THAT WAS EIGHT BLOCKS

Once I had finished the first cup of coffee I left the house with a pipe, intent on looking for the street person I had seen the other day who, obviously, was starving. If nothing else a dollar or two would buy him a donut and maybe some coffee. Normally he's just an alcoholic -- a habit which I can easily understand, but do not support in most people -- but these days the takings are slim, and I worry a bit about the human wreckage that hangs out in my neighborhood. There are no more boot straps, so to speak.

In the past, Tuesday night would be the time for smoking the pipe for watching rats in Spofford Alley. Where I haven't been in a while. So that was what I loaded up this morning, with aged Virginia mixed with a fraction of Perique and a little firecured. Tangy, faintly savoury, mostly mellow sweet. Perfect for a sunny morning, while there aren't too many people about.


Get away from me, all of you damned vectors. Diseased! Diseased!


That's why I carry a cane with me when I'm in public.
It enforces social distancing.
A strong hint.

When I walk, my right leg between knee and the ball-joint of the big toe always feels like it's waking up from being asleep nowadays. Tingly, slightly burning. If I stride too energetically it hurts like the devil. Personally I don't feel like an old git, but my body wishes to disagree. Some parts didn't get the message, aren't with the program, insist on being on a separate page.
Clearly, I should have led a more wholesome life.

The canes are all better for clouting people with than actually helping me walk; no rubber tips but metal, and big knobby heads. One of them is more like a stout blackthorn cudgel than a walking stick. Sort of what a South African might call a knopkierie. Especially useful at night.


One of the street people I recognize was sleeping while sitting upright between newspaper racks. Later in the day he'll be at his usual spot.
But the alcoholic I was looking for was nowhere around at this hour.
He's probably much further down toward the Civic Center.

Second hot beverage, second pipe.
Heading out again.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SUNSHINE MAN

Apparently wrestling is the sport of choice for Florida. Not real wrestling, but Amurrickin wrestling. Which is ballet for rednecks. Per government dictat in the great state of Florida, wrestling must go on.
Honestly, I don't know what to say.
Florida is absurd.

Personally, I think ALL highly paid popular sports should go on. Given how much those nimnoos get paid, they should take it on the chin for us. A few deaths in organized sports here and there are okay. We'll take bets on it.
And it might keep Fox from talking so much about politics.
Give the Republicans a bone to cheer.
Drive beer sales.


Nobody wins the World Series this year.


The American economy thrives on sales of suds and pizza. Ever since this Covid 19 thing started, people have been cooking at home and exercising more. Which is exactly like inmates in high security prisons bulking up in the yard.
Lord help us when all these psychos are released.




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DONALD TRUMP

Our president and his supporters are idiots.


Halting funding for the World Health Organization during a world health crisis is as dangerous as it sounds. Their work is slowing the spread of COVID-19 and if that work is stopped no other organization can replace them. The world needs @WHO now more than ever.

— Bill Gates (@BillGates) April 15, 2020




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IS IT FINASTERIDE OR ADDERALL?

Two months ago he said that the Corona Virus was under control. "Very much under control". Which may not have been quite accurate, strictly speaking. The president's view of things represents a gestalt, where the wished for eventuality and the rosy rhetorical picture coincide more than reality would fully warrant. Things changed since then. As we know.

Too imperceptibly for an incurable dreamer to notice.

But this never was "under control".

Which we also know.


One month ago, Saturday March 14.
2,950 confirmed cases in the US. 57 deaths.

Today, Tuesday, April 14.
608,377 confirmed cases in the US. 25,757 deaths.


Many of the red states have not figured it out yet.
They aren't very good at numbers.
Bless their hearts.




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THE SMOKE BELT

It's a beautiful day out there. And my apartment mate, unfortunately, cannot enjoy it, seeing as she's working from home. Which she didn't want to do, as there is too much distraction here. My job is not suitable for working from home, and I am endeavoring to be undistracting by staying mainly in my quarters and away from my computer, which is across the table from her seat and computer. But she's eating lunch now (fried meat), and I have seized the opportunity.

Earlier I took a long walk with a Peterson System Standard and some fine tobacco. Bought a lottery ticket in order to break a larger bill, so that I'd have dollar bills for the street people. Yeah no, I cannot afford to give them fives, tens, or twenties. But a pandemic is no reason to be stingy.
Which some people refuse to understand.

