been smoking like a chimney on my days off, frequently till late in the afternoon. She gets back around seven in the evening, and I really should let the place air out for at least four hours before she returns.
The other day I lit some damp tea leaves to fumigate the place.
Also very effective.
I've still got a few coils of eagle wood incense left.
And I know where to purchase more of it.
No need to hang the net.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Parts of the Peninsula spray regularly at the height of summer to lessen the incidence of West Nile Fever, and Dengue is common in pockets of the Deep South, along with other mosquito-borne ailments.
Not San Francisco. We're moist, yes. But warm, no. Not usually.
Both fog and chill winds lead to torpidity.
Still, there are pockets.
Warm swamp.
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
I haven't strung up my mosquito net in years. When I still had a steamy relationship going on, it was an essential item from June through November, as my significant other would otherwise refuse to sleep in the same room. She'd always get bitten, or one of the little buggers would fly around in the middle of the night and keep her up whacking at invisible daemons with a pillow. Which is exciting oh boy howdy yes but not at all conducive to a good night's rest.
There are several things you can do to diminish the mosquito problem in your bedroom.
Mosquito nets, kelambu or kulambo in various Indonesian languages, muskieten gordijnen in Dutch, are not very expensive, easy to repair and clean, and make the bed-zone otherworldly. Could be very romantic, definitely old-school. Well worth your consideration. They can be ordered from companies in England and the Netherlands.
["Maagang taon na nakabitin ang kulambo, maulang magkano sa maraming buwan, at sa gayong nito walang pagpapatapon na lumubog..."]
Potted chrysanthemums are an anti-magnet for many insects, along with marigolds and lemon grass. Added benefit: lemon grass is a wonderful addition to stews, soups, and curries.
A metal tray of smoldering spent tea-leaves half an hour before bedtime will also drive them out.
Snow pear incense (雪梨香 'suet lei heung') repells mosquitoes, and leaves a delicate bookish fragrance.
Lavender or rosemary oil dabbed onto the temples and wrists at night also works.
So does the analgesic balm white flower oil (白花油 'baak faa yau').
Also effective: eagle wood incense (沉香 'cham heung').
But above all, travel with a female person of East-Asian ancestry when you visit the tropics. Trust me, it's magic. Mosquitoes, given a choice between a smelly white male tobacco smoker and a juicy woman with yellow skin, will avoid you like the plague and bite her.
During my first trip to South-East Asia I visited Mindanao accompanied by a Chinese businessman and his adult daughter, whom I knew from Berkeley. The two of them had one room, I slept in another. Every morning she'd show up for breakfast with her wrists and ankles looking like hamburger from the previous night's terrors, a veritable feast for the mosquitoes, whereas her father would only sport a few bites.
I myself, if I was lucky, might have just one.
It became a bone of contention.
Resentment.
Matters would have been better if I had been more diplomatic.
Instead I kept boasting about my uninterrupted rest.
That may have been the first time I ever heard "tiu, sei baak gwai, m-hou sik ga!"
[For the curious: 屌，死白鬼，唔好食噶！]
My ex, whom I mentioned earlier, is also a woman of East-Asian ancestry. South-East Asia is no place for a woman, especially a tender American, so while she and I were together any trips we made were to Canada and Western Europe. But I was much tempted, because the idea of roaming around Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines, with my own personal mosquito bait, appealed to me immensely.
I fondly imagined comfortable repose.
But it never came to that.
Since we broke up, the mosquitoes have not visited me.
I haven't hung the net around my bed in years.
Her, they're still tormenting. She's never taken the net in her room down, and the vermin struggle to get in. They like her, they hate me. She lives in the other side of the apartment, and occasionally I am awakened in the middle of the night by loud thumps, as she combats their assault with her pillows, swearing ferociously.
屌，死白鬼，唔好食噶！
Hee hee hee. Yes, I still occasionally light up some snow pear incense (雪梨香), which guarantees that I will not be bothered by the pests. But that's primarily to disguise the fact that I've been smoking like a chimney on my days off, frequently till late in the afternoon. She gets back around seven in the evening, and I really should let the place air out for at least four hours before she returns.
The other day I lit some damp tea leaves to fumigate the place.
Also very effective.
I've still got a few coils of eagle wood incense left.
And I know where to purchase more of it.
No need to hang the net.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
CHINESE TEA EGGS: 茶葉蛋 CHA YE DAN
Friends have probably discerned that I like crackly things, particularly porcelain glazes. Often I will yearn for an object ONLY because of its fine tracing of hairline fractures that form an elegantly webbed visual.
I've got some oft-repaired bowls which speak to me, as well as a few celadons. On casual ceramics, the crackled pattern may be accented by melting sooty oil into the surface over a flame. Antique pieces often already have such an effect, due to age.
It should not surprise you that I am also fond of tea eggs.
Tea eggs are a convenient snack as well as a much better choice for picnics than devilled eggs, plus they keep better and are far less likely to queasify your digestive organ.
A wise choice.
Easy to make also.
TEA EGGS: 茶葉蛋
['chaa yip daan']
Six eggs.
Four TBS good black tea.
Six TBS soysauce.
One or two pieces dried orange peel.
A slice of ginger.
Two or three star anise.
One stick cinnamon.
Two or three whole cloves.
One TBS sugar.
Pinch of salt.
Put eggs in a pot with barely enough water to cover, bring to a boil, then turn low and simmer for two or three minutes. Place the lid on the pot and let it stand for over ten minutes more; the residual heat will further cook the eggs.
Remove the eggs, and rinse in cold water till they can be handled.
Tap the eggs all over with the back of a spoon to crack the shells, and roll them around a bit without loosing any pieces. This will allow colour and flavour to penetrate, and yields a lovely patterning.
Place the eggs back in a pot, add the four cups or more of water plus the various other ingredients, and simmer for about four hours. Turn off heat, let it cool, then put it overnight in the refrigerator.
They can be eaten cold, but you could also gently warm them up first.
CHUEN JIT 春節
Tea eggs are quite common during the Spring Festival (note the clickable label underneath this post), as they can be eaten on the first day, when people do not cook, but they are also available throughout the year.
Please note that it is a good idea to keep an eye on the pot, and not go off to do something else in the meantime. Otherwise you might return to the kitchen to find a charred mess. Protein-rich substances, such as, for instance, eggs, smell rather frightful when burnt.
As I have discovered.
GLOSSARY
Eggs: 蛋 'daan'. Black tea: 紅茶 'hung chaa' (red tea); in Hong Kong cooks use Pu Erh (普洱茶 'pou nei chaa') or tuo cha (沱茶 'to chaa') instead for tea leaf egg. Soysauce: 豉油 'si yau'. Dried orange peel: 陳皮 'chan pei'. Ginger: 生薑 'saang geung' (fresh ginger). Star anise: 八角 'baat gok'. Cinnamon: 香桂 'heung gwai', 肉桂 'yiuk gwai'. Cloves: 丁香 'ding heung'. Sugar: 糖 'tong'. Salt: 鹽 'yim'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've got some oft-repaired bowls which speak to me, as well as a few celadons. On casual ceramics, the crackled pattern may be accented by melting sooty oil into the surface over a flame. Antique pieces often already have such an effect, due to age.
It should not surprise you that I am also fond of tea eggs.
Tea eggs are a convenient snack as well as a much better choice for picnics than devilled eggs, plus they keep better and are far less likely to queasify your digestive organ.
A wise choice.
Easy to make also.
TEA EGGS: 茶葉蛋
['chaa yip daan']
Six eggs.
Four TBS good black tea.
Six TBS soysauce.
One or two pieces dried orange peel.
A slice of ginger.
Two or three star anise.
One stick cinnamon.
Two or three whole cloves.
One TBS sugar.
Pinch of salt.
Put eggs in a pot with barely enough water to cover, bring to a boil, then turn low and simmer for two or three minutes. Place the lid on the pot and let it stand for over ten minutes more; the residual heat will further cook the eggs.
Remove the eggs, and rinse in cold water till they can be handled.
Tap the eggs all over with the back of a spoon to crack the shells, and roll them around a bit without loosing any pieces. This will allow colour and flavour to penetrate, and yields a lovely patterning.
Place the eggs back in a pot, add the four cups or more of water plus the various other ingredients, and simmer for about four hours. Turn off heat, let it cool, then put it overnight in the refrigerator.
They can be eaten cold, but you could also gently warm them up first.
CHUEN JIT 春節
Tea eggs are quite common during the Spring Festival (note the clickable label underneath this post), as they can be eaten on the first day, when people do not cook, but they are also available throughout the year.
Please note that it is a good idea to keep an eye on the pot, and not go off to do something else in the meantime. Otherwise you might return to the kitchen to find a charred mess. Protein-rich substances, such as, for instance, eggs, smell rather frightful when burnt.
As I have discovered.
