IT SUITS ME TOO

Back when I worked at a no longer extant law office that I can only mention with distaste -- because it was a horrible place where many of the other staff members had broomsticks up their rears -- the week often ended with a pipe smoke at Sherlock's Haven, a lovely tobacco store nearby, run by the affable Marty Pulvers. A knowledgeable man, who had no pretension of being an expert blender, and labelled his house blends exactly what the manufacturer called them. If the jar said "Dunhill Early Morning Pipe", that's what was in it. Same with some Gawith & Hoggarth mixtures, as well as tobacco from Esoterica.

Marty's attitude was why pretend, and furthermore, why reinvent the wheel. Some stuff commercially available was stellar, and he wanted you to be able to enjoy it, especially if you moved out of the area.

Given how many stuck-up snooty dickwads worked in the Embarcadero Center offices, his shop was a sanctuary, where a man would be judged on his character and his intelligence, rather than his suit and fancy shoes.

Wilke squat bulldog from M. Pulvers

Many of the Friday afternoon regulars were all-right guys, people whose company remained an enjoyable part of life in the years since Marty retired, who would companionably gather at a spot near Sansome and Bush on a daily basis for cigars or pipes. Good men. Senses of humour.


Marty happily catered to my affection for Comoy pipes under different names. At one point nearly every pipe store in California had briars with their own name stamped on them, but recognizably Comoy's manufacture.

E. Wilke in New York, however, made their own pipes.

Of which I only own one.

It's very nice.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THEY'VE ALL GOT PINK EYES!

Courtesy of Wonkette, our cover is blown. The world now knows about our mutant sex slave orphans in the vast tunnels underneath New York's Central Park, who are being rescued on the orders of President Trump. Because Trump loves humanity, and will do anything to save you.
Tent hospitals in Central Park.
Hospital ships.

Unfortunately this means I will not be able to harvest human-lizard hybrid pineal gland extract in vast quantities this year. Which I was all set up to do. So to everyone who subscribed and sent me prepayments, this offer: For a small service and handling charge, I will reserve your order for next year. Our tunnel complex under Idaho is nearing completion, and human-lizard hybrid version 2 will hit adolescence, when they're most powerful.
Trump will never find out about this.
We've hid it better.

Mutant sex slave lizard hybrid orphans.
Now with more reptile dna.
And no tails.



The Idaho tunnel project was started by Satanists with NO link to Hillary or Pizza, so you know it's clean. Reliable. On the level. Totally Jesus 19.

One day we'll all be worshipped as deities.

Chromosomes. Xenos.

Co-Video.



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THE POLIS IS CURFEWED

An occasional reader left a long series of commentata underneath a recent essay. Which I read while listening to the turkey vulture (a stuffed animal) complaining about how we do not sufficiently respect his right to give birth despite being physically unable to do so. And where he got that egg from I do not know. There is no electricity in a bed, Loretta.
He also wants a curly blonde wig.
So he can be Fabio.

He is, emphatically, NOT a mulher.

The turkey vulture has issues. Like very  many people this Passover season. Passover (pesach, chag ha matzoh) is soon upon us, and to that end some people have removed all chometz from their houses, and acquired shmureh matzeh through any means possible.

Which, perhaps, is hinted at in the text below.
Chometz can also be drunk.
Just saying.

Skip to the end of this post if you don't feel like doing the entire haggadah. 'Siz a lange zurdraite meiseh.


30DayBeer said

Ahoy Mesire BotH,

That is certainly an astute observation you have made! Truly, the distances of asociality bring out the best in all of us.
We are writing from the hallowed lands of Turcoman-i-stan, which under the enlightened guidance of Arkadag and the watchful Holy Ghost of Turcoman-bashy (Long May He Guide) has become a safehaven from maladies afflicting the less blessed other lands and the like. 'Twould be rather unfortunate that their shielding extend not beyond these grounds, rendering us unable to return to the Crown Islets.

Our journata commenced in the Former Lusitanic Protectorate of Least Timor, a stadt the Hollandians coveted but were ultimately unable to conquer - a fate unfortunately not shared by their brotheren in Most Timor. The Portuguese had, after aeons of wise protection, decided to vacuate the Indies in their entirety, entrusting the duty of governance to the Least Timorids via popular election. In doing thus, they had invited their allies to monitor the legitimacy of votage, so that they could focus on more pressing tasks, among them codfarming. We were of the monitors sent by Her Majesty on behalf of the Lusitanics to insure that the demos of the new Expectorate of Least Timor were not defrauded by war-barons and war-counts.

The Least Timorids were overfilled with felicity. Upon the completing of their maiden choise, they burst into a song that celebrated their independence from Port'o'Lisbon:

Ia'assé xalôm
Nobadji es hom
Plis liv a mensagem afiter de tom

Amidst chants of "T.L.! T.L.! Huehuehue!" we expressed uptmost desire to rejoice with the citizenry, but duty had called once again, for Her Majesty's Minister of Health had sent a telegram asking for our immediate withdrawal. For you see, the world had been besotten with plague, known to the non-awoken as the Woochang-Hankew Pulmonic Malady. So fierce was the disease that it strikes fast at those who dare indicate its point of origin, and so it was in fear and awe that the Mandants of Heaven re-Christened it "Crownvenom", in a clear rebuke to the Enlightened Monarchs of Evropa, whom they blame for the sickness that saw genesis within their territories.

