HELLO KITTY IN BONDAGE VILE

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but at the most recent meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club, both Hello Kitty and The Whore of Babylon were referenced. I shall blame Erik Stokkebye for this. And no, this post has nothing to do with pipes, pipe-smoking, pipe-tobacco, or Eric Stokkebye's four new blends that celebrate the history of his family's involvement with the tobacco industry, though I will state that the 1931 flake is both exceptionally pleasant as well as high quality. It will appeal to smokers of both refined and depraved sensibilities, being rather old-fashioned and English in style.
A product that you can imagine yourself smoking on a rainy day somewhere in the north of England, in a town of modest size.

Most members of the club are men, there are some women.
Many of us are past our thirties, some are not.
A good cross-section of people.

And Hello Kitty.

No, the Japanese Anglo-phile Feline is NOT among our ranks. But she could be. Pipe-smoking veers towards a somewhat British mode. Probably because of the many fine British things that pipe-smokers will likely also like: Scotch and Irish Whiskey, Indian curry, French cuisine, and fine Italian leathers.
And Hello Kitty, as is well known, lives just outside of London with her loving family, and enjoys apple pies and afternoon tea.
Her father, by the way, smokes a pipe.
I'm sure she loves how it smells.


HOLY CRAP, A TALKING DOG!

As many of my friends know, mention of Hello Kitty is a frequent occurrence in my circles, one which I am not responsible for -- we're all legally adult, and responsible for our own safety -- but which nevertheless happens more often in my immediate ambit than I am comfortable with. And, given that so much merchandise has been marketed with Hello Kitty's charming image thereupon, I have occasionally expressed bafflement that none of it is geared toward pipe-smokers.
Are we not human? Do we not deserve Hello Kitty pipeholders, tobacco pouches, pipe racks, storage cabinets, tampers, matches, pipe lighters, polishing cloths, tobacco jars, pipe sleeves, and Hello Kitty man-purses with room for six pipes, two tins of tobacco, a tamper, and cleaners?

In December, my friends Mark and Robin gifted me a Hello Kitty.
I have no idea why. It's not like I've mentioned her much.
Hello Kitty is currently examining some of my briars.
There's something acquisitive about her.
Fortunately, she's small.
Controllable.

If Hello Kitty smoked a pipe, I fear that she would lean toward aromatics, as her favourite fragrances are strawberries, apples, and very likely also melon. Clean fresh essences which, unfortunately, are also used in 'perfumes' aimed at a young female audience.
And please note that grown-ups use more discrete smells.
Something with vetiver, or perhaps citrus.
A faint wiff of gardenias.

We desperately need a Hello Kitty aftershave.


Anyhow, we we're discussing Erinmore Flake, and I remarked that it was actually a good pressed Virginia and Air-cured melange, with an unfortunate Hello Kitty top-dressing, that recalled nothing so much as the Whore of Babylon. Within seconds, I had to defend both of those assertions.
How did I know about Hello Kitty perfumes?
What experiences did I have with the Whore of Babylon?

I had to admit that I have had no personal exposure to the Whore of Babylon, as she passed away before my time, and as for the Hello Kitty unguents and bath products, I had sniffed them at the Sanrio store down on Stockton near Market Street several years ago. Purely out of intellectual curiosity. A friend had once mentioned that when she was an adolescent she had briefly dallied with Hello Kitty personal fragrances.
I have no idea why she told me, but people seem encouraged to bring up their Hello Kitty reminiscences when talking to me. I really hope that it isn't because I remind them of Hello Kitty's dad (a pipesmoker with a sense of humour), or her grandfather (who is very wise, and likes to paint).
Perhaps it's my Londonian air?
Or my animal-like radiance.
And charming whiskers.
Can't be my smell.

All of that must however have prompted one of the other members to tell a tale about two horses and a greyhound who entered a drinking establishment, and the bar-keep asked them how their day had been.
The first horse complained that he had been pulling heavy loads all day, his back ached, boy was he tired, how about a pint of Guinness. The second horse said that he had been at the races when a bee stung him, and he ended up bucking his jockey, stampeding into the stands, injuring five children on a school outing, and whacking his knee severely. He hurt, his knee was badly swollen, he could really use a stiff Scotch. No ice.

The dog said "well, I was chasing this electric bunny...."

Whereupon both horses shouted:

"Holy crap, a talking dog!!!"


On second thought, Hello Kitty should join the pipe club. She'd find it quite as lively and cheerful as she herself is, and she would meet new people and make many friends. There might even be apple pie, which she loves.
We could also make a pot of tea.

We're very English, in some ways.


For your information, I only had one glass of port.
It goes well with both flakes and burleys.

TOBACCO INDEX


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MR. BADGER HAS A TANTRUM

You've probably already noticed that this blogger occasionally refers to himself in the third-person, as either 'the badger', or 'mr. Badger'.
It's a comfortable persona, as it allows me to disavow all-too-human characteristics. Normal humans do not swill tea, or smoke pipes.
This is the modern age, and homo erectus now consumes zero-fat high-energy-drinks, and only smokes pot, because it's therapeutic.
And, it is universally believed, marijuana is lovingly produced by sincere nature-children who are altruistically into green technology and sustainable agriculture.
As well as supporting the rain-forest.

Mr. Badger takes exception to that life-style.
And that idiotic point-of-view.


Zero-fat high-energy drinks induce berserk behaviour, and pot leads directly to madness. If you persist in either of those despicable habits you will become a scrawny whacked-out zombie with a spongy brain. Pot is the emerald road to ruin.
No, the badger does not accept the claim that pot is medicinal.
Get off your self-indulgent high horse.

Unlike tobacco, pot is grown by hardened criminals getting rich from the self-destructive delusional urges of the most cocked-up navel-gazing generation in this planet's history, and zero-fat high-energy drinks are little more than a legal form of speed with a smirking priggish feel-good overlay.


This badger gets hepped-up the old-fashioned way: oolong.
And uses pipe-fulls of tobacco to sharpen the mind.


Which is why on Friday and Saturday evenings he usually avoids the crowd of loud drunken partyers that flock along middle Polk Street. For one thing, they aren't his style and he has scant use for them, and for another, they perfectly epitomize everything wrong with America since trust-funds were invented.
They should be sitting at home with a good book and a hot cup of tea.
Perhaps Dickens, or Somerset Maugham, or Evelyn Waugh.
With a bit of Bach playing on the Victrola.

And also, a tin of very fine pipe tobacco on the little table to their immediate right, where the lamp and the ashtray are. Candidates for a jolly good smoke include 'Old Joe Kranz', 'Haunted Bookshop', 'Old Hollywood' (all three are Burley compounds from Cornell & Diehl); 'Best Brown Flake', 'Hall O'The Wynd', and 'Dunbar' (fine Virginias from various manufacturers); plus 'Westminster', 'Lagonda', 'Three Oaks', and 'Wilderness' (those being four stellar full-English, with sheer oodles of Oriental and Latakia).

That is what they SHOULD be doing. It's clean living, is what it is.
Beneficial to the mind, good for the soul. Healthy!

Instead of puking their spoiled rotten twenty-something guts out further down the block. Undoubtedly from too much zero-fat high-energy swill, medical grade ganja, and fruity drinks made with flavoured vodka.


My god, they're all blonde!


Mr. Badger is thoroughly disgusted.