There are fewer of them about. One of them wanted money for tobacco. Which really is a valid reason, despite the puritanical healthfreaks and their severe disapproval. Tobacco can be very comforting in hard times.
Just ask Brendan Behan.


If you're walking upright, and smoking, it's a victory.



What IS that fried meat?
It smells delicious!




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THE TOTAL WADS

In the past I've probably indicated very clearly that there are folks who drop by where I work whose political opinions are garbage. Indeed, there are also people whose thinking I value, and whose company is precious to me -- and naturally I miss them, and look forward to seeing them again when this is all behind us -- but, being myself a complete a⬛⬛hole, the Republican swine are people I really wish to see. Primarily because I would like to ream them another one over the total incompetence of their man. Which by now surely must have penetrated even their thick self-satisfied skulls.

The U.S. has become a shithole.

None of them are connected via Facebook, which is a good thing. The people I have friended there are folks whose opinions I value. Even those whom I have never met in the real world; their pages, likes, and tastes were examined carefully before I clicked, and I've unfriended with rigor when necessary. What's left are people who do not get my dander up.

The individuals whom I shall never "friend" are Dan, David, Richard, John, Art, Warren, among others. These are not unlikable people.
But they're dickheads.



And I miss telling them so to their faces.




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FILLED WITH DARKNESS

All of the chachanteng in Chinatown are closed for the nonce, of course, and it is unlikely that once this is over they will re-open. Same goes for the bakeries in that neighborhood. It may take several years before such places can thrive again. More than the snacky things, I am concerned with the people who work there. They are some of my favourite people, and I worry about them. In the grand scheme of things, this is not important. But on a micro level, their impoverishment and hardship are a disaster, and I doubt the neighborhood will easily recover.
I miss those people.

So, lunch today was home-made "pastry noodles" (粿條) with charsiu pork. Pastry noodles, kwee tiau in Hokkien and Teochew pronunciation, are thick rice stick noodles with a high glutinous rice or corn starch content. About half in inch broad. When they are pan-fried, the surface ends up with almost a lacy scorch-toast patterning, and if one were Hokkien one would prefer this with oysters and shrimp as the added protein. Being a Dutchman, and fresh seafood items on short notice difficult nowadays, the left over charsiu pork from last week, plus scallions, ginger, soy sauce, chilipaste, and a squeeze of lime seemed easier. Washed down with strong milk-tea.

Followed by the inevitable pipe full, and a walk.

I would have preferred to enjoy the pipe WITH the milk-tea. But the Chinese element in this household was home and at her computer. She is 'fastidious' in some regards, despite living in the same apartment as a grungy Dutch American smoker. Meaning that now that her employers have finally put their collective foot down, all staff will work from home goldarnit.
I won't be able to smoke inside at all.
For several months.

My taking three or four walks every day benefits her sanity.
And gives me time to day dream.

Earlier I had smoked a bowl of Rattray's Professional Mixture. An excellent product, but not entirely satisfying, given that flakes and Virginia-Perique blends suit me better. Still, enjoyable. Probably will have offended any number of people.

The pipe in the illustration is a rather pedestrain item which I've had for a decade and a half. It turned out to be a surprisingly good smoke, despite being almost a cliché piece.

Drilled so that a pipe cleaner does actually easily reach the bowl.

Hardcastle. Sand blast, black. Bent bulldog.
Original saddle stem.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SOMETHING FRAGRANT THIS WAY

When I was a teenager, my tobacco was often limited to one tin purchased every Monday from the old gentleman who ran the tobacco shop at the intersection of the Eindhovensche Weg and the Klinkerstraat. My fellow students hated it. Because it did not smell like dark shag or fruity tooty.
It resided on my desk, and helped me study.

Now, years later, the television room looks like a cross between a bookstore and a tobacconists. And a junk shop. Numerous jars and tins of tobacco on bookshelves, sharing the space with Judaica, languages, Asian studies material (Indonesia, Indo-China, China, and some Sanskrit stuff), small yi-hsing teapots and pottery from Californian ceramicists. Plus a large distinctive volume I treasure: The Ambonese Curiosity Cabinet (by Georgius Everhardus Rumphius, reprinted translation). If you've read Maria Dermoût in either Dutch or English, you'll understand.