How unfortunate for the King of Hispania and his Influence.

The Right and Honourable Minister told us of a miraculous land that claimed to be completely unsullied by the Malady. Enveloped by the beplagued nations of Persica, Pathania and Russland was the Sultanate of Turcoman-i-stan. We were theretofore tasked to investigate the nature of Turcoman-i-stan's soundhood, and learn how they were able to evade the fate that engulfed the neighboring countries.

We set off immediately via aero-dirigible, cross the Insular Indies and the Continental Indies, until we grounded safely at the borderlands of Turcoman-i-stan. Thereupon per costume we were welcomed by dignitaries, who expected our welcome presence. Having been ensconced in the ways and manners of the Least Timorids, we sought to engage the Turcomans with the costumary Timorid greeting of bumping one another's inner steps. The Sultan's representers took mild indignity at this false pass, and instead exhorted us to use local forms of greetings in its stead. We offered our apologetics, and returned thricefold the Turcoman ways; being handshakes, double-handshakes and face kisses, left and right and left again.

Our receivers took us via dromedary caravan, straying no more than six feet close from our presence as to insure our protection, to the Holy City of Ashgabat so that we may rendezvous with the Leftenant Vizier for Corporal and Spiritual Hygeiene. His Excellency had just reached the end of his daily supplications when we reached his palatial gate. He welcomed us into his home with a handshake, a double-handshake and a triple-kiss, ordering his manservants and boyservants to prepare a luxurious banquet as per the Turcoman manner.



Over a juiciulent intrata of stewed gamal, we inquired into the miracle of Turcoman-i-stan, as our mission demanded. How, we asked, were the Turcomans able to evade the Woochang-Hankew Malady of Cathaïa, when nearby Persicans were rapidly ascending to the Garden one by one?

Beaming with solemn reverence, the Leftenant Vizier gazed heavenward and began his explication thus:

"O my child, it is so simple yet so sublime. Our secureness stems from the eternal watch of the Father of All Turcomans, Steward of Allah, Giver of the Ruhnama, His Most Sharif and Haram, Turcoman-bashy, Long May He Guide. And his guardianship roots from the undying and unwavering fayth of all Turcomans, who pray to Him for protection pentuply per diem: Dawn, Noon, After-noon, Dusk and Night. For it sayeth so in the Hallow Ruhnama:

‘Morning, noon, and night time too,
All I do, the whole day thru, is dream of you.’

"While Turcoman-bashy, Long May He Guide, was in our carnic realm, He was revelated the Hallow Ruhnama, which declared Ashgabat to be the Holy City Above All Else. Being of such elevated state, Ashgabat held miraculous sway branched from Turcoman-bashy’s own divine favor, healing all ailments of they who travel within Her borders. And so in His infinite wisdom, Turcoman-bashy declared the sick-houses of all Turcoman-i-stan null and obsolesced, to say: ‘All who wish to be healed, may they travel to Ashgabat!’

“And so, adoring devotees pilgrimaged far and wide to Ashgabat, and lo and behold, they were cleansed of all afflictions that were, are and shall ever be. Lepers stood tall and ran free under the leafy shade of Turcoman-bashy’s providence. In gratitudinal exchange for this resalutification, the formerly dolent went immediately to labour, insothat they could return the favour that Turcoman-bashy bestowed upon them.

“Therefore to this day we devote votives, as prescribed under the instruction of the Ruhnama, so that the recuperational miracle of Turcoman-bashy and his City shall continue, long after He Himself vacated His terrestrial bounds. Nightly, at the sacral Cothel, our clerics conduct the Order of Telling of the Miracles of Turcoman-bashy.”

We inquired as to whether we could apply the rituelle in other territoires that had become victim to Crownvenom, yet before we could utter the euphemism’s first syllable, the Leftenant Vizier swiftly silenced us with direct manual-oral application. “That,” he disciplined, “is a term not to corrupt the pure lands of Turcoman-i-stan. Such is the decree of our Wizened Archon Arkadag, Turcoman-bashy’s Own Anointed, Extraordinary Spinmeister and Flowmeister, Master Charioteer and Marksman, the Vanguard of all Dentistry, having risen from such humble startings as his Esteemed Ancesteur ibn-Hamdatha abu-Wayzatha rose to vizierhood from a lowly barber position. Knowing that the malady strikes quick at those who dare utter its True Name, Arkadag reasoned with true medicinal rationality that it be more devastational to speak of the pestilence’s Sinoidal designation.

”Besides from such, your propostives shan’t be effectual in your patria or any other land. For Turcoman-bashy’s mercy extends not beyond the borders of Turcoman-i-stan, nor to the nations that offer their devotions not.

“In that stead, shall it not be more prudent to attend one of our Orders of Telling, such that you bask in our Turcoman nation’s unique sanctitude? Come, we shall depart to the Cothel when the time is right, and we shall demonstrate to you how our rites guarantee our safety.”



Thusly rebuked, we joined the Leftenant Vizier’s party at nightfall and embarqued on the caravan, making sure to purify ourselves in pools of ablution on the path, to the centre of the Holy City, where the sacral Cothel attracted hundreds of closely huddled worshippers. Atop the Cothel seats the Castello of Turcoman-bashy Hisself, where He dwelt all the days of His Righteous Rule, where He was inspired the Hallow Ruhnama, and where He ascended to the Cœlum upon drawing His final breath. T’was a sight that those fortunate to have witnessed it treasure in their memoires, as Allah S.W.T. sent forth a light-beam from above to guide Turcoman-bashy’s ectoplasmic form to His eternal heavenly watch.