*      *      *      *      *      *

By the way, I have all the tobaccos I mentioned. They're pretty darn good.
Plus several teapots of various sizes. If you promise not to apall me with your sickening beverages, and have been pot-free for the past ten years, I'll be happy to let you in to sample them. Burley blends tend toward a musty old-fashioned flavour and must be merely puffed, Virginias are sweet on the tip of the tongue, somewhat floral at times, and have to be smoked slowly, sipped almost, and English blends (also called Balkan Mixtures) are full-bodied, zesty, tarry, and earthy. These last can be fumed at a more lively pace, and will likely leave your tweed coat or lady-like cardigan smelling profoundly autumnal.
Your parents or roommates might well wonder when you return whether unbeknownst to them you've been rolling around in a pile of fine leather.
If you're worried, I can probably get some Febreze.
There might even be a spot of sherry afterwards.
I've also got books, and a comfy place to sit.

Mr. Badger cares about your well-being.

TOBACCO INDEX


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COMMITTED BACHELORETTE

Sometimes you do not really want to know what the other person looks like. The voice, in of of itself, is the best mark of her character. Consequently I may have an entirely wrong impression of the lady in question, not having actually seen or spoken to her.

Well, she was busy at the time, so it would have been an imposition for me to get up and slowly drift past her, then lazily swan back again whence I came, just to get a good gander.
Somewhat transparent, too.

I'm just not very good at subterfuge.


It was late afternoon and I was having a quite smoke near the financial district. A goodly bowl of 'Old Joe Krantz' in my pipe, and an open book on my lap. The book was there because I thought it would make me look intellectual, rather than shiftless. I had even chosen the right volume to scare away casual questions about my reading material from passers-by.

"What are you reading?"

"Headhunting in the Solomon Islands."

"Oh."

"It's instructional."

Actually, it's fairly fascinating. I have two copies of it.
I bought the second one when I misplaced the first.

I figured that it would take a truly remarkable person to want to continue the conversation after this exchange. I would love to be involved in discussion with an individual like that. Especially if she were a youngish brainiac.
One of my fondest dreams is to encounter such a woman.
I am more social than I seem.


The other person sat down nearby, somewhere behind or to the left. Not quite sure where, as I was deep in the pretense of reading. After a few minutes she happily started chirping. At first I thought she had a companion, but it became apparent that it was a cell-phone conversation. No audible responses, you see. She could've been just nuts, but the cell-phone is more likely. She sounded far too sane to be a San Francisco loonie.
A remarkably mellifluous voice, coupled with precise diction.
As well as an educated set of ideas.
About food.

Exactly the kind of person that sour old codgers like myself dream of.

If I weren't so shy, I would have gone over to introduce myself.

Except that I would stutter, stumble, and look stupid.

I have little choice but to blame her. If she did not sound so delightful, there might be nothing to regret. And if she had just the right amount of self-confident adventurousness, she could come over and speak to me. Break the ice, and take a plunge. After my initial fit of panic, we might have had a splendid conversation. I also like to talk about food.

Why, maybe we would have found that we had so much in common!

Women need to be gutsier. There is just so much to gain.


Old Joe Krantz, made by Cornell & Diehl, is a remarkable blend, by the way. Mostly Burley tobacco, with red Virginia ribbon and Perique. This could be an addictive all-day smoke, especially for contemplative people. The tin I opened recently dated from 2007, and was nearly bulbous with fermentation after five-and-a-half years.

Headhunting in the Solomon Islands details the experiences of the author, Carole Mytinger, and her friend Margaret Warner, three quarters of a century ago, when they set off to explore the South Pacific and paint the people there before too much civilization spoiled everything. An account of a bold expedition in the tropics, well-told, and filled with evocative details keenly observed.
It's a jolly good read; I highly recommend it.
Admirable women, both.


The unseen female person finally finished her cellular exchange, then there was silence. When I looked around no one was there; she was gone.
I finished my pipe, and got up from the bench. Then left, wondering what might have been.
The first twinge of twilight lent a note of despondency.



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AN AFFAIR WITH A FUSILIER

To quote a startled fellow pipe maven: "what the heck?" And that indeed seems apposite. The product in question is alleged to be an interpretation of the legendary Bengal Slices pipe tobacco. Seeing as the legend has been off the market for a generation, one could compare it to almost anything, without much squawk. I still have a little of the Bengal left, which is significantly changed from when I first opened the tin.
The very last of it.


FUSILIER'S RATION
Made in the USA exclusively for
www.pipesandcigars.com
Blended by Hearth & Home Tobaccos
russo@pipesandcigars.com

"lightly scented it with an old fashioned top dressing and hot pressed "

I doubt that very many fusiliers reeked of snuff-casing. The top dressing may be tonquin, but without a laboratory I shan't go out on a limb. Personally I think that Blakeney's Best Latakia Flake produced by McClelland comes far closer.
But I may be biased -- I took a sniff of the tin of Fusilier just to try and identify the odour, and promptly had a sneezing fit, so on second thought it may not be essence of dipteryx odorata (cumaru) -- Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake has never forced me to shampoo thick rivulets of snot out of my whiskers.
I am somewhat offended. More than.
I am not allergic to tonquin.

Hell no, I'm not throwing it out! Perish the thought! It is in its own way far too interesting and amusing a product. And I won't keep it for curiosity value alone, I shall smoke it.


Just for comparison, here are some actual fusiliers:

SUCH MIGHTY MANLY MEN


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vRJyjevRao.]


Maybe the fusiliers referenced in the name of the tobacco aren't English, but French or Swedish. Quite a bit more poncy and decorative.
Mighty queenly men.
That would explain the addition of perfume.
Another English blend containing Latakia and a top dressing is Samuel Gawith's Westmoreland Mixture, from the Kendal Mayor's Collection. Distinct nose of tonquin. Very nice. Pleasantly velvety in the mouth, and pleasingly perfumy, in an old dame fashion. She's ensconced in the snuggery, discretely having herself a quiet smoke.
There's a row of rum bottles in the bookcase, behind the encyclopedia.
She'll come out for tea when she's good and ready.
Not one moment sooner.
She smells a bit.

My problem with most flakes containing Latakia and Turkish is that they're always too damned smooth. Yes, the creosote dominance is there, but it's almost like whiffing air. Very enjoyable at three o'clock in the morning, in summer, when your windows are open and you are resolved to not get up on time. Spot of sherry, someone snoring softly somewhere else in the house, silence all about.

It's lovely then.

That doesn't often happen. For one thing, my neighborhood has too many drunken twenty-somethings yotzing about at all hours, loudly celebrating their escape from points further east. For another, those intemperate blonde party animals across the way might cream in their easy-off panties at a whiff of fusilier.

Jump the poor bastard and succubate him to death.

So caution is advised.

TOBACCO INDEX


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MY DEMANDS

I'll be honest with you. There are only a few things I really want out of life.
My desires are fairly simple, and the list is short.

1) I want to win the lottery.
2) I want a girlfriend who is cute, intelligent, ethical, and stubborn.
3) I want to live forever.