GLOSSARY
Eggs: 蛋 'daan'. Black tea: 紅茶 'hung chaa' (red tea); in Hong Kong cooks use Pu Erh (普洱茶 'pou nei chaa') or tuo cha (沱茶 'to chaa') instead for tea leaf egg. Soysauce: 豉油 'si yau'. Dried orange peel: 陳皮 'chan pei'. Ginger: 生薑 'saang geung' (fresh ginger). Star anise: 八角 'baat gok'. Cinnamon: 香桂 'heung gwai', 肉桂 'yiuk gwai'. Cloves: 丁香 'ding heung'. Sugar: 糖 'tong'. Salt: 鹽 'yim'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 14, 2014
IT SMELLS LIKE BADGER THERE
He left the table briefly after we finished dinner, and returned moments later. As we talked, I could see his fingers snaking across and picking up my tin of tobacco. Of course I let him do so. One does not deny one's own father a bowl. It was so rare that he smoked a pipe by then, and it was largely because he used to be a pipe smoker that I had acquired the habit.
By the time I was a teenager he no longer indulged as regularly. Good tobacco blends were nearly impossible to find in the Netherlands (which is still an issue), and his British co-workers didn't visit England often enough.
But he didn't mind my Balkan Sobranie, and I felt closer to him when he took some. There weren't that many things we could share.
From my early teens until a few years ago I smoked mostly Oriental mixtures, which are made of Latakia and Turkish on a basis of Virginias. Since late 2010 my preference has been for aged Virginias. Partly it's because the taste is softer, mellower. And partly, a calmer habitus.
Virginias take a slower approach, a different attitude.
Smell is a psychological stimulant.
When I was an infant, my father still smoked a pipe regularly. After we moved to Holland he experimented with various mixtures, including Baai Tabak (straight Maryland compounds), English flakes, and Dobie's Foursquare Blue. The mind still revives at such aromas.
I have a few tins of Foursquare Blue left.
It is no longer made.
I remember the fragrances from the past particularly fondly.
Sunday afternoon. Strong tea.
Pipes and books.
An entire generation has grown up since, whose nose-memories are formed by marijuana and bazooka-barfing fruity cocktails. They hate tobacco, and rarely drink tea. Their dull sensibilities have been formed by brutish and typically self-indulgent middle-class preferences.
That dividing line shows that I am older.
I completely disapprove of dope.
No, it's not therapeutic.
It's just pot.
The Grateful Dead were a bunch of untalented stoners, and their fans are braindead slackers.
My father passed away years ago. I don't think he would entirely recognize what I have become, but I think we would still have very much in common.
If he were alive, he would no doubt enjoy sitting down with a pot of rubinous brew on the table, a tin of pipe tobacco between us, and a stack of books.
I know we have similar values.
Definitely kindred tastes.
There's a stack of empty tobacco tins over by the window. Rattray's Old Gowrie and Marlin Flake, Escudo, Davidoff Flake Medallions, Orlik Golden Sliced, Samuel Gawith Best Brown, Full Virginia, Golden Glow, and St. James Flake.
This place is a mess, but there is much here that has memory attached.
Like friends and family, however, there is a slow flux.
Change is a constant.
MORE RECENT FOND MEMORIES
I've often advised other pipe smokers that if they want an old-fashioned full Latakia blend, especially if they liked what Dunhill and Balkan Sobranie produced years ago, there are four excellent newer products that they should keep in mind: Three Oaks Syrian, Wilderness, Legends, and Westminster.
That last mentioned is by Gregory Pease.
The others are McClelland.
All four of these are profoundly spiritual, truly classic tobacco mixtures. Indeed, their Latakia content is fairly close -- around forty five percent, probably -- but each one is different. and they induce shifting moods.
Imagine a forest in autumn with crunching leaves underfoot.
A train ride at night, while it rains outside.
Dwinelle Hall, many years ago.
Caffe Mediterraneum.
Cups of Ceylon.
Books.
AFTER THOUGHT
If your children do not develop good habits in their teenage years, there is something wrong with you. Perhaps you indulged the little brats too much? Far better that they should smoke a pipe instead of illicit substances, read rather than listen to rap, and for craps-sakes, smack those sickening Starbucks and McDonalds drinks out of their hands.
This message was brought to you by a fine British-style spun-cut, with a heart of Louisiana Perique. It's a darn good thing.
POST SCRIPTUM
Found a new pipe and pipe tobacco internet site today, which promises hours of solid pleasure browsing.
Pipe Village: 煙斗村
If you read Chinese, cruise on over.
They'll welcome you.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
By the time I was a teenager he no longer indulged as regularly. Good tobacco blends were nearly impossible to find in the Netherlands (which is still an issue), and his British co-workers didn't visit England often enough.
But he didn't mind my Balkan Sobranie, and I felt closer to him when he took some. There weren't that many things we could share.
From my early teens until a few years ago I smoked mostly Oriental mixtures, which are made of Latakia and Turkish on a basis of Virginias. Since late 2010 my preference has been for aged Virginias. Partly it's because the taste is softer, mellower. And partly, a calmer habitus.
Virginias take a slower approach, a different attitude.
Smell is a psychological stimulant.
When I was an infant, my father still smoked a pipe regularly. After we moved to Holland he experimented with various mixtures, including Baai Tabak (straight Maryland compounds), English flakes, and Dobie's Foursquare Blue. The mind still revives at such aromas.
I have a few tins of Foursquare Blue left.
It is no longer made.
I remember the fragrances from the past particularly fondly.
Sunday afternoon. Strong tea.
Pipes and books.
An entire generation has grown up since, whose nose-memories are formed by marijuana and bazooka-barfing fruity cocktails. They hate tobacco, and rarely drink tea. Their dull sensibilities have been formed by brutish and typically self-indulgent middle-class preferences.
That dividing line shows that I am older.
I completely disapprove of dope.
No, it's not therapeutic.
It's just pot.
The Grateful Dead were a bunch of untalented stoners, and their fans are braindead slackers.
My father passed away years ago. I don't think he would entirely recognize what I have become, but I think we would still have very much in common.
If he were alive, he would no doubt enjoy sitting down with a pot of rubinous brew on the table, a tin of pipe tobacco between us, and a stack of books.
I know we have similar values.
Definitely kindred tastes.
There's a stack of empty tobacco tins over by the window. Rattray's Old Gowrie and Marlin Flake, Escudo, Davidoff Flake Medallions, Orlik Golden Sliced, Samuel Gawith Best Brown, Full Virginia, Golden Glow, and St. James Flake.
This place is a mess, but there is much here that has memory attached.
Like friends and family, however, there is a slow flux.
Change is a constant.
MORE RECENT FOND MEMORIES
I've often advised other pipe smokers that if they want an old-fashioned full Latakia blend, especially if they liked what Dunhill and Balkan Sobranie produced years ago, there are four excellent newer products that they should keep in mind: Three Oaks Syrian, Wilderness, Legends, and Westminster.
That last mentioned is by Gregory Pease.
The others are McClelland.
All four of these are profoundly spiritual, truly classic tobacco mixtures. Indeed, their Latakia content is fairly close -- around forty five percent, probably -- but each one is different. and they induce shifting moods.
Imagine a forest in autumn with crunching leaves underfoot.
A train ride at night, while it rains outside.
Dwinelle Hall, many years ago.
Caffe Mediterraneum.
Cups of Ceylon.
Books.
AFTER THOUGHT
If your children do not develop good habits in their teenage years, there is something wrong with you. Perhaps you indulged the little brats too much? Far better that they should smoke a pipe instead of illicit substances, read rather than listen to rap, and for craps-sakes, smack those sickening Starbucks and McDonalds drinks out of their hands.
This message was brought to you by a fine British-style spun-cut, with a heart of Louisiana Perique. It's a darn good thing.
POST SCRIPTUM
Found a new pipe and pipe tobacco internet site today, which promises hours of solid pleasure browsing.
Pipe Village: 煙斗村
If you read Chinese, cruise on over.
They'll welcome you.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MINOR BACKGROUND NOISE
A correspondent confesses himself quirked by the situation I outlined in a previous post, to whit: "you got distracted while blogging by your roommate talking on the phone with her boyfriend. Sounds mighty dysfunctional, given that years ago you and she had an affair. Why are you still living with her? And why is she 'yacking' on the phone with you around? Shouldn't she use her phone privately?"
He also informs me that he hates it when folks talk on the phone around other people, because it is selfish and inconsiderate, and that he wishes they'd wait until they were alone before they called.
Let me clarify a few things.
Savage Kitten and I have known each other for over two decades. We're still friends, and though it may seem unimportant, we still care about each other's well-being, despite no longer being lovers.
Plus we get along quite well.
In San Francisco, relocating and / or finding new apartment mates means paying inordinately more rent, a new neighborhood with unfamiliar and undesirable peculiarities of its own, and a desperate search for a place to live not already occupied by schizophrenics, druggies, self-absorbed superficial consumerite bastards, and party-hearty braindead yuppie scum.