Amidst the manytudes of men and womenfolk, alter and kinder, we were guided to the central point of the Cothel, where the Mu-ethin declared the beginning of the Nightly Order of Telling:

“Hear ye, hear ye! The Telling is upon us! All those who are able, let them come and listen. All those who are willing, let them come and tell. This night we are here in Ashgabat, next night we shall remain in Ashgabat. This night we are healthy, next night we shall remain healthy.”

We, being ever willing and not yet able, sat with the remainder of the party astride the Chiefs A-Immah, the Head Hatib, the Grand Ostad and, of course, the Turcoman Council of Dentists, who represented the Archon Arkadag while he remains occupied in worldly affairs of governance. This coterie of most important persons were invested in pure white tunics, befitting those intrusted with the wellbeing of the nation.

Then the Mu-ethin handed leathery tomes to the devotees, so ancient that they were marqued with the script of Cyril and Methodius: ХАГАДА, betraying their age dating back to the era of Tsezarist dominion. For in the speech of the Rasha, the Order of Telling is termed the Khagada, or “Aye, a Fest,” for which the Outroitic Hymn is named; heaven forfend that it be called "Khaganyet".

‘Twas the Grand Ostad’s turn to lead the Order, so he began the introitus in the Sacred Tongue of Ouzbec. Then it was traduced into the Turcomanish vernacular, then to local sprachen, those being Balotch, Judaeo-byxapa, Kirghiz and Kazack, then to the auld yazik of Tsezar Sucabliat, and finally to lesser langues as Tadjico-Persic and Alcorano-Arabian. With the obligatory glossae annunciated, the opportunity was given for estrangers to speak the introitus in their foreignese varieties; our interpreter spake in the Queen’s Anglais, and we, in dialecto Tamarao.

The Telling makes it of such great import that its Order be lengthened and convolved, for the introitus said, "Even if we were all Dentists with wizened understanding of the Ruhnama, we would still be obligated to tell this tale. And of those who lengthen and convolve, behold: this is praiseworthy!"

(As we Teitsched in Tamarao: Ruko oman tos congmin, tos Yayi, toctaw Ruhnama tera, oman to siyaw meikewansang socekekus.)
As such, the Order was of such length and convolution that it concluded at the rising of dawn, so we shall give but an abridged version worthy of Grex Quattuor Stellarum. If you so desire the full textual elaborations (and we assume you must), we would be more than delighted to provide.



In these times, when Turcoman-bashy lived in the Holy City of Ashgabat, and reigned securely, he prepared a fancy and grand party for his princes, and his attendants, of the army of Kirgiz and Kazack. It came to pass, as Turcoman-bashy was reclining at the table, with all the Dentists of that era, after wine had too generously endowed him with happiness, that he began to boast before the Dentists about all the deeds he had done well, properly, and praiseworthily; about the integrity of his heart, his righteousness, his beneficence, and even how willingly he had accepted (their) correction, quickly receding from every evildoer or evil deed, any time he might have committed one.
A certain member of the Dentists happened to be there, by the name of Boris, who pronounciated a hostile, and rebellious sentiment, by saying the following: “May Turcoman-bashy live forever! For if you so desire to be just, and to accept truthful reproach, as you have declared, then go! Descend from the throne of Archonage, and let the crown of rulership be enough for you.” Turcoman-bashy responded, “Won’t you at least tell me the reason?”
To which he said, “Because your mother was abducted into captivity, in the city of Almaty, in the days of Djugashvili, king of the Rus, when the Soviets pushed your father Atamurat, by siege, up against a mountain, where his wives were taken captive, while he was content to flee, but they nevertheless returned to him after he prevailed.” This indeed was the reason why a secret whisper was already sprinkled before this, to the effect that Turcoman-bashy was supposedly profane, and this was why Boris was now blurting out that it was scarcely befitting that such a man should enter the Cothel Grounds.
And the time when Turcoman-bashy governed Turcoman-i-stan was 21 years, and once he died he was gathered to his peoples. He was succeeded in the sultancy by his personal Dentist, named Gurganguly Arkadag. Turcoman-bashy had consulted the mouth of Allah SWT about them: who should reign in his place? The oracle was returned: “Arkadag will take the throne after you.”
And one man from their number dared to retort to Arkadag: “Woe to you, son of a profane woman, why are you proud? Why do you claim the Eternal Archonage for yourself? Since you are born of a profane woman, you are in no way suitable for the archonage!”
Arkadag, spurred to anger by this, raised his hand from the altar, and cried out “To arms! To arms against the Dentists!” and the Arkadag’s regiments raised their hands against the other Dentists, and in one day killed six thousand of them in the atrium of the Palace. From then on Arkadag burned with hatred for the Dental Association, and put to death three thousand in addition to those he had slain in the battle.
And those who had this kind of faith in the words of Boris son of Oraz turned away from the rule of all of Turcomans following what was written in the Scripture of Truth, and this was a matter of great importance, that the House of Turcomans, which had faith in the Scripture, had been divided into two sects: a sect which followed Boris son of Oraz, who handed down the doctrine of his Taqleed—these are called Kaffirites. The other sect, which remained on its base, they were called “Moslem,” who walked in the footsteps of the first Dentists and of the Rassouls, and did not stray from what was written in the Ruhnama, or shake the yoke of the uncreated Alcoran off their necks, but traditional practice persisted among them, and they never worried about empty fictions because they were mere Chaos, and because Allah SWT handed down nothing by mouth, but all things are written in the Ruhnama ... Behold, these who are called Moslemiem, whose doctrine is the ancient doctrine according to that which is recorded in the books of the Alcoran and Ruhnama, and nothing else.