See, that isn't so bad. And note that dictator for life is not even mentioned.
This should all be part of the realm of possibility. Winning the lottery would make everything very much easier, and quite possibly more fun. Don't know exactly what I would do with a couple of million bucks, but I'm sure I could find something.
I'm convinced that a girlfriend who is cute, intelligent, ethical, and stubborn, is also possible, because it happened to me once before. Cute is ideal, but the last three qualifications are of course absolute. For the very simple reason that a rational person would not wish to spend any time with someone who was dumb as a brick, with criminal tendencies, and no backbone. It is doubtful even that such an individual could be 'cute'. I just don't associate 'cute' with dullness, dishonesty, and flightiness.
Some people do. It explains Hollywood.

The third item on the list will take some doing.
I may die trying.


If I had to add just one more thing, it would be a superbly juicy pork chop. Far too often those things are dry and inedible. What is it about pork chops that brings out the worst in cooks?

Mmm, a nice tender pork chop!

Worth dreaming about.



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KUDOS TO BALTIMORE!

It has to be said that other team played a darn good game. Deservedly they won the super bowl. Them and their Doritos-snarfing goat. And it was a remarkable victory, thoroughly deserved.

I didn't see it though, as I spent all of Sunday in bed.

It seemed like the safest place to be, as die-hard SF Giants fans were determined to burn the city down if we won. Everyone knew that the intersection of Twenty-Fourth and Mission was ground zero.
Muni buses were going to be overturned and set ablaze, bottles would be thrown, and civilians hurt in the cross-fire.
Because nothing says civic pride better than vandalism.

A torched public transit vehicle really expresses the glow of ownership in the champion team. Those columns of smoke rising into the night-time sky are a cleansing of collective daemons, and represent the hopes and fears of the vast illiterate majority.
Thank god the Baltimore Orioles won.

I note, by the way, that the Baltimore team wore the same colours as that bunch of fruitcakes across the bay. The Oakland team. Coincidence?
Or a brilliant hex?
Sports voodoo.


I like Baltimore. How can you not like a city that spawned John Waters?

I can still remember standing in the audience at a midnight showing of 'Eat Your Makeup', holding my Bic lighter aloft and howling, as Jackie Kennedy ('Divine') forced a super-model to do unspeakable things. Truly one of the best movies of all time!


The Orioles did Waters and Divine proud on Sunday.
Because of it, we didn't riot and destroy things.
Instead, we cried into our cheap beer.
And ate the last of the wings.
Cold, and too spicy.

Even if I hadn't had the flu on Sunday, I would not have watched the game.
I'm just not interested in men wearing spandex booties running around, unlike most of SF, where men wearing shiny tight pants are just the thing.
I wasn't planning on going anywhere, because of the great likelihood of mayhem and public orgies, but a fever, sweats, and nausea, floored me.
I heard the cheering from other apartments in the block.
Which finally died out sometime after seven.
Pumpernick did not save the day.


I'm going to buy me some Doritos.
It's time to feed the goat.



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HORDES OF NAKED WOMEN

One of my readers is upset that I have led him astray. Apparently I did not know what the heck I was talking about when I indicated that under certain conditions here in San Francisco, one would be set upon by hordes of naked women.
Where, he demands to know, are the hordes of naked women?
He was promised naked women! Hordes of them!
Where are they?

Well?!?

Back at the beginning of January I had stated that if you uttered the magic phrase "I like the cold season in San Francisco", which indicated like nothing else that you were desperate and dangerously unbalanced, punishment would ensue.
Karmic bad stuff.

You had best rethink things, "before grumpy middle-aged pipesmokers AND a horde of naked women mob you, and tear the flesh from your bones. No, we're not hungry -- we've been snacking since dawn -- but we think that those bones and your clothes, oiled with a bit of grease from your fat head, would make a lovely BONFIRE!"

My reader is certain that he could talk them into a different approach. One that doesn't include violence and a burning sensation. He specified that the horde of naked women should be between eighteen and twenty one years of age.
Both he and I fear that instead, when they finally materialize, they will be middle-aged Berkeley Lesbians, and look like Richard Milhous Nixon.
He would take off at top speed, if that were so. No one wants to be mobbed by middle-aged Berkeley Lesbians, widdle waddle widdle WADDLE, but almost anyone can outrun those lumbering ghouls, praise the lord.
Especially if you're heading up hill.


By the way, to make my point about the middle-aged Berkeley Lesbians, lest you think that this is a mere opportunistic dig with no actual substance, I would direct your attention to a page on Zombietime''s internet site, featuring photos from the "Breasts Not Bombs parade", on July 23rd, 2005, except that it isn't safe for work. Or damned well anything else.
My eye-balls are still seared from the images of the long-dugged monster at the beginning, as well as Scrotal Inflation Guy.
I'm a sensitive soul, and I fondly imagine that you are too. So please just imagine something appropriate. Vampire butterflies, for instance.
Yeah, that'll do the trick; vampire butterflies.
Reality will give you nightmares.
This is the Bay Area.

"I like the cold season in San Francisco"

We were at the intersection of Pacific Avenue and Stockton Street shortly after three in the morning when he made his complaint. It was far more frigid than he had expected, as the day had been rather sunny. Hence the subject of angry naked women in the fog being brought up; both of us could've used some heat.
In fact, the last few days have been absolutely perfect for hordes of naked women, and it's so very much a pity that the city is not filled with them.
We have seagulls. Crows. Raccoons. Parrots, pigeons, and rats.
There are ugly naked protestors on Castro Street.
Rabid dogs, feral cats, and cockroaches.
But no naked women at all.


It's very sad.


AFTERWORD

This blogger doesn't actually know what he would do if suddenly surrounded by a horde of naked women during the cold season. Especially at the intersection of Pacific and Stockton, where Chinese butchershops and seafood emporia abound. Why would they be there?
Are they buying dinner?
Is it possibly a Masonic ritual?
Naked women with bags of bokchoi and five-flower pork (五花腩) might very well be pre-occupied, and in the process of rushing home. Without even a spare moment for mayhem. Which would be distressing, because the concept of naked women with piles of food is, if you are a normal man, infinitely enchanting.
But the reality could present demographic and logistical problems.
I'd be tempted to buy them all a nice hot cup of cocoa.
But they might not wish to dawdle.
They're too hungry.

This blogger is looking forward to warmer weather.
Bright sunshine, gentle breezes, and all that.
When naked women hide indoors.



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SEA CUCUMBER REVISITED

Over a year ago I detailed how to prepare sea-cucumber. This past Friday, an anonymous commenter wrote: "Add sliced pork to the dish above for extra delicious!" Indeed! Adding pork to any dish involving sea-cucumber is a fine idea. One of the most traditional combinations involves sea-cucumber, black mushrooms, and pork knuckle.
It's particularly good, I have been told, for people with arthritis or stiff joints, as well as young mothers.

Not being a young mother, I will just have to take their word for it. As you may guess, a fifty-three year-old pipesmoking bachelor (me) is not likely to become a young mother anytime soon. The obstacles are daunting.
Arthritis, however, is a possibility.
Not a problem at this point.
Occasional twinges.
Rarely occur.


海參燜豬手 (HOI SAM MUN JU SAU)
PORK KNUCKLE & SEA CUCUMBER

Two sea cucumbers; soaked, cleaned, thickly sliced.
More than a pound of pork knuckle.
Ten dried black mushrooms (冬菇), soaked and sliced.
Garlic and ginger, slivered.
Two tablespoons rice wine or sherry.
One tablespoon soy sauce.
One tablespoon oyster sauce.
One tablespoon sugar.
Pinch of five spice powder.
Pinch of ground pepper.