Frankly, I do not understand how my apartment mate tolerates this.
Other than through sheer talent and saintliness.


The tray of pipes that are in the regular rotation is to my left, on top of a stack of books which also includes several tobacco tins strategically placed, as well as a small tray with half a dozen dried rambutans (nephelium lappaceum) which I purchased when they were still fresh; they now look like monkey testicles, but they're kind of interesting so I don't want to throw them out. Two polishing cloths are also on the tray.
At the moment two pipes rest there as well.

One of the tobaccos I will smoke today is Rattray's Professional Mixture, a quantity of which is drying nearby. It's described as a 'medium mixture', with black Virginia, Latakia, Turkish, and aged Virginias, but it's somewhat on the mild side. Though it would still off-piss my high school classmates, what with not being smelly Dutch dark shag or fruit candy. And likely confuse them too. Teenagers are a harsh audience. Bitches.

Pipe tobacco mixtures have always been, to me, redolent of exotic places and distant corners of the earth. The smell of spice, the odour of tropic vegetation, the stank of fear when you discover alligators in your Mississippi swamp. Well, something like that. As well as exiles posted to far corners of the empire slowly going mad alone in the jungle, or drenched in sweat while at their desks in half-lit mining offices on the edge of a dessert.


My drafting tools are also somewhere here.
Haven't used them in many years.
Or the slide rules.


San Francisco truly is the furthest edge of the known world; people come here to get rich or go mad. Or build things.

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COFFEE, PIGEONS, MEDULLA OBLONGATA

Life has been reduced to long walks, lots of reading, caffeinated beverages, and smoking stogies as the first fully awake conscious act of the day. Sad, when you consider that I used to be such an active outgoing fellow, jogging five miles before a wholesome breakfast of oats and soy milk, while doing all my stock trading over the internet ere six in the morning.
A healthy successful lifestyle!

Okay, while y'all roll that ridiculous scenario around in your heads, I'll head out to front steps to light up a cigar. It's an Asylum 13 Medulla Oblongata Toro, from the genius of Christian Eiroa and Tom Lazaka, all Honduran leaf, the wrapper is a lovely corojo. Well made. Almost fruity on the cold-draw, the smoke is mellow and somewhat earthy. Good for contemplating the flock of pigeons scrounging at the bus stop.

Didn't bother getting fully dressed. Plaid pajama pants, a bright orange tee-shirt advertising a different cigar brand, and a grungy grey flannel bathrobe. Suitable gear if not planning to wander more than a block away from the apartment building.



For your information I don't jog, and both oatmeal and soy milk are not part of the program, never have been. A proper breakfast consists of savoury small dumplings and steamed snackipoos at a crowded Chinatown tea house with buckets of hot guk-pou cha, surrounded by yelling people and their hyper-active kids and grandparents. Followed by a smoke, for that necessary period of anti-social peace and quiet afterwards.

Naturally I need a cup of strong coffee beforehand.

Not really being a breakfast person, the coffee and the cigar will have to suffice. Much like they did before the shelter-in-place order. Anti-social peace and quiet were always a given anyway.

And I can't stand joggers.



Per Wikipedia:
"The medulla oblongata or simply medulla is a long stem-like structure which makes up part of the brainstem. It is anterior and partially inferior to the cerebellum. It is a cone-shaped neuronal mass responsible for autonomic (involuntary) functions ranging from vomiting to sneezing. The medulla contains the cardiac, respiratory, vomiting and vasomotor centers and therefore deals with the autonomic functions of breathing, heart rate and blood pressure as well as the sleep wake cycle."

Yeah, I don't really understand the gedankenwelt underlying 'Asylum 13' and naming one of their product lines after a brain part. Loony bins and things in your head. But the coffee fits right in. As well as the bathrobe, suggesting, subtly, that I've escaped.

Maybe I should offer to rochambeau those pigeons for whatever it is they're pecking at. The joggers are no fun.




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BLACK DATES MATTER

Right after reading the latest figures on Covid 19 yesterday and updating the counts (see here and here), I fixed myself some tea, simmering black tea, pu erh, and Chinese black dates.