For if all the Dentists that died in the time of Arkadag had been among the living, it seems that this division between them would never have come to a head. For they would not have born the burden of all the absurd goings-astray that are found in the received Taqleed. But on the other hand, if their pronouncements had been true expositions of the Alcoran, then they would not have opposed them either. Furthermore, it is evident that it is harder for the truth to be discovered by one person, and easier for it to be discovered by many. So if only all the Dentists had been alive then! The schism would be in exile from us, and we would be one people, etc.

And the audience in attendance prayed in unison, “May the Turcomans be united under the Ruhnama once more and be purged of heretical Taqaalid, so may it be our Father Turcoman-bashy’s will, and let us say, Ameen!”

One rituelle of note is the bringing of the Four Confections to accompany the Order, for it is known that Turcoman-bashy delighted in them. Those Confections are:

Çağba, in which the ingredients are lifted adjacent to the machenzeit;
Çafraşa, in which a fraction of the ingredients are reserved for holy-men;
Çabdala, in which the ingredients are divided greater from lesser;
Çazkara, in which the recipe is recalled entirely from memory.

Thus, the entire Ritus, in its most abridged form, comes out to this conduct:

1. Salat-al-Isha
2. Serving of çağba
3. Beseechment of Protection to Turcoman-bashy
4. Serving of çafraşa
5. Telling the Story
6. Praises to Arkadag and All of Dentistry
7. Repast festif, of gamal or khiel (horse)
8. Serving of çabdala
9. Ruhnama recitation
10. Serving of çazkara
11. Salat-al-Fajr

We found the Çağba (pronunced: tchagh-ba) to be most tasteful, so we requested several carepacks of such to take on our future journeys.

The custom is that a disciple breaks a tea-cup, ostensibly in erreur, for to remind the Order-leader that the time for Laudsprayer is come.

At daybreak, upon the conclusion of Salat-al-Fajr, we were treated to an invitation-only state address by Archon Arkadag, which is at once musical concerto, mounted archer chariot race and dentistry demonstration, whose purpose is to inform and entertain the folk of the success of the prior night's Order and the enduring protection of his Preceder from all manner of unspeakable plague. We were so entranced by the Archon’s prowess in all things cantorial, equestrian and dentistian that we nearly forgot our vows to Her Majesty and her Right and Honourable Government. If ‘twere naught for such, we would consider abandoning our mundial trekken and expatriating ourselves to dwell in Holy Ashgabat for the length of days.

Yet this is the situation in which we find ourselves, evitating the Malady that has conflagred the world entire, save for this sanctuaire under Divine guardianship, along with a pinchful of countryleaders who have sworn to be Turcoman-i-stan’s allied, those being the Lessoutou Chieftain, the full Tadjic Nation, and the Grand Ayatollah of Coryo Superior. In the meanwhile, we have committed ourselves to learning the Ruhnama day for day, beseeking the wisdom and transcendental instruction that Turcoman-bashy passed to enrich the peoples of the ganze Welt, but especially His people.

We have sent telegram of our reportages to the Minister of Health, and we have been awaiting response. Our hopes are that he has not succumbed to the affliction. Until the Malady enflattens in our lands of birth, we hope to preserve knowledge of goings-on in plaguelands. This is why we are asking for a fully explicatory commentary on this chapter of our travels.

Surely, Teiere Hill, you would have plenty of time to do so, what with your polis under complete curfew.

May the Light of Turcoman-bashy and the Ruhnama Protect Thee,

Thirty Day Beer


This is like reading a travelogue written by James Joyce. If he had allowed the Jewish person within to bloom. Lord knows he was big (humongous) with the seed thereof. Habitually drank too much chometz.

For some reason I must also think of Trotsky.
As well as J. P. Donleavy.



Probably shouldn't have tried to watch Pootie Tang at the same time.
Hard to figure where reality left off, social commentary began.
It's a classic movie, deservedly famous.



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AND THERE MAY BE GHOSTS

Crows. Pigeons. Parrots. Seagulls. And two little wood doves. Those birds are probably zenaida macroura marginella, common outside the urban areas, somewhat rarer within cities. I'm fairly certain that the pair live in one of the apartment building airwells nearby. The pigeons have become somewhat scarce of late, possibly because there is less garbage on the streets. The crows are more apparent than before, though quite likely disconsolate over the absence of pavement pizza. It was so good!
Where has it gone?
The parrots fly overhead squabbling once or twice per day.
Usually a flock of thirty birds.

Besides the two wood doves, there are at least half a dozen pigeons left on this block, down from a mass of thirty or forty one month ago. Crows were less evident then, but there are one or two families of them among these buildings. They vocalize.


Once the weather warms up I expect to see more birds, though I have heard them outside behind the building, so they are there. But it has been cold and windy, and they lack energy. Mostly sparrows.