Or putting up with strident food-phobics and true-believers.
And their assorted dickhead associates.
The last item that requireth illumination is that she has her own room. She's always had her own room. We share the kitchen, bathroom, and television room. The kitchen is cramped but reasonably clean. The bathroom is not littered with perfume, unguents, and make-up. And the television room contains book cases, a television, the land-line telephone, and two of the five computers in this household, both connected to the internet.
Her computer. My computer. And a land line.
Yep. No cell-phones.
Neither of us are instantly available twenty four seven. It's a deliberate old-school approach. We don't want to field random conversation while eating, shopping, on the bus, or in transit. We don't take selfies. We will not be on a dirt road in the Sierras with a flat tire, nor shall we ever witness something that we absolutely have to tell someone about right this very minute.
There are no emergencies that require a cellular device.
Sure, we do get the occasional idiot sales-call, and around the election times there are computerized political messages. But the first (sales) is dealt with by informing them that there is a big-ass yam in the house or a teddy bear armed with a cleaver (her gambit), or asking what they are wearing and whether they are blonde (my approach). If I am feeling particularly feisty, I may even falsely inform them that I am naked.
Like a Greek god.
Whatever the tactic used, the sales-shmoo soon gets off the line, as they cannot deal with the madness at our end; they weren't trained for that.
Computerized vote-fer-me calls get a hang-up.
The telephone seldom rings anymore.
There's no recording device.
Either live, or zip.
I also rather like the fact that her boyfriend feels threatened by me, but that is just minor icing on the cake. The point is, both of us have a familiar place to hide from the world, we don't have to put up with asshats just because they occupy the same location, we have our privacy, and we have a teddy bear armed with a cleaver in case anything goes wrong.
Her telephonic yackery with wheelie boy usually happens when I'm wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe filled with aged Virginia tobacco, which helps me daydream, for an hour in the evening.
When I return, I'm happy, and she's happy.
Sure, it will get a little more complex if I ever find a girl-friend. But firstly, though I am in the market, I am not pursuing the matter with any great purposefulness, and secondly, casual nooky and unsuitable affairs with flibberty gibbits are not part of the programme. There is no point whatsoever to hooking up with another person if they aren't calm, reasonable, and intelligent, with insight, self-confidence, and a life of their own.
No teenagers, no party blondes, no emotionally unstable artsy types, no adherents of strange food cults, or "spiritual" people.
It might happen. But I shan't overturn anything even when it does.
At that point, certain details will have to be worked out.
But reasonable people can do that.
People all over the city live with others, the vast majority of them manage to have parts of their lives which are entirely private. Some of them have to tolerate an awful lot.
On my days off, this place is quiet.
Coffee, pipe, and a library.
I am undisturbed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He also informs me that he hates it when folks talk on the phone around other people, because it is selfish and inconsiderate, and that he wishes they'd wait until they were alone before they called.
Let me clarify a few things.
Savage Kitten and I have known each other for over two decades. We're still friends, and though it may seem unimportant, we still care about each other's well-being, despite no longer being lovers.
Plus we get along quite well.
In San Francisco, relocating and / or finding new apartment mates means paying inordinately more rent, a new neighborhood with unfamiliar and undesirable peculiarities of its own, and a desperate search for a place to live not already occupied by schizophrenics, druggies, self-absorbed superficial consumerite bastards, and party-hearty braindead yuppie scum.
Or putting up with strident food-phobics and true-believers.
And their assorted dickhead associates.
The last item that requireth illumination is that she has her own room. She's always had her own room. We share the kitchen, bathroom, and television room. The kitchen is cramped but reasonably clean. The bathroom is not littered with perfume, unguents, and make-up. And the television room contains book cases, a television, the land-line telephone, and two of the five computers in this household, both connected to the internet.
Her computer. My computer. And a land line.
Yep. No cell-phones.
Neither of us are instantly available twenty four seven. It's a deliberate old-school approach. We don't want to field random conversation while eating, shopping, on the bus, or in transit. We don't take selfies. We will not be on a dirt road in the Sierras with a flat tire, nor shall we ever witness something that we absolutely have to tell someone about right this very minute.
There are no emergencies that require a cellular device.
Sure, we do get the occasional idiot sales-call, and around the election times there are computerized political messages. But the first (sales) is dealt with by informing them that there is a big-ass yam in the house or a teddy bear armed with a cleaver (her gambit), or asking what they are wearing and whether they are blonde (my approach). If I am feeling particularly feisty, I may even falsely inform them that I am naked.
Like a Greek god.
Whatever the tactic used, the sales-shmoo soon gets off the line, as they cannot deal with the madness at our end; they weren't trained for that.
Computerized vote-fer-me calls get a hang-up.
The telephone seldom rings anymore.
There's no recording device.
Either live, or zip.
I also rather like the fact that her boyfriend feels threatened by me, but that is just minor icing on the cake. The point is, both of us have a familiar place to hide from the world, we don't have to put up with asshats just because they occupy the same location, we have our privacy, and we have a teddy bear armed with a cleaver in case anything goes wrong.
Her telephonic yackery with wheelie boy usually happens when I'm wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe filled with aged Virginia tobacco, which helps me daydream, for an hour in the evening.
When I return, I'm happy, and she's happy.
Sure, it will get a little more complex if I ever find a girl-friend. But firstly, though I am in the market, I am not pursuing the matter with any great purposefulness, and secondly, casual nooky and unsuitable affairs with flibberty gibbits are not part of the programme. There is no point whatsoever to hooking up with another person if they aren't calm, reasonable, and intelligent, with insight, self-confidence, and a life of their own.
No teenagers, no party blondes, no emotionally unstable artsy types, no adherents of strange food cults, or "spiritual" people.
It might happen. But I shan't overturn anything even when it does.
At that point, certain details will have to be worked out.
But reasonable people can do that.
People all over the city live with others, the vast majority of them manage to have parts of their lives which are entirely private. Some of them have to tolerate an awful lot.
On my days off, this place is quiet.
Coffee, pipe, and a library.
I am undisturbed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 13, 2014
MANIPULATIVE EVEN AT THE BEST OF TIMES
This post is for Rabbi Yuter. Who may not know precisely why it is so.
But I suspect that it would not surprise him. Years ago Savage Kitten, who was my girlfriend at the time, obsessively watched a Canadian television series about a handsome blond vampire on the Toronto police force, his love interest in the coroner's department who was trying to cure him of both heliophobia and haematophagy, and his somewhat doofus allrightnik partner. No, it was not a documentary.
In the series, the crime squad detective was named Nick Knight (real name: Geraint Wynn-Davies. Repeating that name (or his actual nomen) in a low sexy whisper would make her squeal.
It still does.
Since then she has been incredibly fond of Canadians.
And I hasten to point out that there is much there of which to be fond. Numerous television shows have been produced in Canada, and both story and talent employed are usually better than the turgid spew made on this side of the border, good lord can you believe that crap? Infandous!
Admittedly, most Canadians are close genetic relatives of Burke and Hare as well as the Yeti, and bathe regrettably rarely -- maybe once every fortnight, if the drain isn't clogged -- plus the rates of syphilis and cretinism are disturbingly high, but they make great television.
She's never been around them when they're drunk.
Perhaps that's it.
Maybe she needs exposure to the dark side of Canadians; that part of their gestalt and weltanschauung which shows them to be grim and depraved, almost Scandinavian in their poisonous dullness.
Praise-singers of meaningful sh*8.
GLOOMY AND ANGST-RIDDEN
Much of the Northern Hemisphere is filled with depressive alcoholic types, who when sober veer toward brutal philosophies and I doubt that people who eat their own boogers in grade school ever grow up to be gourmands.
The educational video below shows their later life.
It could be Norway or the Baltics.
But it isn't.
THEY MIGHT BE CANADIANS!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sON0He2mTC8#t=490.]
Sorry, I got distracted by my apartment mate (the aforementioned Savage Kitten) yacking on the phone with her snoogums about Charsiu buns. When we split up, we decided to keep living together -- because we're kind of used to each other's peculiarities and still get along -- and she eventually got involved with some dude in a wheelchair. Who can't ever come over to visit, seeing as our place is uphill, and upstairs.
They talk on the phone. Being a hardened old grouch, cooing sounds and other icky noises like that make me sneer and frown.
I don't trust monkeys either.
I actually rather like the Canadians. In addition to Kids In The Hall, they also have The Arrogant Worms. Jolly good stuff. Witty.
Canadians are naturally rather cheerful types.
Not degenerate or alcoholic at all.
Except for Justin Bieber.
Anyhow, watch the clip.