First blanch the pork knuckles in boiling water to remove scum for about ten minutes. Then rinse them thoroughly under cold water. Heat a dash of oil in a pan and add the garlic and ginger. Once they start colouring, add the sliced black mushroom and the rice wine or sherry. When the liquid is nearly gone, add the sliced sea cucumber, stir briefly, and pour in water to cover. Don't include the pork knuckles yet, but add everything else. Simmer for twenty minutes, then add in the pork knuckles, and simmer on very low heat for two hours, or longer. Make sure that this dish is 'soupy', as the combination of the sea cucumbers and pork knuckles with their gravy over rice is wonderful.

"Add pork, for extra delicious!"

The next dish is somewhat different, yet rather similar.
It features many of the same ingredients.
And is just as good.


蒸海參扣肉 (JING HOI SAM KAU YUK)
SLICED PORK & SEA CUCUMBER

Two sea cucumbers; soaked, cleaned, thickly sliced.
Half a pound of five flower pork (五花腩).
Six black mushrooms (冬菇), soaked and sliced.
Plenty of slivered ginger - two thumbs.
Two TBS rice wine or sherry.
Half to one TBS shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬).
One Tsp. sambal ulek or raw chili paste.
Generous pinch of sugar.
Medium pinch of corn flour.
Small pinch five spice powder.


Blanch the piece of pork in boiling water for five minutes, blanch the sea cucumber also, but only briefly. Rinse the pork under cold water so that it can be cut into pieces of roughly the same size as the sea cucumber, which you will have simply drained. Mix the pork with the shrimp paste, sambal ulek, sugar, corn flour, and five spice powder in a broad shallow bowl, and when the sea cucumber is cool enough to handle, add it too. Strew the slivered ginger over the top.
Bring the water in your steamer to a roiling boil, place the bowl inside, and steam on high for two hours. Garnish with fresh cilantro after removing from the steamer.
The juices especially are delicious with your rice.

This isn't the most low-fat dish on the planet. So serve it with some nice lan sam (蘭芯) or mustard greens (芥菜), and plenty of tea to assist digestion.


NOTE: You can either follow the directions I outlined in my earlier article for soaking sea cucumber in preparation for these dishes, or ask your merchant.
Not all sea cucumber is the same, and some take longer to soften, sometimes up to six or seven days.
Remember to change the water twice per day.
I usually go for those that are about as long as my hand in their dry state, and look repulsive and rather blackish. They tend to be easiest to clean.



AFTER WORD 後記

Relating to Chinese festive occasions, such as the New Year (春節, 初一), which will be on Sunday February 10th. in 2013, any dish that features sea cucumber is extremely appropriate. The term 'hoi sam' (海參) is a very close homophonic duplicate of 'happiness' (開心) in Cantonese.

I suggest preparing it either for New Years Eve, at the great family get-together to end the old year, (年夜飯 nien yeh fan), or a few days later, when you can cook and clean again. The eighth day (Feb. 17th, 2013) is the perfect date for an "open the year" feast.

If you made 好事發財 (ho si fat choi: dried oyster with hair vegetable -- 'good affairs and attaining prosperity'), you already have either the streaky pork belly (五花腩 ng fa nam) or the pig's knuckles (豬手 ju sau) on the table. So it might be best to simply prepare the sea cucumber according to the recipe given in that earlier article.



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PERSPECTIVE ON THE ARABS

One of the most disturbing developments in the past ten years has been the rise of anti-Arab bigotry in the United States. Yes, one can argue that a large proportion of world-wide terrorism is Arab in inspiration and membership. This blogger would offer that if the Basques and Irish were far greater in number, they would no doubt be a far worse threat to peace. It is a profound blessing that those two populations are so minor. Probably as great a benison as the Papal State presently being barely bigger than a spit-wad, and now only having a bunch of Alpine gentlemen of dubious masculinity (and undeniably bad clothing tastes) for a military.


The violent actions of Irish and Basque separatists are too well known to need any detailing here. And I note that the I.R.A was kept in business for nearly a century by the very generous contributions of huge numbers of Americans who approved of its murderous tendencies.

That the Papacy throughout its long and bloody history instigated war and genocide on a scale that could stagger belief is beyond dispute.
Civilization would have been better off without it.


There are as many Arabs, world-wide, as U.S. citizens.
The vast majority are not out for our blood.
We've managed to kill more of own in the last decade than anyone else has.
We are, to be sure, our own worst enemy.


ABIDING FRIENDSHIPS

America's involvement with the Arab world goes back quite as far as our relationship with the Europeans. With considerably less contention.

One particular Arab state actually counts as our oldest friend: Morocco.
In the year 1777, Sidi Muhammad ibn Abdallah (King Muhammad III of the Alaouite Dynasty, ruled 1757 - 1790) recognized the United States, and opened his country's ports to American vessels.
In 1786 the Moroccan-American Treaty of Friendship was signed.
Since then relations between the two nations have been unbroken.
The ruling dynasty is descended from the Prophet, by the way.

At the other extreme of the Arab world is another staunch ally.

In 1833 the second treaty-relationship between the United States and an Arab state (Oman) came into being, and seven years later emissary Ahmad bin Naaman visited New York aboard the Omani ship As-Sultanah, the first ever visit by an Arabian diplomat.
King Said bin Sultan bin Said (ruled 1804 - 1856, the forefather of the present king, Sultan Qaboos) was one of the ablest rulers in the world at that time, respected even in Europe. His great-great grandson is equally far-sighted.



America, by and large, chose her early friends wisely. And in that regard, it must absolutely be mentioned that outside of Havana and Tehran, the most frequent venues for anti-American riots are the post-war European capitols, and that by far the most thoroughly venomous critics of our country are the intellectuals of Paris, London, Berlin, Rome, and Amsterdam.


I am not particularly worried about the Arabs.
Not so sure about the Europeans......



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DRINK MILK!

He knew that he was supposed to live under a bridge, and receive a saucer of milk every night. That was the way it had been for hundreds of years. But here in San Francisco life was quite deficient in either regard; the noteworthy bridges did not have comfortable Romanesque vaulting and housed crack-heads besides, and no-one, absolutely no-one, even remembered the milk!
In many ways, human society was deficient.
He didn't really like people at all.
Inconsiderate creatures.

He loved milk. It tasted like heaven. He'd get it himself, but cows skittered so when he came near. Quite unfortunate. And it just did not do to raid the crates left out in early morning. That was NOT something a self-respecting troll did.

He had not had milk for a very long time.


He was in the hallway of the building where he had cunningly arranged for his mail-order parcels to be delivered -- 'Dear Mr. postman, please leave packages for Mr. Ragnall under the table in the foyer' -- when he heard a girlish voice saying "but mom, I hate milk!" How odd. Somebody didn't like the pale nectar? How extremely unusual!
An older voice responded, "Jen, it's good for you, just drink it during break."
This was followed by the sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs. He stayed out of sight while the child rushed out of the building. On a whim, he decided to follow. Up Hyde Street, left at the corner of Pacific. Across the slight hump, then down to Powell. Turn right. At Washington she went left again, then entered the grounds of the grammar school.