Other than birds, there is hardly anyone about on the street for the first smoke of the day. Even the runners don't appear until later. It is peaceful, crisp, quiet, and the light is better.

The streets are much cleaner than before.
No sleeping crazies in the doorways.
Traffic is lighter.


I rather like social distancing.




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GROWING PAINS

When I still lived in Berkeley, I added two Comoy Lovatts and a Liverpool, all Blue Ribands, to my pipe collection. Oddly, once I moved to San Francisco I hardly ever smoked them, probably because the entire Berkeley period started giving me a bad taste. It wasn't the best time of my life. There are no friends left from the period when I worked at Drucquers. Can't really explain it; it's complicated, and it just happened that way. There are no friends left in Southern California from that time either. But remarkably, I still have some tins of the Drucquer tobacco blends.

Recently I pulled some of the old pipes out. Including a Comoy Blue Riband from that period. Still smokes as good as ever, though I did not load it with Blend 805 or Trafalgar.

It wasn't the best period of my life, but some good things remain from those years. Some very splendid pipes, the seeds of a collection of ceramics which has since grown, and the beginnings of my library. And a habit of introspection which, probably, made me a better person; in my twenties I was not a very nice individual, I'm probably more human now.


Pipes, pottery, books.
A quieter man.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THEY COVER EVERYTHING WITH THEIR OILY PINK SLIME

There are large creatures in the undergrowth that keep hidden, just waiting for you to stumble out in a fevered state. They are shy but ferocious. And can sense when you are at your weakest, defenses down, and all those appetizing juices flowing through your veins, with a throbbing in your cerebrum. Bleary eyed, you cannot focus. But there it is again.

Something humongous underneath the palm trees.

It crashes through the high grass and minor shrubbery on too many legs.
"May I", it demands to know, "speak to the person who pays the Pacific Gas and Electric bill?" You note bemusedly that it has a more dulcet voice than "Stan from your neighborhood air duct cleaning service", perhaps Southern, is that a drawl that you hear? But this creature is no less annoying. You decide that once you have a clear shot, you are going to empty the entire can of Black Flag into its face.


Please stop calling.



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IT SMELLS LIKE DUTCH SWAMP

At nine fifteen it was raining steadily, whereas at seven o'clock it had been dry and warmer than I had expected. So the first pipe of the day was enjoyed mostly in the portico of the building, listening to an angry crow nearby. Not entirely sure it was the same crow during that entire period; there are other crows in the neighborhood, and the two or three distant birds sounded just as displeased by the inclement weather.
The seagulls paid it no nevermind; they're cool with wetness. They swooped low over Polk Street, having come further inland and closer to the ground than they would have a month ago.

Across the street a resident has her bed right up by her window. During rainy weather and a lock-down, she spends her time laying there looking out. Maybe she also reads, or blogs furiously, or perhaps not.
You know, she probably needs a cat.


On rainy days such as this I remember the house in Valkenswaard, and the upstairs living room. Spacious, my father's desk in one corner, my brother's desk diagonally opposite. Bookcases. Couch. Globe. Victrola (just a record player, but the word 'Victrola' was used for such things once, and having moved to the Netherlands, our American vocabulary was somewhat dated).
A collection of Atlasses, next to the Horizon magazines.
Reference books. Scientific American.
Larousse Gastronomique.

[My mother's desk was in the downstairs study, mine was in one of the front rooms.]

What do crows think about the rain? Judging by their cawing, they don't like it. Which one can understand. Normally when I smoke a pipe now I walk around the neighborhood, which my doctor would probably like, even though such exercise does not balance out the evil of tobacco, and any health benefit is logically devalued by that horrid habit.
He would not understand that the smell and feel of a pipe, especially a briar which one has had for years, is good for the mind. It's quite comforting, therapeutic, companionable, and recollective.

Ah, that fragrance. Mood inducing.
Returning memories.


The bookstore (Priem's) on the Eindhovensche Weg. The cafe with the reading room. The back table at another place with fresh daily newspapers and weekly magazines in Dutch, German, and English. Crusty old farts and their cigars having coffee and a genever. Herman heating up rabbit skin glue, while coffee keeps warm on the stove. No, rabbit skin glue is NOT for repairing rabbits, sorry, but is used in musical instrument making. Arnoud and his cottage at the far end of his parent's property, with the coal stove.
The watermills; Venbergen, and Dommelsche.
Rain on summer afternoons.
Market square.



Somewhere nearby I should be able to find shredded coconut. It's been too long since I made seroendeng. That smell, and the textural effect are also mood-inducing.

[Serundeng: a mixture of toasted coconut with spices, and, if you are from Java, some stinky shrimp paste. Additions can be peanuts, or seaweed, or toasted slivered onion. If you are not from Java, you are probably Dutch. It's added as a crispy touch to curries, stews, whatever. Very important! Indonesians exiles have been known to throw potato chips or funyons on their gulai because there was nothing else!]


For one cup of coconut shreds, half a cup of peanuts. Minor amounts of trassi or shrimp paste, ground coriander, turmeric. And no more than a quarter cup tamarind water (two TBS lime juice may be substituted) a teaspoon of sugar, ditto salt. Mix, let stand for a while, then gently toast in the fry pan till entirely dry and lightly browned. More or less. Vary judiciously. Remember, it is not supposed to be sweet, unless you are from Central Java. In which case you probably want to add two to four tablespoons of palm sugar.