It's very Canadian.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But I suspect that it would not surprise him. Years ago Savage Kitten, who was my girlfriend at the time, obsessively watched a Canadian television series about a handsome blond vampire on the Toronto police force, his love interest in the coroner's department who was trying to cure him of both heliophobia and haematophagy, and his somewhat doofus allrightnik partner. No, it was not a documentary.
In the series, the crime squad detective was named Nick Knight (real name: Geraint Wynn-Davies. Repeating that name (or his actual nomen) in a low sexy whisper would make her squeal.
It still does.
Since then she has been incredibly fond of Canadians.
And I hasten to point out that there is much there of which to be fond. Numerous television shows have been produced in Canada, and both story and talent employed are usually better than the turgid spew made on this side of the border, good lord can you believe that crap? Infandous!
Admittedly, most Canadians are close genetic relatives of Burke and Hare as well as the Yeti, and bathe regrettably rarely -- maybe once every fortnight, if the drain isn't clogged -- plus the rates of syphilis and cretinism are disturbingly high, but they make great television.
She's never been around them when they're drunk.
Perhaps that's it.
Maybe she needs exposure to the dark side of Canadians; that part of their gestalt and weltanschauung which shows them to be grim and depraved, almost Scandinavian in their poisonous dullness.
Praise-singers of meaningful sh*8.
GLOOMY AND ANGST-RIDDEN
Much of the Northern Hemisphere is filled with depressive alcoholic types, who when sober veer toward brutal philosophies and I doubt that people who eat their own boogers in grade school ever grow up to be gourmands.
The educational video below shows their later life.
It could be Norway or the Baltics.
But it isn't.
THEY MIGHT BE CANADIANS!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sON0He2mTC8#t=490.]
Sorry, I got distracted by my apartment mate (the aforementioned Savage Kitten) yacking on the phone with her snoogums about Charsiu buns. When we split up, we decided to keep living together -- because we're kind of used to each other's peculiarities and still get along -- and she eventually got involved with some dude in a wheelchair. Who can't ever come over to visit, seeing as our place is uphill, and upstairs.
They talk on the phone. Being a hardened old grouch, cooing sounds and other icky noises like that make me sneer and frown.
I don't trust monkeys either.
I actually rather like the Canadians. In addition to Kids In The Hall, they also have The Arrogant Worms. Jolly good stuff. Witty.
Canadians are naturally rather cheerful types.
Not degenerate or alcoholic at all.
Except for Justin Bieber.
Anyhow, watch the clip.
It's very Canadian.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GOING ALL POTTY
Yesterday: Pipes and pipe stems. Red raw spots on fingers of left hand, where the bleach attacked the skin. Cigar smokers wandering in and out in a daze. Mobbed by young briar fiends, to whom I am some kind of god. Lunch delayed till after five. Actually, I was just high as a kite on caffeine.
Evening: Pissing-contest about cultural appropriation / expropriation on the internet. Once it became clear that I was talking to a rabid socialist lesbian veganist spiritual mystic of colour (purple, I think), who was more interested in talking about her genetic background and the inherited guilt from Caucasian genes -- but before she started wailing about beavers, whales, spotted owls, and the horrid, horrid! repression of which all white males are inescapably responsible -- I left the Facebook battlefield. Life is too short to check one's privilege, sorry. I shall now dance a happy dance from a tattooed tribe, while claiming MY people invented it.
And wear culturally inappropriate clothing.
Today: Off to Palo Alto to revel in glazes and textures, shapes and wall-thicknesses. The Association of Clay and Glass Artists (ACGA) does a grand open-air show every year. Over two hundred talented people displaying beautiful things for sale.
Palo Alto Clay & Glass Festival - 2014
1313 Newell Rd Palo Alto
Saturday, July 12 through Sunday, July 13
Particularly fond of various copper oxides.
Cobalt carbonates. Red iron.
Oh flux yeah.
The hues of celadon derive from iron oxide's ferric changes in a reduction firing. Finding a new artist experimenting with the process is always a cause for joy. Classic simplicity, carefully considered interpretation.
Good pieces can be heard late at night; little private pings in the darkness, as the glaze develops yet another microscopic crackle.
Sometimes it takes years before they quiet down.
Should be gloating soon.
Way too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Evening: Pissing-contest about cultural appropriation / expropriation on the internet. Once it became clear that I was talking to a rabid socialist lesbian veganist spiritual mystic of colour (purple, I think), who was more interested in talking about her genetic background and the inherited guilt from Caucasian genes -- but before she started wailing about beavers, whales, spotted owls, and the horrid, horrid! repression of which all white males are inescapably responsible -- I left the Facebook battlefield. Life is too short to check one's privilege, sorry. I shall now dance a happy dance from a tattooed tribe, while claiming MY people invented it.
And wear culturally inappropriate clothing.
Today: Off to Palo Alto to revel in glazes and textures, shapes and wall-thicknesses. The Association of Clay and Glass Artists (ACGA) does a grand open-air show every year. Over two hundred talented people displaying beautiful things for sale.
Palo Alto Clay & Glass Festival - 2014
1313 Newell Rd Palo Alto
Saturday, July 12 through Sunday, July 13
Particularly fond of various copper oxides.
Cobalt carbonates. Red iron.
Oh flux yeah.
The hues of celadon derive from iron oxide's ferric changes in a reduction firing. Finding a new artist experimenting with the process is always a cause for joy. Classic simplicity, carefully considered interpretation.
Good pieces can be heard late at night; little private pings in the darkness, as the glaze develops yet another microscopic crackle.
Sometimes it takes years before they quiet down.
Should be gloating soon.
Way too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 12, 2014
XO SAUCE -- WHAT AND WHEREFORE
One of the pervasive ingredients in the Cantonese kitchen of the present age is a melange of convenience. All cooks are, in essence, short-cut takers. And the substance in question is one hell of a shortcut.
Basically, it's umami up the wazoo.
Cantonese cooking requires fresh ingredients cleanly cooked, with often a touch of a concentrated seafood or savory element. Most likely you are already familiar with such things as soy sauce, oyster sauce, shrimp paste, and various dessicated ingredients like dried shrimp, oysters, and scallops.
What if you combined all of those and gave it a hip name?
XO SAUCE!
It can be added to vegetable dishes, pork preparations, fried rice, and boiled noodles. And it can be made ahead. There is no need to buy bottled versions, though if you live by yourself that certainly is an avenue to explore.
海味或乾海產
Hoi mei waak gon hoi chaan
[Sea flavour OR dried sea produce]
If you live in San Francisco, there are a number of places where useful and worthwhile non-caucasoid ingredients can be found, and the staff will be happy to try to explain how to use them. Go explore.
The four main seafood stock-items (四大海味 'sei taai hoi mei') which every properly run Chinatown should have are 鮑魚 ('bau yü'; abalone), 海參 ('hoi sam'; holothurid, trepang or sea cucumber), 魚翅 ('yü chi'; shark fin, which has been outlawed in California, dammit), and 魚肚 ('yü tou'; fish maw, which is actually an air-sac or buoyancy device internal to the beast).
Collectively these are referred to as 鮑參翅肚 ('bao sam chi tou').
Other standard ingredients will also be offered, including 鹹魚 ('haahm yü'; salt fish), 蝦米 ('haai mai'; dried shrimp), 公魚仔 ('gong yü chai'; spratlings or smelt), 乾貝 ('gon pui'; dried scallop), 乾魷魚 ('gon yau yü'; dried squid), 蠔豉 ('hou si'; dried oysters) 蜇皮 ('jit pei'; jelly fish), et autres.
All of the ingredients for XO Sauce can be bought on Stockton Street or Clement, as well as shops in the outer Richmond and Sunset districts, if you live in the fog. Look for business that say 海味 or 乾海產 on the signboard.
From my quarters C'town is only a short walk away. Close enough that one can amble across the hill in the time it takes to contemplate dinner.
Personally, I believe that precisely like the properly run Chinatown should have at least one 海味店 ('hoi mei dim'), the well-ordered household must ALWAYS have a dried fish on hand.
Preferably more than one.
They're good.
Useful.
食譜: XO醬
Recipe for XO Sauce
12 TBS dried scallops.
8 TBS dried shrimp.
8 TBS chilipaste (sambal ulek).
4 TBS oyster sauce.
2 TBS sugar.
2 TBS soy sauce.
1 TBS shrimp paste.
½ TBS salt.
One small onion.
One bulb of garlic (a dozen cloves, more or less).
An amount of ginger equivalent to the garlic, or more.
Half a cup cooking oil.
One TBS sesame oil.
Soak shrimp and scallops for a few hours in water, till softened. Drain, reserving liquid, and chop to a somewhat granular state, not too fine.
Mince the garlic, ginger, and onion.
In a capacious pan fry the onion till golden. Add the garlic, ginger, shrimp paste, and chilipaste. When the shrimp paste is cooked (a minute or so) and the garlic and ginger have begun to colour, add the chopped scallop and shrimp. Stir-fry till the oil comes out and the mixture is aromatic. Add everything else including the reserved liquids, and again cook till the oil comes out, thus concentrating the flavour from the soaking liquid in the mixture. Cook a little longer on low to darken, which caramelizes it slightly.