At this point he was glad he had learned English. As long as you spoke English, the locals would assume that you were white, and therefore given to goofiness and eccentricity. They would not question your behaviour, nor remark in any way upon your presence. It was as good a cover as any.
At least, in this part of town.
He pulled his hat further down over his forehead and headed to the bakery on Stockton. Might as well have a snack.

An hour and a half later he left, fairly replete. The waitress had quailed when she saw him -- dang some of these Caucasians were ugly! Hairy too! -- but eventually he got what he wanted, and after dawdling a while over a second charsiu bun, he paid and left. He put two dollars extra on the tray, so that she wouldn't recall him particularly. Stinginess was a surefire route to being remembered and remarked upon, and he preferred that people would simply not think about his appearance after he had departed........
Of table height, and nearly as broad. Extremely solidly built.
His people were blessed with impossible stockiness.
Oh, and hair. Thick dense wiry hair. All over.
Hidden by baggy clothes, and a hat.

His hat was a broadbrimmed gangster fedora. Very stylish.

He liked to imagine that with it on he looked like Sam Spade.


He walked up Washington again, and saw that the children were on break.
Jen was in a corner by herself. He observed her from the fence. Small, round faced, almost elfin. While he was watching from the shadows beyond the perimeter, she took out the single-serving carton of milk, opened it, and discretely tipped the liquid behind the bench. Ragnall was aghast. What a horrible waste!
All that precious sweet sweet moo-juice gone! She really didn't like milk!

For the next several days he couldn't get the little girl who hated milk out of his mind. Such a tragedy. He hadn't had milk in so long -- so unutterably long! -- and she was just pouring it out, because she couldn't bear it!

A week later, when she was about to pour out some more, a thick furry arm with a large tin cup shot out from under her bench, and a raspy voice said "in here, please!" Too startled to wonder at this, she wordlessly obeyed. When it was all in the tin cup, the arm withdrew, and she heard the sound of gulping. "Thank you", said the voice, "let us do this again tomorrow". Thereafter, every day she'd sit on the same bench, and the tin cup would extend expectantly. Eventually he came out and introduced himself. She was very sweet, and did not remark in anyway about his appearance, but just seemed to take for granted that a troll would hide under the bench at the far end of a school yard.
And he was shorter than her, though much older. She was already in third grade!
She felt very grown up standing next to him.

Once she understood that he liked the liquid that she couldn't tolerate, she made sure that there was always a glass of it in her bedroom. Her mother was overjoyed that the little girl had finally gotten over her aversion, and would collect the empty vessel after Jen was asleep. Whereupon Ragnall would emerge from under the bed, and take the little girl outside, over the roofs of the city, to a high vantage point, where they would look out over the bay and talk. He told her of first working as a longshoreman, until the unions started excluding people. About the building of the bridges, when the dangerousness of the job meant that no-one asked questions, but just hired the welders who wanted to work. The war, when again his kind had been fully employed. These last few years had been tough, but fortunately it was now possible to work from home. Everybody thought he was an Indian contractor in Hyderabad, and as long as he delivered on time, money would go to his account.
Oh yeah, and the mailman doesn't know that I live beneath the building.
He thinks that there's an illegal in-law apartment.
Just leave my package under the table.

She grew much taller in the next few years. They knew each other all through grammar school and junior high. He had worried that as she entered adolescence, she would stop believing in him -- that he would fade from visibility if that happened, chameleon-like -- but she remained the same sweet stubborn girl who first gave him milk so long ago, still trusting what she knew. She was too big to carry up the side of a building now, so occasionally they'd wander over to the Hyde And Vallejo mini-park, where he could scoot out of sight if adults approached. At night he would often visit her as she did her homework.
A creature that knew so much about masonry and bridges would have a keen, almost supernatural, understanding of physics, algebra, geometry, and applied methods and materials. Under his tutelage she became an 'A' student almost without trying. In her last year of high-school she was offered a scholarship to M.I.T.

On a bright sunny day in June she graduated from high school summa cum laude. He would have loved to have been there, but he knew that was impossible.
Only humans permitted!
Afterwards, she came home glowing, and bustled into her bedroom with milk and cookies. While waiting for her to return, he had been looking at the photos on the dresser of her as she had grown from child to young adult .
He hid his sadness, and smiled.

Trolls really shouldn't smile, it's rather frightening.
But that was one of the things she didn't notice.
She was just incredibly happy to see him.


When she left San Francisco for Massachusetts that summer, she told him she'd be back for winter break, without fail. Yes, she'd write, and please don't worry, I can take care of myself.

Then she introduced him to her cousin Winnie, who would live in her old bedroom now. A sweet child, quite bright. And she also had the ability to live imaginatively.
Winnie promised Jen that she would not forget the milk.
Ever!


That evening, he picked Winnie up and had her sit on his shoulders. He climbed down the side of the apartment house, and made his way to the most beautiful tall building he knew.
Between the towers of Grace Cathedral, he put her down and took out a bag of snacks, and while they ate he started telling her about the years that he had been a longshoreman, before it became difficult to continue that. And about the great bridges, when he had worked as a welder.
She fell asleep before he got to the war.
Well, there was still time enough.
His kind lived for centuries.

While she gently snored curled up against him, he looked across at the two great hotels. Yeah, he had worked there too. The city looked gorgeous at night. The bright ribbon of Market Street several blocks south, wisps of fog pooling in the low area downhill, Oakland glittering across the Bay.
And well, there was milk, you know.
Life was going to be good.


In winter the three of them would be together again.
He very much looked forward to it.



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QUIS RESPONDET AD COMMENTATORES?

Recent readers have suggested that posting a video of Pink Floyd, and linking the images thus presented to excesses committed by despicable British neo-nazis..... pardon, actions of the reasonable and rational English Defense League and its estimable members..... whose rank and file is drawn primarily from illiterate syphilitics and pub-racists, the lout and yobbo classes, damn them all to hell (which place is remarkably like British housing developments that reek of boiled starch and burning fat, no indoor plumbing except for the loo they plugged up years ago with the results of granny's horrid cooking), football hooligans, vandals, looters, and braindead nimrods who hate the Scotch........

Sorry, I got distracted for a moment.

Anyhow, they indicated POLITELY that seeing a connection between Pamela Geller, Tommy Robinson, and the English Defense League, on the one hand, with thuggism, resurgent neo-Nazism, and outright racist bilge, on the other, was the kind of thing that ONLY a West-Coast liberal f*cktard was capable of doing.
And not a gentlemanly thing.

Oh well.

The opinions of inbred right-wing gun-nut retrogrades and their sexually abused younger sisters iz mir ganz scheiß-egal.

There aren't two hands involved.
The above mentioned don't have enough brains for ambidexterity.


Here's another video.

If you play it backward, Tommy Robinson is singing "come to Satan, abort your sister's foetus, destroy the evidence now".
Truly. Echt, und ba emmes.


OBAMA WILL TAKE YOUR GUNS!

[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyckP1Sjjoc.]


BTW, have any of you American Rightwingers even realized that stockpiling arms to use in case the government tries to take them away is, in fact, plotting treason?

For that matter, do any of you racist devolutionaries even understand that if it weren't for the influences of non-European cultures and civilizations, life in the Western World would be nasty, brutish, and short -- precisely like your relatives?