黑棗
'hak jou'

The fruit and its seeds are used in East Asian traditional medicine. They are said to alleviate stress, and allegedly are anti-fungal, anti-bacterial, anti-ulcer, anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, sedative, immune boosting, and promote rapid healing. Along with a modicum of licorice root (not glycyrrhiza glabra but glycyrrhiza uralensis; 甘草 'gam chou'), it is used in prescriptions to modulate and assist other herbs. It is particularly suitable for the elderly.
Also contains vitamins, calcium, and iron.
Nourishes kidneys and liver.
Good for the blood.

Normally the regular dried (red) ones are utized, which also add a sweetness.
The black variety is the same, but steamed, dried, and smoked.


I totally ignore the supposed healthful properties, and use them because I like their flavour. Which is probably the primary use of the fruit in any case.


浸酒
'jam jau'

A very nice beverage can be made by filling a bottle one third full of these black dates, then pouring in rye whiskey and letting it steep for a month.
Sort of a home-made 烏棗酒 ('wu jou jau').

As I avoid alcohol nowadays (it interacts badly with some of my medications), I have not done so in a long time.




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DIFFERENCES OF ERAS

Boredom and chemical imbalance affecting the mood can be alleviated by a long walk with a pipe; which I really recommend for all timorous virgins and tobacco abstainers. Not for Vegans, they have other problems. Perhaps a good lamb chop? As you no doubt understand, a bit of exercise is good for the digestion and circulation, and changes the body chemistry.

I would also recommend it for that cat-loving lawyer in the East Bay who is allergic to cat dander, but she's in a motorized wheelchair and probably beyond any help. And she hated smoking in any case, poor dear.
Well, not ALL smoking. Damned pot head.

[She should be happy I still occasionally remember her. Like our president, she's a narcissistic egomaniac psychopath. Everything always has to be about her.]

A full bowl of Doblone D'Oro takes about twelve blocks to enjoy. Made for Savinelli by MacBarens, this is probably the closest you'll ever come to the old Three Nuns. And it is a damned fine tobacco. So I loaded up the Comoy bent, and headed out. My apartment mate was watching the third episode of Bat Masterson for the morning, and truth be told those old-time television series don't really do much for me. Though of Chinese ancestry, her daddy was from Texas, so for her it means good times and sunnier moods.
Which is also why she watches John Wayne movies.

Years ago she introduced me to John Wayne in The Conqueror, in the role of Genghis Khan, which was miscasting of epic proportions, and yielded a wonderful cinematographic experience.

"To reach her arms, Jamuga, I would sell my people into Mongol bondage!"

John Wayne smoked Camel Cigarettes™. Which should recommend them to you. My apartment mate does not smoke, though she can with her keen eye appreciate the aesthetics of many of my pipes, while not wanting the damned things lit up in the house.

Several months ago, after I came out of the hospital, I purchased a pack of Camels to keep myself entertained while convalescing. I would imagine myself a fighter pilot in WWII and clutch at non-existent controls. 'Aaagh, we've been hit! We're going down! I'll never see Devon again!'

All it took was one pack. Lasted nearly a fortnight.

My father, a bomber pilot (Royal Canadian Air Force) during the world war, smoked pipes for most of his life. The stuff he liked was from a tobacconist in Beverly Hills where he started shopping during high school. It was a mixture of Virginias and Burley with a modest amount of condimentals (L&P), which was of course unobtainable overseas. He smoked English pipe tobaccos for three and half years while someone tried to shoot him another back passage from below. But he thoroughly enjoyed England during that period.

Best meal he had there was after an emergency landing at an American air base. They had real beefsteak.


When I was in high school, I fell in love with Balkan Sobranie and many other mixtures quae sunt illius generis. I still like their fragrances when someone else smokes them, but for many years now Virginia-Perique compounds and solid flakes have kept me happy.
And despite living easy walking distance from three places where a splendid piece of steak may be got, or other cut of cow, I'm happier with a little bit of juicy pork or lamb, or a succulent meal from a chachanteng across the hill.
Sometimes the apple wanders a bit from the tree.


That old-timey Western stuff doesn't do much for me.
Got a different mental aesthetic going on.