Let it cool completely, and distribute it over containers. There should be a layer of oil on top.
Place one container in the refrigerator, and the others in the deepfreeze.
If all the water has been cooked out, it will keep for several weeks in the fridge.
Use either sparingly or liberally.
Most recipes for XO Sauce will include Chinwa ham or Chinese sausage, some substitute preserved pork-belly or even bacon. Seeing as those are things which every well-stocked larder should have (erm, why do you think it's called a 'larder', eh?), it seems rather contra-indicated to dump those into the compound. Especially as moisture is the great enemy of a substance such as this.
Smoked bacon is not a bad idea, however.
It seldom is.
XO Sauce can be used much like any other cooking concentrate in Cantonese cuisine. Add it after the main ingredient, before the liquor, stock, and glaze. The idea is to imbue the fragrance in the dish, while letting moisture re-meld with the flavouring matter. One or two tablespoons is sufficient for a dish.
By itself it makes a pleasant sambal, not too hot.
Good with mixed blanched vegetables.
Or in Indo-style snacks.
GLOSSARY
Dried scallops: 乾貝 gon pui, 乾瑤柱 gon yiu chyu, 江瑤柱 gong yiu chyu. Dried shrimp: 蝦米 haa mai. Chilipaste, sambal ulek: 辣椒醬 laat chiu jeung. Oyster sauce: 蠔油 hou yau. Sugar: 糖 tong. Soy sauce: 醬油 jeung yau, 豉油 si yau. Shrimp paste: 鹹蝦醬 haam haa jeung. Salt: 鹽 yim. Onion: 洋蔥 yeung chung (可以用四、五頭小蔥). Garlic: 蒜 suen. Ginger: 薑 geung. Sesame oil: 麻油 maa yau. Chinwa ham: 金華火腿 gam-waa fo-dui. Chinese sausage: 臘腸 laap cheung. Preserved pork-belly: 臘肉 lap yiuk. Bacon: 煙肉 yin yiuk ("smoked pork"), 醃肉 yim yiuk ("preserved pork"), 鹹肉 haam yiuk ("salt pork").
Indo: 係印度尼西亞嘅荷蘭或華僑後裔，咁佢哋常常係多元文化主義啲。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Basically, it's umami up the wazoo.
Cantonese cooking requires fresh ingredients cleanly cooked, with often a touch of a concentrated seafood or savory element. Most likely you are already familiar with such things as soy sauce, oyster sauce, shrimp paste, and various dessicated ingredients like dried shrimp, oysters, and scallops.
What if you combined all of those and gave it a hip name?
XO SAUCE!
It can be added to vegetable dishes, pork preparations, fried rice, and boiled noodles. And it can be made ahead. There is no need to buy bottled versions, though if you live by yourself that certainly is an avenue to explore.
海味或乾海產
Hoi mei waak gon hoi chaan
[Sea flavour OR dried sea produce]
If you live in San Francisco, there are a number of places where useful and worthwhile non-caucasoid ingredients can be found, and the staff will be happy to try to explain how to use them. Go explore.
The four main seafood stock-items (四大海味 'sei taai hoi mei') which every properly run Chinatown should have are 鮑魚 ('bau yü'; abalone), 海參 ('hoi sam'; holothurid, trepang or sea cucumber), 魚翅 ('yü chi'; shark fin, which has been outlawed in California, dammit), and 魚肚 ('yü tou'; fish maw, which is actually an air-sac or buoyancy device internal to the beast).
Collectively these are referred to as 鮑參翅肚 ('bao sam chi tou').
Other standard ingredients will also be offered, including 鹹魚 ('haahm yü'; salt fish), 蝦米 ('haai mai'; dried shrimp), 公魚仔 ('gong yü chai'; spratlings or smelt), 乾貝 ('gon pui'; dried scallop), 乾魷魚 ('gon yau yü'; dried squid), 蠔豉 ('hou si'; dried oysters) 蜇皮 ('jit pei'; jelly fish), et autres.
All of the ingredients for XO Sauce can be bought on Stockton Street or Clement, as well as shops in the outer Richmond and Sunset districts, if you live in the fog. Look for business that say 海味 or 乾海產 on the signboard.
From my quarters C'town is only a short walk away. Close enough that one can amble across the hill in the time it takes to contemplate dinner.
Personally, I believe that precisely like the properly run Chinatown should have at least one 海味店 ('hoi mei dim'), the well-ordered household must ALWAYS have a dried fish on hand.
Preferably more than one.
They're good.
Useful.
食譜: XO醬
Recipe for XO Sauce
12 TBS dried scallops.
8 TBS dried shrimp.
8 TBS chilipaste (sambal ulek).
4 TBS oyster sauce.
2 TBS sugar.
2 TBS soy sauce.
1 TBS shrimp paste.
½ TBS salt.
One small onion.
One bulb of garlic (a dozen cloves, more or less).
An amount of ginger equivalent to the garlic, or more.
Half a cup cooking oil.
One TBS sesame oil.
Soak shrimp and scallops for a few hours in water, till softened. Drain, reserving liquid, and chop to a somewhat granular state, not too fine.
Mince the garlic, ginger, and onion.
In a capacious pan fry the onion till golden. Add the garlic, ginger, shrimp paste, and chilipaste. When the shrimp paste is cooked (a minute or so) and the garlic and ginger have begun to colour, add the chopped scallop and shrimp. Stir-fry till the oil comes out and the mixture is aromatic. Add everything else including the reserved liquids, and again cook till the oil comes out, thus concentrating the flavour from the soaking liquid in the mixture. Cook a little longer on low to darken, which caramelizes it slightly.
Let it cool completely, and distribute it over containers. There should be a layer of oil on top.
Place one container in the refrigerator, and the others in the deepfreeze.
If all the water has been cooked out, it will keep for several weeks in the fridge.
Use either sparingly or liberally.
Most recipes for XO Sauce will include Chinwa ham or Chinese sausage, some substitute preserved pork-belly or even bacon. Seeing as those are things which every well-stocked larder should have (erm, why do you think it's called a 'larder', eh?), it seems rather contra-indicated to dump those into the compound. Especially as moisture is the great enemy of a substance such as this.
Smoked bacon is not a bad idea, however.
It seldom is.
XO Sauce can be used much like any other cooking concentrate in Cantonese cuisine. Add it after the main ingredient, before the liquor, stock, and glaze. The idea is to imbue the fragrance in the dish, while letting moisture re-meld with the flavouring matter. One or two tablespoons is sufficient for a dish.
By itself it makes a pleasant sambal, not too hot.
Good with mixed blanched vegetables.
Or in Indo-style snacks.
GLOSSARY
Dried scallops: 乾貝 gon pui, 乾瑤柱 gon yiu chyu, 江瑤柱 gong yiu chyu. Dried shrimp: 蝦米 haa mai. Chilipaste, sambal ulek: 辣椒醬 laat chiu jeung. Oyster sauce: 蠔油 hou yau. Sugar: 糖 tong. Soy sauce: 醬油 jeung yau, 豉油 si yau. Shrimp paste: 鹹蝦醬 haam haa jeung. Salt: 鹽 yim. Onion: 洋蔥 yeung chung (可以用四、五頭小蔥). Garlic: 蒜 suen. Ginger: 薑 geung. Sesame oil: 麻油 maa yau. Chinwa ham: 金華火腿 gam-waa fo-dui. Chinese sausage: 臘腸 laap cheung. Preserved pork-belly: 臘肉 lap yiuk. Bacon: 煙肉 yin yiuk ("smoked pork"), 醃肉 yim yiuk ("preserved pork"), 鹹肉 haam yiuk ("salt pork").
Indo: 係印度尼西亞嘅荷蘭或華僑後裔，咁佢哋常常係多元文化主義啲。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 11, 2014
KILL THEM ALL, THE LORD WILL KNOW HIS OWN
Conveniently clouding the view, Israel's going after the more rabid members of Hamas (and yes, there are saner and considerably more balanced elements there than just the psychopaths) hides the coming storm in Irak from our eyes.
Our own hawks and rabid elements wish us to prop up a conniving tyrant (Nuri Al Maliki) who by deliberately excluding the Sunni voice created the vacuum into which Isis stepped. But if we do so, Sunni frustration can only grow, and our loyal friends the Saudis and Qataris will continue to fund their murderous co-sectarians in the dust-belt.
Conversely, if we insist upon removal of the incompetent and corrupt Maliki, we may weaken the Baghdad regime so badly that civil war and chaos ensue.
Remarkably, we find ourselves on the same side as Iran.
As well as for a change many rational people.
The result will likely be mission-shift, and a quagmire from which extrication may prove difficult.