Coffee, tea, glass, paper, modern medicine, mathematics, algebra, geometry, astronomy, chemistry, metallurgy, navigation, tomatoes, chilies, rice, corn, potatoes, gourds, pumpkins, rubber, peanuts, sutures, microscopes .......

And gunpowder.

Gunpowder.


Admittedly, societal norms and culture in Western Europe are currently at a low ebb.
That probably has more to do with the inefficiency and corruption of European governments, the sexual profligacy of their young people, the rampant alcoholism that drenches their lives, and the huge rise in drug-use and STDS in their lower-class housing developments, plus the ghastly climate, than it does with the Turk, Moroccan, or Paki who sweeps their streets and all too often graduates from a Medical School so that he can treat Europeans in an emergency room after they've been stabbed in a soccer-riot.

I strongly doubt that the average member of the English Defense League has even got a shred of that capability. Let alone any ethics, morals, or insight. They're too drunk, diseased, and depraved, for that.
Hence probably perfect company for Pamela.
Matches her audience pretty well.



Feedback somewhat welcome.




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THE REMEMBERED LUNCH

The restaurant was half empty when she sat down, the mid-day rush had not yet begun. After carefully studying the menu, she chose a bowl of wonton noodle soup, and a side order of stir-fried mustard green stalks. Then, having dispensed with the essential preamble to lunch she drank a bit of tea and looked around with bright intelligent curiosity. She had never been here before.
That is to say, she came here once a very long time ago, when it was still a neighborhood standard. But when she started working downtown, she passed by one day and noted the decline. Like many old establishments, the spark of inspiration disappeared, and the owners coasted onward to a disinterested retirement.
Eventually it got sold, then gutted, remodelled, painted.....
An entirely new modern kitchen installed.
Hot-pot place on second floor.
For evenings only.

She had forgotten about the high ceiling. Many older buildings here had those high ceilings, as there was always a mezzanine loft above the business floor for storage, and often, living quarters. Her uncle's grocery store had had precisely the same thing. Back in the fifties he and his wife had lived there, but by the time her first cousin was born they had moved to a flat uphill, beyond Powell Street. As children she and her cousins had played above the store, sometimes disturbing boxes and releasing a cloud of dust over the racks on the ground floor. It always upset her auntie when that happened, and they'd be chased out into the street or forced to do their homework.

Two wide screens. One in the middle of the wall along the side, one above a front window. She presumed the one above the window had been placed there so that whoever was at the counter could follow the soap opera that was playing. It looked frightful. An elderly woman in period costume was weeping and flailing her arms, while a pie-faced maiden of thirtyfive-playing-sixteen stood by helplessly, looking theatrically anguished. And goobus-innocent to the point of slack-jaw.
She surmised that this was the smarmy good-girl daughter-in-law.
Far too pampered-looking to be the maid servant.
Not angry enough to be a daughter.


Her food came, and enthusiastically she dug in, yanking the yellow noodles fiercely up, skein dripping, to enjoy them while they were still al dente. Wonton noodle soup can also be served with rice-stick, if one has a calmer temperament. But tradition dictates thin fresh wheat noodles, added on top, barely cooked. Eat them fast! Con brio. It's sheer goodness!
While chewing she beckoned the waitress over and requested a dish with some extra oyster sauce. She loved oyster sauce. And she couldn't believe that it had not been invented several centuries ago.
Surely the combination of condensed savouriness and dense pourable darkness was ancient! It seemed like such an intuitive concept. Concentrate a wonderful flavour, and use it to intensify everything!

Dip the mustard green stalk, then bite and crunch. Another. Then dip one of the lovely dumplings. Lunch, away from the throng on Kearny Street near Bush, was something to be savoured. How much better if surrounded by an environment that represented home.
And eight lovely wontons! The broth, too, was excellent, but the dumplings were the star of the show. Fresh shrimp, barely chopped, bit of pork, handmade skins. Smooth, slick, sweet and juicy and savoury and textural at the same time. A hint of fragrance from the chopped garlic chives floating in the bowl. And perfect thin noodles to fill you up.
The plate of green stalks made it a balanced meal, the added oyster sauce satisfied the little girl within.

Without asking, the waitress refreshed her tea.

On screen, the dowager howled about ruination.

An old lady at the counter ordering food to go gave animated instruction on precisely how the fish should be cooked, and be sure to use ONLY fatty meat in the black mushroom duck combo - I very much like fatty!

Two tables over, a fat faced boy brat was objecting vociferously to his parents demand that he eat some more saang choi -- hate it, hate it, HATE it -- but the parents insisted.

At the table near the door, a painter in overalls lovingly absorbed a plate of fried porkchop and "Italian noodles", plus another cup of milk-tea, extra sweet please.

She dipped the last stalk in the oyster sauce.

Mmmmmmmmmm!

Heaven.


*      *      *      *      *

Personally, I'm not so much an oyster sauce kind of guy. Sure, I like it, but it's something which I'd put on fried eggs (along with a dash Tabasco). And who orders a plate of fried eggs at a cha-chanteng? On the other hand, I've had their salt and pepper fried spare ribs, and asked them to bring me Sriracha -- they've got several bottles in the glass-fronted refrigerator at the wait station.

But mustard green stalk IS very good. And all crunchy cooked vegetables taste better with mr. Lee Kum-Shueng's marvelous invention.
Actually, so does a good beefsteak.
They've go that too.



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WHAT?!?

A conversation recently turned to a discussion of the other gender, as such things sometimes naturally do. We men are often fascinated by the gentler sex.
I had to confess that I did not have a huge amount of experience, as since becoming an adult I've only had two relationships, both of which endured for years.
So seeking my advice on the opposite number would be rather pointless.
Especially to a young man having women troubles.
As many young men seem to have.

I do not have women troubles, I haven't dated anyone in a long time.
An extremely long time.
Not that I haven't wanted to, but I haven't found anyone whom I like enough who isn't already involved in a relationship.

It is not that there aren't any lovely likeable women in San Francisco, it's a question of meeting someone whom one can trust as well. A wonderful relationship cannot be based on superficial socializing and opportune nooky.
It absolutely has to be deeper than that.

This strange inspiration of mine also explains the complete absence of any nooky whatsoever.

Unlike many youngsters, I'm just not that desperate.

Far too many "amorous" relationships devolve into sticky situations, coupled with anger, recrimination, and meanspiritedness. As well as viciously unpleasant quarrels, and possibly public embarrassment.
One can blame unbridled sexuality for that, as were it not for hormonal fits and moments of weakness, neither party would have made the decisions they did.

Now, you might think this is merely sour grapes on my part, given what I've mentioned about the lack of any naughty behaviour in my life. But I am no longer an idiot teenager, so the concept of jumping at any old chance for heavy petting just isn't part of the programme.
With maturity came a certain amount of common sense.
Call me a dried-up stick insect if you must.

Sex remains intriguing -- I am a man, after all, I cannot help it -- but the grand operatic disasters of other people's love lives that result in public scenes, tossed out possessions, and unbalanced behaviour, are sufficient object lesson that I shan't make any stupid moves myself, nor advise others to do so.
No matter how strongly either prospect tempts.
I don't like street-theatre that much.


Rather than relying on sudden flashes of sheer magnetism, which seems to be the most common coupling dynamic, my idea of what should lead-up to a possible relationship is a friendly encounter, followed by coffee (and a cookie!) somewhere, lunches or dinners together, visits to the library, more coffee (or tea) and cookies, exchanging books, and maybe spending time just walking. If, during the course of those events, growing friendship turns to love, splendid.