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BRIEFING BY A VERY STABLE GENIUS

This past Friday, as he always does, our president Melania's husband and Ivanka's dad, held a briefing at his residence. And for the life of me I cannot understand what the hell he said.


Here's an excerpt.

THE PRESIDENT: Well, you’re asking that because of what happened — it’s a fair question, too — what happened in Denver.  Because in Denver, I’ve never seen — I said, “What’s going on?” We’re looking at this graph where everything’s looking beautiful and it’s coming down and then you got this one spike.  It’s — I said, “What happened to Denver?”

And many people, very quickly, and they — by the way, they were on it like, so fast, you wouldn’t believe it.  They knew every aspect.  They had people go and — not only testing, “Who did you see? Where were you? How many people did you meet? Were you out to dinner in somebody else’s home? Where were you?” Where did — where did this number of people come from? How did — they are totally on it.

Now, this just happened.  I just saw it this morning.  I’m looking at everything smooth, going down, topping out.  And then you have this one spike in Denver.  It’s like, where did this come from?

So we’ll be looking at that.  And we don’t want cases like that happening.  This was — but this — this is the kind of thing can happen.  This is very complex.

This is a very brilliant enemy. You know, it’s a brilliant enemy. They develop drugs like the antibiotics. You see it. Antibiotics used to solve every problem. Now one of the biggest problems the world has is the germ has gotten so brilliant that the antibiotic can’t keep up with it. And they’re constantly trying to come up with a new — people go to a hospital and they catch — they go for a heart operation — that’s no problem, but they end up dying from — from problems. You know the problems I’m talking about. There’s a whole genius to it.

We’re fighting — not only is it hidden, but it’s very smart. Okay? It’s invisible and it’s hidden, but it’s — it’s very smart. And you see that in a case like a Denver.

But, you know, I think we’re doing well, and they’re on Denver like you wouldn’t believe.  I came in this morning; it was a flurry.  I said what’s going on?  They said, “Denver.”  I said, “What happened to Denver?”  Because Denver was doing pretty well.  And they’ve got that under control.  But, yeah, that would be a case where you do some very big testing.

Peter.

Q Mr. President,  we’ve learned that more than 16 million Americans filed for unemployment over the past three weeks.  It’s Good Friday.  It’s payday.  We are seeing troubling, paralyzing lines at food banks around the country.  What do you say to those Americans in need right this moment?

THE PRESIDENT: Number one, I love them.  Number two, we’re working really hard.  It wasn’t their fault, what happened.  Sometimes they don’t do a good job and they lose their job.  That’s one thing.  This is a case where we take the strongest economy in the history of the world, which is what we had.  More people working in the United States, Peter, than ever before.  Almost — I mean, look at the numbers: 160 million people, almost.  Just short of 160.

Q (Inaudible.)

THE PRESIDENT: Excuse me.

So, we have the greatest economy we’ve ever had.  And, by the way, black unemployment, Hispanic unemployment, Asian unemployment — the best numbers we’ve ever had in virtually every way.  And then you get hit like this, and it’s traumatic.

People that had great jobs, that went out to dinner, and they didn’t have any problems, they’d take their family, they were making good salaries, all of a sudden — you know, you use the term, “cold turkey.”  It’s cold turkey.  They go from that to having no money and waiting for their checks, which are being processed very rapidly.  But they still — they have to go out and look for money.

It’s a terrible thing.  All I say is: We love them, we’re working so hard, and they’re going to be back.  And I hope they’re going to be back even stronger than before.

Q Let me ask you about that, if I can, just to follow up then.  You chose not to do a national stay-at-home order.  Now that you say you want to reopen parts of the economy, what authority do you have to do that?  Isn’t that ultimately up to the states to do that?

THE PRESIDENT: Yeah. Yeah — no, it’s really — the states can do things if they want.  I can override it if I want.  But the national stay-at-home — just so you understand, 95 percent of the country is stay-at-home.

Like, as an example, I was speaking with the great governor of Texas, Greg Abbott, the other day.  He has a stay-at-home.   A lot of people didn’t even know it, but he had a stay-at -home.  Some people reported Texas wasn’t.  He had a very strong — actually, a very strong stay-at-home.