It won't be the first time that we willingly dive head-first into a cesspool largely of our own making. Our efforts during the cold war cost over one hundred thousand American lives, and we ended up with human wreckage wandering our streets for decades.
That, of course, pales in comparison to the damage caused elsewhere.
More than two million people in Indonesia were slaughtered, often based on lists that we provided the military there when they seized control.
Over a million Vietnamese perished, quite needlessly as it turns out.
The dead in Latin America were, and remain, countless.
Most of our African allies were psychopaths.
As well as ept kleptocrats.
Inaction is not a choice, but the opposite isn't any better.
No, I do not have a solution. I am merely diagnosing the symptoms.
Like a mediaeval surgeon, I note daemons as a possible cause.
Bleeding the patient won't cure the ailment.
Note: the title of this post is what Abbot Amalric said when asked what to do with the people of Béziers, many of whom might be innocent of the heresy of which they were accused; "caedite eos, novit enim dominus qui sunt eius". Consequently, in contradiction to even the very lax laws of war of the times, not only combatants, but dotards, women, and children were slaughtered without mercy, the town was despoiled and laid to waste, and in the subsequent rape of Languedoc such destruction was wreaked by the crusaders that the region took centuries to recover.
The least that can be said of such an approach is that isn't subtle.
Nor effective at winning lasting friends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Our own hawks and rabid elements wish us to prop up a conniving tyrant (Nuri Al Maliki) who by deliberately excluding the Sunni voice created the vacuum into which Isis stepped. But if we do so, Sunni frustration can only grow, and our loyal friends the Saudis and Qataris will continue to fund their murderous co-sectarians in the dust-belt.
Conversely, if we insist upon removal of the incompetent and corrupt Maliki, we may weaken the Baghdad regime so badly that civil war and chaos ensue.
Remarkably, we find ourselves on the same side as Iran.
As well as for a change many rational people.
The result will likely be mission-shift, and a quagmire from which extrication may prove difficult.
It won't be the first time that we willingly dive head-first into a cesspool largely of our own making. Our efforts during the cold war cost over one hundred thousand American lives, and we ended up with human wreckage wandering our streets for decades.
That, of course, pales in comparison to the damage caused elsewhere.
More than two million people in Indonesia were slaughtered, often based on lists that we provided the military there when they seized control.
Over a million Vietnamese perished, quite needlessly as it turns out.
The dead in Latin America were, and remain, countless.
Most of our African allies were psychopaths.
As well as ept kleptocrats.
Inaction is not a choice, but the opposite isn't any better.
No, I do not have a solution. I am merely diagnosing the symptoms.
Like a mediaeval surgeon, I note daemons as a possible cause.
Bleeding the patient won't cure the ailment.
Note: the title of this post is what Abbot Amalric said when asked what to do with the people of Béziers, many of whom might be innocent of the heresy of which they were accused; "caedite eos, novit enim dominus qui sunt eius". Consequently, in contradiction to even the very lax laws of war of the times, not only combatants, but dotards, women, and children were slaughtered without mercy, the town was despoiled and laid to waste, and in the subsequent rape of Languedoc such destruction was wreaked by the crusaders that the region took centuries to recover.
The least that can be said of such an approach is that isn't subtle.
Nor effective at winning lasting friends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 10, 2014
HENRY DARGER; MAN, MYTH, COCKTAIL
As you may have realized if you've read much of my blathering, I will occasionally write or say stuff just to prompt a Kermit The Frog-esque facial scrunch in the members of my audience.
You know, you've seen it before. That quizzical and slightly frustrated 'wassegiemenou' expression.
Yesterday, for instance, I casually mentioned French Cut Panties. Since then, dog-man Richard cannot get them out of his mind. And his features have shown pain. Maybe even angst. Poor man.
Based on my superior knowledge and years of experience, I clarified matters for him.
"Bikini briefs have a low waistband, in contrast to granny panties. French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and high cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural design and a waistband slightly on the high side."
"Boy shorts, also called 'tap panties', and 'boy cut panties' are a low-cut style that covers most of the bottom and hips. They resemble boxers slightly, and are both flattering (to some women), and modest, as they do not show the typical pantie line."
I actually don't have years of experience; I just know how to effectively use the internet as a research tool. You do not need to know why I looked up this data.
Richard is a married man, and several years older than myself. It is likely that it has been decades since he gave panties some thought.
Being unmarried, I still have that luxury.
Two ounces Bourbon, a Maraschino cherry, and a dash of grenadine. Icecubes, highball glass. Squirt of ginger ale. Two or three drops of bitters optional.
Today I mentioned the Henry Darger Cocktail to a gentleman who was acquiring a cigar. I also told him the backstory -- Henry Darger was a loner and an eccentric who every day added several pages to a science-fiction novel he was writing, and illustrating, about two pre-adolescent heroines leading a naked slave rebellion in outer space; when he died, it was still unfinished, but over fifteen thousand pages long; to excite the mind of one my readers years ago I fantasized about an off-license where young ladies could smoke a cigar in peace while doing their homework and enjoying a cocktail; several froofy drinks were described, including one of my own devising, named after Henry Darger; all can be served with an umbrella and a Hello Kitty swizzle stick -- and I mentioned that it is a refreshing beverage even if you don't have little cocktail umbrellas and Hello Kitty swizzle sticks handy, whether you are a young lady secretely indulging or not.
He briefly had that Kermit The Frog expression.
Then the novel charm of the idea hit him.
It cured him of his angst.
Pour two ounces of Bourbon over ice in a highball glass. Add a dash of Grenadine and a cherry, then fill it up with ginger ale.
It's very refreshing.
Please note that clicking on links under posts (such as the one you will find below: Henry Darger) will bring up everything in that category on this blog. Reading some of those previous posts might lead you to suspect that I am a rancid old pervert.
Which is incorrect.
I just like seeing you look like Kermit The Frog.
Would you like a drink?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You know, you've seen it before. That quizzical and slightly frustrated 'wassegiemenou' expression.
Yesterday, for instance, I casually mentioned French Cut Panties. Since then, dog-man Richard cannot get them out of his mind. And his features have shown pain. Maybe even angst. Poor man.
Based on my superior knowledge and years of experience, I clarified matters for him.
"Bikini briefs have a low waistband, in contrast to granny panties. French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and high cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural design and a waistband slightly on the high side."
"Boy shorts, also called 'tap panties', and 'boy cut panties' are a low-cut style that covers most of the bottom and hips. They resemble boxers slightly, and are both flattering (to some women), and modest, as they do not show the typical pantie line."
I actually don't have years of experience; I just know how to effectively use the internet as a research tool. You do not need to know why I looked up this data.
Richard is a married man, and several years older than myself. It is likely that it has been decades since he gave panties some thought.
Being unmarried, I still have that luxury.
Two ounces Bourbon, a Maraschino cherry, and a dash of grenadine. Icecubes, highball glass. Squirt of ginger ale. Two or three drops of bitters optional.
Today I mentioned the Henry Darger Cocktail to a gentleman who was acquiring a cigar. I also told him the backstory -- Henry Darger was a loner and an eccentric who every day added several pages to a science-fiction novel he was writing, and illustrating, about two pre-adolescent heroines leading a naked slave rebellion in outer space; when he died, it was still unfinished, but over fifteen thousand pages long; to excite the mind of one my readers years ago I fantasized about an off-license where young ladies could smoke a cigar in peace while doing their homework and enjoying a cocktail; several froofy drinks were described, including one of my own devising, named after Henry Darger; all can be served with an umbrella and a Hello Kitty swizzle stick -- and I mentioned that it is a refreshing beverage even if you don't have little cocktail umbrellas and Hello Kitty swizzle sticks handy, whether you are a young lady secretely indulging or not.
He briefly had that Kermit The Frog expression.
Then the novel charm of the idea hit him.
It cured him of his angst.
Pour two ounces of Bourbon over ice in a highball glass. Add a dash of Grenadine and a cherry, then fill it up with ginger ale.
It's very refreshing.
Please note that clicking on links under posts (such as the one you will find below: Henry Darger) will bring up everything in that category on this blog. Reading some of those previous posts might lead you to suspect that I am a rancid old pervert.
Which is incorrect.
I just like seeing you look like Kermit The Frog.
Would you like a drink?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WELCOME ALL BELGIANS!
A recent search that brought a new reader to this blog: "Belgian's Bikini Briefs". No, I shan't tell you which post that turned up. Reason being that if you are a new reader, you need to be gradually exposed to what's here, so that you aren't scared off. And if you're a regular reader, you are disturbed enough already.
Whichever the case may be, I cherish you both.
And may wish to touch you inappropriately.
Assuming, of course, that you are precisely the type of person whom I cannot resist nor would wish to, a suitable occasion for inappropriate behaviour presents itself, and you encourage it.
Otherwise it's no go.