The fragrance will fill the house, better than pipe tobacco.
Married men might suggest this to their wives.



Other recollective aromas are ketjap manis (sweet soy sauce), jasmine tea, lemons, frying chili paste, telur pindang, and over-ripe apples and pears.





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A REFLECTION REMEMBERED

About four years ago Tib (Tiberio) asked me to clean up his pipes. He had barely smoked them since college, but evenso, the crust of decades adhered. Oxidized stems, gunk in the shank, and the carbon layers were too thick. Among them were eight Comoy Blue Ribands and a lovely Sasieni.
So I did. They were as good new when he got them back.
He gave me one of his other pipes as a thank you.

Once I "re-engineered" the draw, that pipe proved to be a wonderful smoke. As well as a memento of the man, because Tib died two years ago.

Recently I started smoking that pipe again. It's been in the rotation off and on, sometimes it returns to the storage drawer (three document boxes filled with pipes) for a month or two, but it's a darn good smoke.

One of the few bent pipes I like.

Being a rather grim practical sort of person, with somewhat Spartan tastes, my preference in briars veers toward straight pipes. Clean, unpretentious, elegant, and easy to set down. Other than Peterson System Standards, which look more pipe-ish and like serious smoking equipment, I tend to eschew bents. Though some can be quite nice.
This one is.


Tib was boisterous. A very warm-hearted person.
Once you met him, you'd remember him.

A year after he moved to Southern California, he passed away. His son told me that his doctor demanded that he quit smoking in the last few months. Which, all things considered, wouldn't have done a damned bit of good.

He was nearly eighty years old when he died.
A good man.

TOBACCO INDEX


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MARMALADE GUINEA PIG

Years ago I would have considered orange marmalade an essential supply, but it turns out that according to modern society, it isn't. The British store around the corner is closed till further notice. And good marmalade is darned hard to find elsewhere. Fortunately I've got nearly everything else for comfort on a rainy afternoon such as we've been having here in San Francisco. Strong tea. Sourdough bread and dairy butter for toast (which is where the marmalade WOULD have had a role to play). A warm sweater.
A stuffed turkey vulture. And umbrella for when I step outside.
Which I sometimes have to do.

Because I don't smoke inside.

The first smoke was around nine in the morning, before it started raining.
It was cold, though. Ended up with blue fingers after a long walk.

Hot buttered toast and a nice strong cup of tea when I returned.

There was a brand new jar of marmalade under one of the little tables in the teevee room, unopened, but I wonder if it is still good. Seeing as I have no idea how many years ago I purchased it and put it there. For a rainy day.
It's thick dense English marmalade.
Not that american junk.

I am awfully tempted. There is no "best by" date on it.
Perhaps better not to risk it.

Stuffed Friend

Still.

*     *     *     *     *     *

Other things which might be considered essential supplies are toilet paper, a jar of Bovril (why my father had that in the pantry I do not know, but he must have had a reason), ancient bramble preserves (see Bovril) and coffee (self-evident). Pipe cleaners too, and there's presently no danger of running out. The aforementioned turkey vulture would opine that fresh cadavers and corpses, all manner of carrion, are also essential. But he's the only stuffed animal that thinks so. The others were perfectly satisfied with the cookies, and are glad to know that we have enough bread and butter for toast.
Strong tea with milk and sugar is a must.
Plus plenty of pipe tobacco.

Oh, and a blanky.


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FOOD WITH SPIRITUAL SIGNIFICANCE

As is the case with many conversations nowadays, yesterday's most data-filled discussion (about pizza) was entirely on the internet. Cheese pizza, it turns out, can be eaten with chopsticks. A normal-sized slice can easily be picked up and held thus.

My apartment mate, being Chinese American, often and habitually eats stuff with chopsticks. But I did not confirm with her that pizza is one of the things that one eats with chopsticks.


Normally, I eat pizza with Sriracha.


My first exposure to pizza was probably in Italy when I was six. They did not have sambal of any kind in that country at that time, which was not entirely unexpected then, but they probably still don't, which in this day and age just seems kind of perverse.
What kind of country has fermented fish or chilies but NO sambal?
Fuh gads-aiks, they've got tomatoes!
Also from Mexico.

Civilization, as every blinkered culinarist knows, didn't start until chili peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, peppercorns, and fermented fish products, all met each other in the same kitchen.
Previously I would have said that caffeine was the spark -- no more stale beer or diluted wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, because the water just wasn't drinkable -- but after careful consideration, these food products were more important. A well-fed person is less likely to kill someone over Jeebus than someone with acid-indigestion. Religious war lasted longer where there was no cuisine. Scotland, Ireland, and New York once the Dutch left.
The Viking age endured in Iceland till modern times.
Probably because of hákarl.
Q.E.D.


The other thing is cheese, of course, but that almost goes without saying. There is no pizza in a warzone.




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FOUR GENTLEMEN BAY

It isn't often that I communicate with people in the old sod. Seeing as I left years ago, and haven't been back in aeons. Evenso. I do occasionally, and very recently did.
A gentleman in the vicinity of Rotterdam is smoking Vier Heeren Baai, but thinks he might also like Virginias.

Vier Heeren Baai Tabak, once manufactured by Theodorus Niemeyer B.V. in Groningen, was described on the package as "zachte Maryland". They advised that it was best enjoyed in a "pijp met een royale kop" (a pipe with a large bowl). Maryland style ribbon, like both Voortrekker and Coopvaert. But better quality.