Ninety-five to ninety-six percent in South Carolina, as you know, has it, which at one point, a week ago, they didn’t have.  South Carolina — another great governor — McMaster.


SOURCE: Remarks by President Trump, Vice President Pence, and Members of the Coronavirus Task Force in Press Briefing -- April 10, 2020


It seems to be primarily about dinner.
Every word of it is English.
The best words.


Avoid Denver.



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CHAG HA CHOCOLATE BUNNIES

Never really thought about it, but Easter is the most significant event on the Christian calendar. Which today is. For people like me it always meant disappointment that the chocolate bunnies were hollow, and just not very good. How can we be happy that someone in whom we don't believe has risen if the candy is so mediocre? As an adult, of course, I am not so candy focused; it's a good day for some roast lamb, or duck.
Neither of which I will have today.

For over seven years my Easter has meant an extra day off, for which I did not get paid. And no celebratory meats or chocolate. And, seeing as I live in San Francisco where we're all godless atheists and heathen heretics thank heavens, a simple meal in Chinatown or Little Saigon followed by a pipe.
The only question which tobacco celebrates the return of spring.

No, I shall not smoke "Bob's Chocolate Flake", by Samuel Gawith. Some folks cannot stand the chocolate odeur which adheres, others do not even notice it. And once you rub it out and let it air a bit, the topping is barely noticeable if even. It's decent tobacco. But hardly chocolaty.

In any case, at six forty six in the morning, the most religious thing one can do is light up a short Romeo y Julieta and go wander around the block for while, seeing if the bums are up yet. They aren't.

The old lady across the street is. So are a few of the other resident elderly.
Good morning. And there's a man patiently waiting for the bus uphill.
Plus a lone jogger. Crows. Seagulls.
A pigeon or two.

[And the old Cantonese auntie with the gay pistachio ice cream hued hat, whose morning exercise is to walk halfway down the block with her shopping bag, turn around, and walk back up. Several times. It almost looks like she's happily skipping, despite stiff joints.]


The weather is warmer than it had been. Bathrobe and jammies are now enough covering outside. And while tempted to not bother changing into regular clothes today, I shall nevertheless at some point shave, shower, and get dressed. Because out of respect for the demise of chocolate bunnies it would only be proper to do so. I pity the poor crappy-tasting chocolate bunnies. Life is so short, and at the end, disappointing.
The first thing to go are your ears.
Then your legs.
Sad.

No, there is no metaphor. Or if there is, it is laboured and not worth noting.
But one cannot walk for several blocks in one's bathrobe smoking a pipe by mid-morning. It's just not done. Even if the bathrobe is dull grey and somewhat stained from spilled coffee. Or smells funky.


On Easter, one must rise, and act human again.
We celebrate with good tobacco.
And a bad attitude.


I lament the bunnies.



Chag: a celebration, a festival day.
Chag ha: the celebration of sthg.
Chocolate bunnies: sacrifice.



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IT'S NOW ALWAYS TIME FOR TEA

Walking a lot more. Keeps the joints limber. Just in case I'll ever need to run again. And more tea, more toast, and regular growling at other people. Under my breath of course, because fisticuffs are very imperfect social distancing.

Each walk means a pipe and tobacco.

In case you're wondering, my doctor won't say a thing about it for at least three months, because the clinic called today, and asked if they could postpone my next medical appointment a bit.
Why yes, of course they can.
Third week of July.

Fine.

Third time out today, I assiduously avoided the crazy people on Polk Street, instead talking the long way around. Full bowl, aged flake mixed with red ribbon, very minor touch of Perique (three point three percent). Delightful. Just before teatime, and much warmer than a few hours previously.
So no Raynaud's in the fingers.

On Friday afternoon there had been angrily screaming people every two blocks or so. Which is not that unusual, but when there are fewer folks around, the berserk element stands out more.
I cannot understand the people who happily wheel the baby carriage with their offspringlings through an insane asylum.
Are they nuts?


During the day I heard from two fellow pipe men. One of them devoured a bucket of buttered popcorn while watching a James Bond flick, the other one has isolated himself in his garage with a fridge, a heater, a kettle for tea, and an eight by three foot desk. We're staying sane.

Solid British style flakes, Virginia mixtures, Balkan blends.
These are the fundaments of civilization.
Plus cookies.