If you are Belgian, that might be a bit of a stretch.
Which reminds me of an old joke: How does a Belgian put on a bikini brief?
Answer: One toe at a time.
No Belgians were harmed in the telling of this.
Of course, if you ARE a Belgian, your version of the joke is somewhat different.
Like so: How does a Netherlander put on a bikini brief?
Answer: He makes sure his neighbor is asleep before stealing it from the line.
On second thought, I might wish to touch the Belgian inappropriately anyhow. At least she's female, and given that she has at least ten toes, she's likely to get distracted before she's done.
Besides, I just might not be able to resist a naked elf hopping around with one toe caught in her bikini briefs.
It sounds charming.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Whichever the case may be, I cherish you both.
And may wish to touch you inappropriately.
Assuming, of course, that you are precisely the type of person whom I cannot resist nor would wish to, a suitable occasion for inappropriate behaviour presents itself, and you encourage it.
Otherwise it's no go.
If you are Belgian, that might be a bit of a stretch.
Which reminds me of an old joke: How does a Belgian put on a bikini brief?
Answer: One toe at a time.
No Belgians were harmed in the telling of this.
Of course, if you ARE a Belgian, your version of the joke is somewhat different.
Like so: How does a Netherlander put on a bikini brief?
Answer: He makes sure his neighbor is asleep before stealing it from the line.
On second thought, I might wish to touch the Belgian inappropriately anyhow. At least she's female, and given that she has at least ten toes, she's likely to get distracted before she's done.
Besides, I just might not be able to resist a naked elf hopping around with one toe caught in her bikini briefs.
It sounds charming.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 09, 2014
WONDERFUL WHEN DRUNK
Most food-bloggers write rather mundane texts to accompany their recipes. And often they will mention mum or grandma, to indicate by warmish blurfle that it is a family treasure which they impart.
Alas, such pedestrian food-writing does not excite!
What does it say about the cook?
Why did they even post it?
Are they nude?
Why not?
Imagine please the following:
The tropical downpour pounded the red earth without let-up, and by mid-afternoon rivulets of muck had cascaded down the hillside, washing away the chicken coops and fences. The whiskey was all gone by then, and the team of anthropologists had decided that it would be more comfortable to strip to their skivies, rather than spend any more time wearing soggy clothing. Warm icky underwear clung to their bodies, and they looked a right sight. Grandfather Arif was highly amused; he had not imagined that American academics were that goofily pale.
Surely they were popular with the ladies?
By tea-time, all five of the American academics had gotten wasted on the rice-wine. When they woke up, they'd have screaming hangovers. Arif contemplated dragging them into the pig-pen, or having the tribal ritualist tattoo them while they were comatose. It would be very funny.
Unfortunately the ritualist knew only crocodile and hornbill patterns, both denoting certain manly virtues. It could be inappropriate.
And the pigs might object to the smell.
As a pair of crested hornbills winged across the clearing, he asked his daughter to make enough ripi-ripi to share with the insensate Americans. He himself put some buckets out in the rain, so that he could wake them up for dinner.
There were still several martabans of rice wine.
It would be a long amusing evening.
He intended mischief.
And dancing!
TJAGAROAN DANG BAYEM TAN RIPI DAGING
[A salad mixture, with spinach and slivered meat.]
Enough for two or three people.
Or more, if served as a side dish.
Salad:
Handful of rice stick noodles.
Quarter pound of lean pork, slivered.
One pound of spinach, washed and chopped.
One carrot, scraped and slivered or matchstick cut.
One or two slices of ginger
Two or three fresh jalapenos, seeded and sliced.
Half cup crumbled fried peanuts.
Plenty of chopped cilantro.
Dressing:
Two tablespoons slivered ginger.
Two tablespoons sugar.
Two tablespoons fermented shrimp paste.
Two tablespoons oil (preferably olive oil).
One clove garlic, finely minced.
Juice of two or three limes (quarter to half cup).
Garnish:
Peeled coarsely chunked cucumber on the side.
Fry the fermented shrimp paste in a little oil, decant with its oil to a bowl. Add the lime juice and sugar, and whisk-in the ginger and garlic.
Heat up water in a sauce pan with the ginger slices added. Boil the rice noodles a minute or so till tender. Drain with a sieve scoop and rinse under cold water, then dump on a plate, leaving the water (and sliced ginger) in the pot to blanch the slivered pork. When the pork has changed colour, dump it on top of the noodles, off centre. Blanch the spinach in the same water, and also dump on top of the noodles, next to the pork. Do likewise to the carrot.
At this point you should have a mound of cool or cold rice noodles, with separate deposits of pork, spinach, and carrot. Dump the crumbled peanuts, sliced jalapenos, and cilantro on top, or in the centre.
Put the bowl of dressing alongside.
It is a lovely presentation.
Visually striking.
Now destroy the effect: Mix, serve, and eat.
Shredded green mango on the side is a nice addition.
The remaining blanch-water can be acidulated by squeezing in some lime juice, and with watercress added it makes a rather pleasant broth.
Tribal rice wine ('tuwak') is a potent and rather unpleasant liquid, with semi-solid crap floating on the surface. Think of cheesy porridge above, with clearer liquid below, which why it is drunk through bamboo straws.
It does get better with age, provided the alcohol percentage is high enough. At its worst, it is reminiscent of athletic garb left unwashed.
Mostly it's like white wine with the occasional semi-solid.
If strained it makes a very passable liquid.
When aged it becomes sherry-like.
It is considered very beneficial to the skin.
Young ladies in particular should drink it.
Rice wine will make them utterly radiant.
TUWAK
To make rice wine, use equal proportions of glutinous rice and sugar. For five pounds of rice use one pound of yeast (available in dried balls at the village store).
Boil the rice till it is mushy, let it cool completely. Pound the yeast in a mortar to a powder. Layer the mushy rice alternatingly with powdered yeast, making each layer invisible with the next. Cover the container but do not seal it, as it does need air. Set it in the sun for five or six days.
Now mix the sugar with two to five times the volume of boiling water. When dissolved, let it cool completely. Then mix it into the fermented rice with a wooden stick which has been thoroughly boiled to sterilize it. Cover this soup (again, do not seal), and set it aside for at least a month.
It need not be strained, if you are using straws. And please note that bamboo is bacteriostatic, which is why it is used for drinking straws and ladles.
If you are planning to get drunk soon, use more water. If you wish to age the rice wine, use less. It will continue to ferment, albeit at a slower rate.
Rice wine is often consumed in vast quantities during the rainy season, when there is not much to do and travel is difficult. Binges may last several days.
Always use pure cane sugar or palm sugar.
Never use honey.
If any pigs or chickens are missing after your binge, you probably ate them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Alas, such pedestrian food-writing does not excite!
What does it say about the cook?
Why did they even post it?
Are they nude?
Why not?
Imagine please the following:
The tropical downpour pounded the red earth without let-up, and by mid-afternoon rivulets of muck had cascaded down the hillside, washing away the chicken coops and fences. The whiskey was all gone by then, and the team of anthropologists had decided that it would be more comfortable to strip to their skivies, rather than spend any more time wearing soggy clothing. Warm icky underwear clung to their bodies, and they looked a right sight. Grandfather Arif was highly amused; he had not imagined that American academics were that goofily pale.
Surely they were popular with the ladies?
By tea-time, all five of the American academics had gotten wasted on the rice-wine. When they woke up, they'd have screaming hangovers. Arif contemplated dragging them into the pig-pen, or having the tribal ritualist tattoo them while they were comatose. It would be very funny.
Unfortunately the ritualist knew only crocodile and hornbill patterns, both denoting certain manly virtues. It could be inappropriate.
And the pigs might object to the smell.
As a pair of crested hornbills winged across the clearing, he asked his daughter to make enough ripi-ripi to share with the insensate Americans. He himself put some buckets out in the rain, so that he could wake them up for dinner.
There were still several martabans of rice wine.
It would be a long amusing evening.
He intended mischief.
And dancing!
TJAGAROAN DANG BAYEM TAN RIPI DAGING
[A salad mixture, with spinach and slivered meat.]
Enough for two or three people.
Or more, if served as a side dish.
Salad:
Handful of rice stick noodles.
Quarter pound of lean pork, slivered.
One pound of spinach, washed and chopped.
One carrot, scraped and slivered or matchstick cut.
One or two slices of ginger
Two or three fresh jalapenos, seeded and sliced.
Half cup crumbled fried peanuts.
Plenty of chopped cilantro.
Dressing:
Two tablespoons slivered ginger.
Two tablespoons sugar.
Two tablespoons fermented shrimp paste.
Two tablespoons oil (preferably olive oil).
One clove garlic, finely minced.
Juice of two or three limes (quarter to half cup).
Garnish:
Peeled coarsely chunked cucumber on the side.