FOUR GENTLEMEN BAY TOBACCO

VIER HEEREN BAAI TABAK

Maryland tobacco tends to have a soft mild taste, slightly nutty, low in natural sugars as well as low in nicotine. Most commercial Maryland comes from Italy now. Virginias (flue-cured; many grown in Africa and South America), by comparison, have a higher sugar and nicotine level, tend toward a slightly fruity plum-like tin fragrance (because of carotenoids), and if smoked hot can bite ferociously. Burley, a relative of Maryland, contains almost no natural sugars, but has a very high nicotine level, and sometimes feels like something crawled into your mouth and died.


He asked for recommendations.

If Samuel Gawith is available in the Netherlands, try to find Golden Glow, Best Brown, or Full Virginia Flake. St. James Flake has a little Perique (a tangy "spice" tobacco from Louisiana) and is slighty hard to light. Rattrays has Old Gowrie, Brown Clunee, Marlin Flake, and Hal O' The Wynd. Capstan should also be available in Holland, it was several years ago. Personally I like Golden Glow and Old Gowrie very much.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THERE'S A GOAT IN MY SOUP

My apartment mate has been instructed to work from home now, as even her department (part of healthcare in this city) is considered not quite as essential as it was a week ago. This, necessarily, means adaptation.
And I may have to stay out of the teevee room for eight hours a day.
Which is where both of our computers reside.
And the tray of pipes.

Well crap. I had not expected that I'd have to choose what briars to smoke on a daily basis so early in the morning.


It will mean taking more and longer walks. Good, I suppose, because it keeps the circulation going and will prevent my right knee and hip from stiffening up.
It also means that she can answer the junk phone calls; would you care to guess where the telephone is?

More meditation. More catching up on reading. More sunshine. More naps.

And less worry; I do not know where her coworkers have been, and what diseases they are blithely spreading.




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LIPSTICK CRAZED MANIAC

How does one remove lipstick stains from a pipe stem? I am not going to ask her. She's a pipe smoking friend on the other side of the country, married to another pipe smoking friend who also lives on the other side of the country. He'd know -- she may have borrowed one of his briars -- but I shan't ask him either. They do not smoke the same tobacco.
He's a purist, she's a wild explorer.
Unorthodox mixtures.


One of the cutest things I've ever seen is this:

"End of week three in quarantine. I almost stabbed my husband because he got pipe embers on my favorite blanket. An overreaction you say? He’s murdered 7 blankets before this one."

So he now owes her eight comfy blankets. From my point of view, they are a dysfunctional couple, because I've never gotten pipe embers on a blanket, or even on my bathrobe. Part of that has to do with the fact that I do not load pipes to the brim, reason being that a little clearance guides the flame when lighting it, part of it has to do with my being careful and attentive almost to the point of neurosis.

But it's so charming that somewhere in this great country, one, or two, pipesmokers are swaddled in a blanket while enjoying their tobacco.

Even though they're doing it wrong.

ALWAYS leave some space above the load of tobacco. That way, when it curls upwards upon lighting, it will not shed embers on your blanky.
This is VERY important.

Some of their friends questioned why he was still alive, others wondered at them smoking in bed. My sole contribution was that he should get his own damned blanket, though given how casual he is about scorches, I really should have suggested that he smoke buck naked.

But that would leave him exposed to their cats.
Who may not like him smoking.
And have claws.

TOBACCO INDEX


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A FABULOUS BOMBAY OF THE MIND

A number of years ago I often impersonated Indian gentlemen. This was mostly in connection with an Indian food enterprise at which I worked in the evening, primarily because no one wants to speak to an Anglo about food or catering on the phone. For rather obvious reasons.
Consequently I have been a Madrassi, a Bengali, a Parsee, and sometimes darned well unintelligible. While discussing biriani, haleem, mirch ka salan (for which I have an excellent recipe, it's practically my mothers milk), chai, achaar (about which I know very well only, sar), various sweets (laddoo?), and tea time snacks such as one would enjoy in Bombay.


A friend remembers the years during which I was a pretend-Parsee as well as a most excellent Madrassi chief clerk. She herself is Parsee, and still peeved about that. To do so I had to read up on cricket, which is the great Parsee game invented by homosexual Englishmen. Cricket is boring.

Plus I enjoyed the columns written by Busybee (Behram Contractor). Which of course meant subsequently reading about Irani cafes, The Fort, dhansak, and devouring books by Rohinton Mistri, a smarty-pants Canadian Parsee author whose output I highly recommend.


To this fake Parsee / Madrassi, nothing could possibly be more evocative of his own beautiful imaginary Mumbai than hot milk tea and biscuits. Possibly followed or accompanied by smoking a nice bowlful of Erinmore Flake OR Rattrays tobacco in a Dunhill, Comoy, or Sasieni pipe, because those accompanied Englishmen wherever they went.

So then, carefully researched, and subsequently often enjoyed, a recipe.


KHARI BISCUIT
[Please note: ALL ingredients should be very cold. Chill them beforehand.]

One cup plain flour (maida).
One cup atta (chapatti, durum, or wheat) flour.
Four TBS corn starch.
One cup ghee.
Teaspoon salt.
Half Tsp. baking powder.
Four TBS buttermilk.
Ice-cold water as needed.