But the friendship has to be there first.
Without that, nothing else can, or should, happen.


A while back someone suggested that in order to meet women it would be a darn fine idea to join a church. An absurd and crazy proposal if ever there was one.
I am far too much a cynic to even consider that; if I cannot believe in a deity, or the ridiculous voodoo ceremonies of most creeds, how on earth could a decent relationship ensue from such a false start?
By the same token, joining a health-club is out of the question, likewise taking classes at the local college for that purpose.

"Hello ms. Smith, like you I also am fascinated by Sylvia Plath!"

I cannot imagine myself uttering that sentence without busting out in a fit of hysterical laughter. Unless it happened during a course in literary-psychology, and ms. Smith was of the opinion that Sylvia Plath was a sexually frustrated goth-neurotic, and vastly over-rated besides.
Well-nigh unreadable.

You can see that this is not likely to happen. And because I do not frantically search out new acquaintances, the scope for anything similar is limited.
A pity, but I cannot be anymore social than I already am, and given that I cannot stand team-sports, basket-weaving, handbag shopping, hip night clubs, drunken orgies, Sylvia Plath, or religious rituals coupled with lutefisk (church suppers!), and never go to parties OR poetry readings, the chance of this blogger ending up in a relationship is not that great.

If it happens, I shall be mighty pleased indeed.
If not, I shan't be surprised at all.

I've always got my books, my pipes, my enormous stockpile of pipe-tobacco, a number of good friends, my various odd interests, and my collection of shrunken heads.
And I live in a city filled with fascinating things.


"Hello ms. Smith, can I offer you some of my tobacco?"

"Do you ALSO have a collection of shrunken heads?"

"Care to discuss the Plathster over some coffee?"




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I'M NOT WEARING THAT!

There are some things that without even checking, you ascribe to Nebraska. It's an imaginary mental Nebraska, not the actual real live physical Nebraska. Such as the presumed headquarters location of a certain mail-order catalogue that features fine articles of habiliment.

Clothing for white ladies.

There are two items shown that actually look halfway exciting. The white lady in one particular jacket has an expression on her face that says "I'm gonna shoot me a fox today", whereas the other coat just screams "it's an Irish Springs morning!"

Everything else is Princess Leia in civilian drag.

Hi! I am a sincerely happy white woman!
They should be paying me more for this crap.

My apartment mate stayed home because of her menstrual cramps. Which is something we men never do. So naturally I was somewhat stressed.

She was reading a mail-order catalogue filled with photos of bland ice-cream hued pastel clothing that only white people can wear. Nice dairy-head white Caucasians from someplace where the prairies come right up to your door-step, bunny rabbits and gophers gambol on your front lawn, and everybody goes to church, even when they don't have to, because they like lutefisk and bingo.
A gentle kind and pale place.
It's very whitish.

The only even mildly ethnic person in the catalogue is the intern from Hawaii. The clothing company probably kidnapped her relatives and is holding them hostage to force the poor girl to model these white lady rags.
"Is my grandma still in your cellar?"
Pale pale PALE pastels. Sweetly girly-girlish, in soft fabrics, with very simple styling.
The kind of clothing that makes you look boxy.

It's rather fascinating to experience the menses vicariously. The marked rise in body temperature as the body fights off a thickened uterine lining, the off-kilter emotional reactions, the brain made feverish and edgy by the body's hormonal imbalance.
The sheer creatively berserk re-interpretation of the intent of a seller of bland innocuous suburban clothing.......
I am staggered by the rushing torrent of inspiration.

But mostly by the concept of karmic Nebraska.

In case you were wondering, she found the catalogue at the laundromat. We live in a neighborhood populated mostly by Asians and young hip post-college professionals. But there is at least ONE white lady somewhere.
Either that, or a Chinese person with eccentric taste.


FULL DISCLOSURE

This blogger himself is white.
Many of my best friends are also made that way.
As are beloved relatives, associates, and folks who sell me things.

I've actually never been to Nebraska. I think it's somewhere in Kansas.
Dorothy country. I'm certain very fine people live there.

My apartment mate is the one with the non-white ideas.
She's a small bitchy Cantonese-American woman.

[No, we're not "involved", in case you were wondering.]

I used to keep careful track of my apartment mate's monthly cycles, so that these episodes would not spring on me unawares. Free-associative thinking, random mental connections, and physical discomfort causing stressful behaviour, plus periods of inventive madness. Abdominal pains spark chaos.
As I say, I used to. Forewarned is forearmed.
Keeping a calendar of Mayan precision.
So that I knew exactly when.

Now I just go with the flow



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A DIFFERENT PARADIGM FOR FRIENDSHIP

My apartment mate is quite the chatterbox. Not with me, but with her boyfriend. It's rather surprising, as she's a shy person and not given to easy socializing.
In person, she's best channeling for the various stuffed animals, which gives expression to character facets which she otherwise could never voice.

But she sounded cheerfully happy, and very animated, while on the telephone.

She spent two hours conversing with whatsisname the other night.
This flabbergasts me, as I am not much of a phone person.
For me it's weird. For her this isn't unusual, though.

My idea of intimate conversation is different.

Hypothetical example 1.
Sweetheart, would you like a cup of tea?
Oh yes, I would LOVE one.
Good.
...

After which exchange I would go into the kitchen and brew a pot. Perhaps Assam or Ceylon, maybe a refreshingly brisk dose of Oolong or Titgoonyam. Then bring both the cups and saucers back to the bed, where the other person reclines (fully clothed, AND under the covers, because it is winter), reading a volume about a subject in which I may have expressed polite interest, without offering any opinions and insights. Unless the other person specifically requests feedback, the subjects of study or interest are things that they themselves can best digest.
Even if it's a shared knowledge set.

Hypothetical example 2.
Darling, are you peckish?
Indeed, are you?
Yes.
So what do you want to eat?
I thought we could try that restaurant on Powell Street where you said they had ginger scallion frog.
Okay, when?
Now.
...

See, it's a simple conversation, yet positively loaded with content and sheer layers of implicit statements. For one thing, there's a coincidence of appetites, with gentle reassurance regarding same.
That by itself is VERY promising.
The next thing you notice is reference to a prior conversational exchange, showing that there is both deep mutual familiarity as well as fond recollection.
And thirdly, shared culinary curiosity, similarity, and taste.
There may be something symbolic about the frog.
I haven't thought too deeply about it yet.
We'll cross that bridge if & when.
Please don't ribbit at me.
Frogs taste good.


I don't think that I could possibly spend two hours on the phone with someone else, beloved or not; I never quite mastered the use of the telephone as a social device. Nothing replaces face to face exchanges and the intoxicating presence of another person. Whether socially or intimately.

With someone you love, cuddling, kissing, reading while side by side, and eating together seem utterly natural. Also drawing funny little cartoons for each other, as well as simply enjoying the reassurance and giddiness of the other's presence.
Spontaneous smiles, hand touching, playfulness.

The phone seems distinctly cold.


It almost goes without saying that I do not text, have never acquired a cell-phone, and experience my best interactions in person.

Or, remarkably, through e-mail.