Fry the fermented shrimp paste in a little oil, decant with its oil to a bowl. Add the lime juice and sugar, and whisk-in the ginger and garlic.
Heat up water in a sauce pan with the ginger slices added. Boil the rice noodles a minute or so till tender. Drain with a sieve scoop and rinse under cold water, then dump on a plate, leaving the water (and sliced ginger) in the pot to blanch the slivered pork. When the pork has changed colour, dump it on top of the noodles, off centre. Blanch the spinach in the same water, and also dump on top of the noodles, next to the pork. Do likewise to the carrot.
At this point you should have a mound of cool or cold rice noodles, with separate deposits of pork, spinach, and carrot. Dump the crumbled peanuts, sliced jalapenos, and cilantro on top, or in the centre.
Put the bowl of dressing alongside.
It is a lovely presentation.
Visually striking.
Now destroy the effect: Mix, serve, and eat.
Shredded green mango on the side is a nice addition.
The remaining blanch-water can be acidulated by squeezing in some lime juice, and with watercress added it makes a rather pleasant broth.
Tribal rice wine ('tuwak') is a potent and rather unpleasant liquid, with semi-solid crap floating on the surface. Think of cheesy porridge above, with clearer liquid below, which why it is drunk through bamboo straws.
It does get better with age, provided the alcohol percentage is high enough. At its worst, it is reminiscent of athletic garb left unwashed.
Mostly it's like white wine with the occasional semi-solid.
If strained it makes a very passable liquid.
When aged it becomes sherry-like.
It is considered very beneficial to the skin.
Young ladies in particular should drink it.
Rice wine will make them utterly radiant.
TUWAK
To make rice wine, use equal proportions of glutinous rice and sugar. For five pounds of rice use one pound of yeast (available in dried balls at the village store).
Boil the rice till it is mushy, let it cool completely. Pound the yeast in a mortar to a powder. Layer the mushy rice alternatingly with powdered yeast, making each layer invisible with the next. Cover the container but do not seal it, as it does need air. Set it in the sun for five or six days.
Now mix the sugar with two to five times the volume of boiling water. When dissolved, let it cool completely. Then mix it into the fermented rice with a wooden stick which has been thoroughly boiled to sterilize it. Cover this soup (again, do not seal), and set it aside for at least a month.
It need not be strained, if you are using straws. And please note that bamboo is bacteriostatic, which is why it is used for drinking straws and ladles.
If you are planning to get drunk soon, use more water. If you wish to age the rice wine, use less. It will continue to ferment, albeit at a slower rate.
Rice wine is often consumed in vast quantities during the rainy season, when there is not much to do and travel is difficult. Binges may last several days.
Always use pure cane sugar or palm sugar.
Never use honey.
If any pigs or chickens are missing after your binge, you probably ate them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NOTES OF ENCOURAGEMENT, AND A POX ON SUREÑOS ESTÚPIDOS
Here's hoping the Dutch beat those rancid Argentickies this afternoon. Much like the Germans romped all over the samba-drumming degenerates yesterday.
Finally taught those Brazzies how the game is supposed to be played.
If the Dutch win over Argentina, the final match should be very exciting. Either way I sincerely hope that a Northern European team gains the cup, because on the whole I'm sick and tired of samba drumming and stupid Latin Americans thinking they invented the game.
So, to celebrate the German achievement (victory 7-1) over die juntaländern, here's a very beautiful rendition of a classic song.
EIN PAN-AMISCHE LIED
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tt20dkb3y2I.]
Next up, the Dutch against Los Pelutodos.
Remember, boys, it matters not who wins or loses, but how you played the game. Which means clobbering those damned Argies till they bleed.
After which, by the grace of the divine, we'll pound some German heads.
I would post a link to the Ajax Clublied, but musically it sounds too much like a bunch of drunken farmers lifting beakers of mead. It just doesn't do much for me. The Chant de Feyenoord is possibly even more unlistenable. Shan't even mention that crappy FC Utrecht song.
The PSV Clublied sounds like a bunch of blotto sailors.
Dutch people, dammit, can't sing worth sh*x.
But they play a great game of football.
We ought to steal this tune.
PS. I'm not actually paying any attention to the games.
Because I'm not into sports at all
Hup, 'Olland, hup!
Hup!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Finally taught those Brazzies how the game is supposed to be played.
If the Dutch win over Argentina, the final match should be very exciting. Either way I sincerely hope that a Northern European team gains the cup, because on the whole I'm sick and tired of samba drumming and stupid Latin Americans thinking they invented the game.
So, to celebrate the German achievement (victory 7-1) over die juntaländern, here's a very beautiful rendition of a classic song.
EIN PAN-AMISCHE LIED
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tt20dkb3y2I.]
Next up, the Dutch against Los Pelutodos.
Remember, boys, it matters not who wins or loses, but how you played the game. Which means clobbering those damned Argies till they bleed.
After which, by the grace of the divine, we'll pound some German heads.
I would post a link to the Ajax Clublied, but musically it sounds too much like a bunch of drunken farmers lifting beakers of mead. It just doesn't do much for me. The Chant de Feyenoord is possibly even more unlistenable. Shan't even mention that crappy FC Utrecht song.
The PSV Clublied sounds like a bunch of blotto sailors.
Dutch people, dammit, can't sing worth sh*x.
But they play a great game of football.
We ought to steal this tune.
PS. I'm not actually paying any attention to the games.
Because I'm not into sports at all
Hup, 'Olland, hup!
Hup!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 08, 2014
MONKISH BUSINESS
This post will have no mention of the World Cup, nor of the horrendous outpouring of bigotry on various people's Facebook pages anent events in Israel and the territories. You, dear reader, are probably sick and tired of those things too. I shall not post a youtube clip today either. For some reason Youtube recommended that I watch a four hour feed of an orthodox rally against the draft that took place over three months ago in Jerusalem. What on earth is You tube thinking? Like I know from men in black? March of the penguin hordes?
Draft them; it will give those bocherim some much needed exercise.
Most of them are not suited for yeshiva and kollel anyway.
One cannot figure out what else they're good for.
Obviously not soccer; too nonathletic.
What I propose to do today is read up on corvids and raccoons, while thinking about dinner. Something with green curry paste and coconut milk. Plus lots of ginger. Sometimes one needs to step back from the world, and let the hairy loonies scream by themselves in the wilderness. Self-imposed solitude is good for mental health.
Note: Solitude is NOT isolation. Subjects to which I have exposed myself in the last thirty six hours: Sawerigading and I La Galigo, Bugis maritime trade and panisi schooners, Sabah, Tawi-Tawi, kingdoms in Basilan and Sulu, Naresuan, Suryothai, Phitsanulok, Hongsawadee, Thaksin, Chao Praya, cloud ears, Ming vases, languages (Mon, Khmer, Thai, Tausug, Samal, Yakan, Igorot, Hindi, Marathi, Telugu, Kannada, Punjabi, Nepali), bidets, Yorkshire, World War One, donut poisoning in Holland, fruit-eating bats, rhino-plasty, haemorragic fevers, mosquito-born diseases, gin, air-cured tobacco, orphans, hotdogs, mechanically separated meat froth, peanut butter, mold, medicated foot powder, ceramic terminology, stage performances, iambic pentameters, a poppadum jingle, and just a tiny bit of smut.
It was all rewarding and productive.
And there's a common thread.
Several of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Draft them; it will give those bocherim some much needed exercise.
Most of them are not suited for yeshiva and kollel anyway.
One cannot figure out what else they're good for.
Obviously not soccer; too nonathletic.
What I propose to do today is read up on corvids and raccoons, while thinking about dinner. Something with green curry paste and coconut milk. Plus lots of ginger. Sometimes one needs to step back from the world, and let the hairy loonies scream by themselves in the wilderness. Self-imposed solitude is good for mental health.
Note: Solitude is NOT isolation. Subjects to which I have exposed myself in the last thirty six hours: Sawerigading and I La Galigo, Bugis maritime trade and panisi schooners, Sabah, Tawi-Tawi, kingdoms in Basilan and Sulu, Naresuan, Suryothai, Phitsanulok, Hongsawadee, Thaksin, Chao Praya, cloud ears, Ming vases, languages (Mon, Khmer, Thai, Tausug, Samal, Yakan, Igorot, Hindi, Marathi, Telugu, Kannada, Punjabi, Nepali), bidets, Yorkshire, World War One, donut poisoning in Holland, fruit-eating bats, rhino-plasty, haemorragic fevers, mosquito-born diseases, gin, air-cured tobacco, orphans, hotdogs, mechanically separated meat froth, peanut butter, mold, medicated foot powder, ceramic terminology, stage performances, iambic pentameters, a poppadum jingle, and just a tiny bit of smut.
It was all rewarding and productive.
And there's a common thread.
Several of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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My apartment mate, as she sees it, has two objectives this evening. The first is to avoid getting bit by the mosquito, to which end she is n...