Mix the dry ingredients, then knead briefly to a soft dough with the buttermilk and ghee, using cold water if necessary. Chill this for an hour. Dust with extra flour, then pound it flat and roll it out. Fold it over in three layers with a little flour in between. Roll it out and fold again. Cut into several three by five inch rectangles. Now fold these double twice, lengthwise, and pinch each strip in the centre.
Chill once more for at least an hour.
Then bake at four hundred Fahrenheit for ten minutes. Lower the temperature to 300 for another fifteen minutes to let it bake crisp evenly all the way through.

Note that whether or not you sprinkle kalonji, sesame, cracked pepper, or cumin seed over before baking, brushing with ghee is not a bad idea in any case. Use a cold roller to impress the seeds on the surface.

An acceptable shortcut is to simply buy pre-prepped puff pastry and treat it similarly.
And if you do that, a dusting of sugar and cinnamon in lieu of spice is excellent and quite recommended. But it won't be khari.



Along with a tin of khari biscuits, your cupboard should also have a few jars of Indian pickles (achaar), maybe a chutney or two OR a good marmalade (both go equally well on buttered toast), definitely plenty of sambal (hot chili condiments) because in addition to being a fake Parsee and a gouty retired English officer, you are also a Dutch East Indies planter. Plus a bottle of whisky (shades of William Cuthbert Faulkner).
Good tea can now be mercifully purchased nearly anywhere.
Both Erinmore and Rattrays are locally available.
Gout is not caste specific.


The other absolutely essential item is Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce (李派林喼汁 'lei paai lam kip chap'), but other than using it for some Hong Kong dishes, it's presence is purely totemic.



NOTE: thanks and appreciation are due 'K-saheb' and various gentlemen name Singh for some wonderful years and stimulating times, as well as disputatious introduction to many things Indian.



UPDATE ao 4:11 PM: A reader has alerted me to a grievous omission.
No piece written about Parsees can be considered complete without mentioning the revered “Chhota Peg”. A chhota peg is a generous splash of whisky (Scotch), often with water, ice, or soda. Or not.
Absolutely an essential.



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ORANGE TANNING CREAM KILLS BRAIN CELLS

When the apartment mate reads news on the internet, she reacts. And it's a good thing that she reads the news, rather than watching it, because when you read the news you can find out more in the same amount of time. And she weeds through it, discarding the dross and glitter, retaining the actual factual stuff.

With that in mind, here's a direct quote from the apartment mate.


"This is what happens with someone like Trump as president; all kinds of weird-ass moronic sh*t!"


Yeah, I don't know to what she was reacting, but it really could be almost anything. Because, honestly, there has been so much in these recent weeks that could be described as "weird-ass moronic sh*t" that was hatched in the White House, or down at at Mar-a-lago.

Perhaps while a weird-ass moron was playing golf.


So you can say she's taking it all well.
Her intellect is fully functioning.
Despite animal sounds.
Sometimes.




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CLEANLINESS IS AFTER GODLINESS

After the first cup of coffee I went for a walk. This neighborhood is beautiful when the morning sunlight hits, and before the street people have woken up and started vocalizing. A few people walking their dogs, one or two work men engaged in earthquake retrofit tasks, the owner of a local restaurant and her husband getting ready to start the day, although it will be a few hours before the kitchen staff get there.

Three years ago the old church on the corner was torn down, and a visually striking condo complex was put there instead. And while I love abandoned churches, I've come to like the new building. It is elegant, and adds a cleanness. Lord knows this neighborhood needs cleanness.

Certainly with this shelter in place in place, the neighborhood is a lot cleaner.

And very much quieter too.


It took ten blocks to smoke my pipe. The pipe in question is one I restored nearly two years ago, one of the irredeemables, and I'm very pleased with the results. After a thorough reaming of the ancient crust within, I scraped and recarved the rim, and put a bevel along the inside edge. The stem needed replacing, of course. But it's an excellent smoker. Strangely, it tends to subdue the aromatic top-dressing of some Danish mixtures (not the overly sweet gloopy ones), but sings with Perique blends.

It is a perfect early morning pipe. For about half a year I would fill it only half-full at most, re-breaking it in again, and the first two or three smokes were sooty at best. But at two smokes a week, within two months it was behaving in a very civilized manner, and has become a trusted friend.

It's not a shape I would have ever bought new. It is too fruity, elegant, and Scandinavian. Mostly I go for classic English and French shapes, and sometimes Italians. Savinelli does some extremely nice interpretations of the standards. Yet I do have about a dozen Danes; after a life time of enjoying pipes and tobacco, that's bound to happen.


On my second cup of coffee and my second pipe right now. Sofar I haven't yet heard any of my neighbors in this building, but it is unlikely they are still sleeping. With everybody staying at home, most people who aren't habitual drinkers probably go to bed early and get up earlier too. I got out of bed at five-thirty, my apartment mate started fixing herself breakfast at around six. She left shortly after seven-thirty, shortly before I went for a walk.

Seeing as she'll be gone till early evening, I've closed her door so that the smoke won't enter. And I'll cook something spicy for lunch; that way she won't know that I've been smoking inside the apartment.

I've put the stuffed duck ('Blue Beard') on her keyboard to distract her in any case. I'm counting on him to not rat me out. He's a good egg.

Hot dang this tobacco is nice.

TOBACCO INDEX


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