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EARLY VIDEO OF THE ENGLISH DEFENSE LEAGUE

I recently found what appears to be a very early video of the English Defense League (headed by Tommy Robinson) in action, which should absolutely be required viewing for anyone seriously interested in the future of Western Civilization.

Especially as that same civilization, precious to all of us, seems ever more under threat, and the infandous assault on everything we hold dear is unabaiting, constantly increasing in viciousness, and further and further divorced from any semblance of morality and ethics.

If you care for our society, if you worry about our present time, if you feel that we are besieged, watch this video!

It is both instructive, and cautionary.

The truth is out there.

...

THE EDL: GROWING PAINS


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=0bDY0DfEjmo.]


Pamela Geller, of the blog Atlas Shrugs, passionately defends Tommy Robinson, leader of the English Defense League, whose deranged ideology mirrors that of some of the worst tyrants of the twentieth century. An ideology that Pink Floyd references in the clip.


"We know who our masters are. We just want them to do their job."
------Tommy Robinson


It must be a generational thing.
Pink Floyd. My generation.


Disagreeing with Madame Geller is pointless.

Let's just agree with another blogger (LGF) that Pamela Geller is a swivel-eyed loon and leave it at that.

But do feel free, if you are so inclined, to opine that ms. Geller is ALSO an incoherent hate-filled rambling wackjob.
I cannot dispute it.



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BOEUF BOURGUIGNONNE

A conversation with a friend the other day became a fond memory upsurge of foods that I miss from the Netherlands and other old-world places. Not only the Dutch "unidentified fried object" (bamischijf, frikandel, kroket, en dergelijks), but also lovely dinners at the Maison Du Cygne in Brussels, the Tour in Paris, and far too many small eateries to mention.

What I also remember was the last time I went to Paris with my father.
It was, of course, a hunt for edible substances, because much of what was offered in the Netherlands in that day was barely three steps above English food. Excepting veal in aspic, in Limburg province. With cunning little rosettes of carrot scattered on top of the setting meat, then the whole encased in another layer of gel.
Mmmm, scrumptious!

Paris, even for Americans, offered a marvelous array of good things to stick in your mouth. Not only the fabulous selection of small dishes at that place run by the crazy Russian, but also La Cuisine d'Afrique du Nord, gastronomie de Sénégal, numerous bistrots et brasseries serving the regional specialities, and even fine Italian tratorie and osterie, as well as Greek food at sundry dives.

Although...

The less said about that ghastly Achaean dump in Mont Martre, the better.
Rice flavoured with what must have been horrid French imitation tomato Ketchup, alongside rubbery octopudes in their own ink. And completely inedible black olives that may have started life as canned peaches.
Likely in a prior decade. Borderline repulsive.
And agonizingly wretched retsina.

A feast for the adjectively enthusiastic person.

Not even the drunkard rolling downhill afterwards could get my mind off that horrid Hellenic hash, or persuade the turbulent torrents in my splagchnos to subside. I was utterly convinced that the Greeks were the worst cooks in Christendom. As I still largely remain, despite excessive evidence to the contrary (much better Greek food, and far worse cooks from elsewhere).
Its a mental thing. I still cannot shake the memory of that miserable pulpo en su tinta from my mind. And I haven't drunk retsina since. I refuse.
Life is too short to drink lousy Attic plonk.

One the other hand, I have an indelible fondness for that estiatorio on Polk Street, where I often ate spanakopita late at night, after closing-up at the Indian place.

Mostly, however, I remember eating fabulously well in Paris for that week.
Then upon returning to Valkenswaard looking up almost everything in the Larousse Gastronomique , as well as browsing through all the yummy things that we could have had but didn't.
Next time, maybe.


A lifetime of eating has taught me to prepare foods that I like, or that can seldom be found in this neck of the woods. It's only common sense; you must examine how the good things are made, so that you can think about them intelligently, and discover fun relatives and variants.

I rarely cook these days. Most of my favourites are better done in doses for two or more people. Good food requires good company.
But one of the dishes which I haven't had in ages keeps well in the refrigerator, and I might actually do it sometime soon.


BOEUF BOURGUIGNONNE

Beef, small onions, mushrooms, and carrot, simmered in wine and stock.
More meat than onion, more onion than mushroom.
Significantly more mushroom than carrot.
The carrot is for colour, mostly.

Drizzle a little olive oil into a large heavy stewpot, and render the grease from a bit of chopped backfat or thickcut bacon. Remove this before it browns and set it aside. Add chunks of beef to the pot and gild these nicely, then remove and set aside also.
Use the grease left in the pot to sauté sliced carrot and onion to provide a fragrant base, pour off the excess grease, and re-add the beef and bacon, plus salt, pepper, and a dusting of flour.
Agitate and stir the ingredients over medium heat, making sure that they are distributed and coated evenly. Take care not to burn the flour. Add a little tomato paste, and inundate the meat with equal measures red wine and good meat stock. Add one or two bay leaves and garlic cloves. Raise barely to boiling, then turn heat low, place a pad between the burner and the pot, and simmer for a few hours.
Stir occasionally.

An hour or so before you intend to serve the dish, sauté small onions in a little oil till golden all over. Add some of the liquid from the stew pot and a bay leaf, and reduce down till very nearly dry. Reserve.

In a separate pan sauté thick-sliced mushrooms till barely done, reserve.

When the meat has become suitably tender, dump the small onions and thick-sliced mushrooms on top. If the stew is too moist at this stage, ladle most of the sauce into another pan and reduce this to a velvety consistence and re-add it to the stew pot.
Leave it simmering a few more minutes, then sprinkle it generously with freshly chopped parsley, and bring it to the dinner table.


Serve with either fries or noodles, and some crusty bread.
If you really want balance, a salad also.
But I often omit that.



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THE NECESSARY THINGS

It is never too early to think of dinner. And, if you're reading this on Sunday morning, the chances are that you did NOT wake up next to a hot studly fellow with a twinkle in his eye and a goofy sense of humour. You could have, if you had actually found such a person. Perhaps you've even picked out a pare of spare panties and a sweetly naughty brassiere for the eventuality. But both items are still wrapped in tissue in your dresser. One of these days, when the time is right, and you're feeling daring.
It WILL happen, but perhaps not now. It is winter.

You wonder.

Someone to hold onto would be nice. A warm comfy body, radiating a pleasing temperature. But wearing clean jammies and softly snoring. Not a man bounding with energy on such a cold day, but an individual who simply wants to doze for several more hours, obediently keeping the bed warm.
No cold toesies!
Someone very much like a large furry dog.
But with a better personality.
Who will fetch coffee.
For you in bed.

Unfortunately, that describes no one you know.

So you are resolved to have a splendid day despite the complete lack of a funny fuzzy source of comfy heat. You will be active, and explore the neighborhood. Have breakfast nearby, and perhaps a snack later, in mid-afternoon. Browse a bit at City Lights, see if they have a book you really want to buy. Something on travel, something you really NEED. A volume that will help you fantasize about an exotic vacation, Italy in summer, or the Southern Tyrol. Hotels with featherbeds, and warm chocolate in the morning.
And toasty rolls.
Jam.


You should also shop for food while it is still daylight, before the dusk turns cold again. Some crisp vegetables, and a nice fish. One slightly larger than necessary.
A firm-fleshed beast that holds up well, with a sweetness suited to a lazy feast.
A nice poached fish is better than any lover.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================