TOBACCO INDEX


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WHEN THERE IS NO RED HERRING

This neighborhood at an early hour is better at 'social distancing' than later in the day. Primarily because there are fewer people about, and those that are out will include a high proportion of either the entirely out-of-touch or the severely medicated. Who stumble a bit. But slowly enough that one can calmly step more than six feet aside.

Well, other than the joggers, who think they own the side walk.

I've never liked runners; they don't understand that in some places they'd be shot on suspicion. Justifiably, if only because they're irritating.
Indeed, I am not a pleasant person.
It's my sidewalk.


The pipe was from a store that stopped carving briars over two decades before I was born, and like a number of my excellent smokers it came from Marty Pulvers, one of the most honest people in pipes. And a good friend. Once during a conversation he mentioned that his relatives had been fish merchants, and for the next hour or so we discussed herring, as only Dutchmen and New York Ashkenazim can. Seeing as everyone else has incorrect ideas about that.
And does weird things like smoke-curing to the mahogany stage.
OR vinegar-pickling it far beyond any degree of edibility.

The proper way to treat a herring is to gut it, but leave the pancreas, so that when lightly salted it will cure a little. The pancreatic enzymes benefit the process. That was discovered by Willem Beukelzoon of Biervliet over six centuries ago. Too well cured for Japanese tastes, though still too raw for Americans. Galitzianers, Litvaks, Balts, and Danes prefer it more salted than the Netherlanders, and Swedes like it rotten.

It is utterly delicious, and unavailable in much of the United States, unless one is good friends with a Sushi chef, though it must be frozen for 24 to 48 hours to kill the herring nematode (anisakis).


All of that said, I will confess a queer fondness for kippers (skeddan jearg). Especially when used in kedgeree in lieu of smoked haddock. Which is probably unorthodox, and aksance-at looked by normal people.

Even more horrifying: kedgeree made with charsiu pork from that place on Stockton Street (新凱豐燒臘店 'san hoi fung siu laap dim'), where one of the staff is my age, and asked recently if I was actually Caucasian.
Possibly because with a face mask on, you cannot see my big white nose.
Or maybe because I'm not fat and speak Cantonese.
Also, no tattoos.


CHARSIU KEDGEREE

One pound charsiu pork (叉燒), sliced at the store.
Four cups cooked rice.
Four hardboiled eggs, cut into quarters.
Two TBS Thai yellow curry paste.
One large onion, chopped.
Some minced ginger.
Generous pinches of nutmeg and ground cumin.
Dash Worcestershire Sauce (喼汁 'kip chap').

Chopped parsley / cilantro for garnish.
Lime wedges, sambal (chilipaste or hot sauce).

Slow-fry the onion and ginger in butter and olive oil till golden and fragrant. Add the curry paste and a little splash of water, stir to mix, continue cooking till the water is almost gone. Add the cooked rice and spice pinches, mix it. Then add the charsiu and the dash Worcestershire, and when it is all heated through, dump into a serving platter, and arrange the egg segments on top. Garnish with the parsley and cilantro. Or minced chives.

Serve with lime wedges and sambal.

Oh yeah, and a pot of strong tea.


Followed of course by a long contemplative walk around the neighborhood with a pipe and fine tobacco. Cigars for the ladies.

TOBACCO INDEX


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A SMELLY PLOT

My apartment mate would not be pleased. I am starting the day with a long Oliva Connecticut Cigar at my computer in the teevee room, with a stuffed turkey vulture in the other chair for company. He is pre-occupied with an egg. How do mother birds give birth to chocolate blobs?
Somehow, he feels, that must be wrong.

Are those things even edible?

Nah, I shall not mention the bunnies.
He's disturbed enough already.

The thing is, I am not supposed to be smoking inside. But she left nearly an hour ago to go to work (essential services), so with her door closed and the windows open, I can risk it. A cigar takes six hours to air out, a pipe four hours. So I'm okay till the afternoon, and if I cook myself a spicy curry for lunch she'll never know. Chilipaste, trassi, ginger, and spices.
Envelopes must be pushed for an Oliva cigar.
Four days ago it was Alec Bradley.
Two days ago, Placencia.

You cannot expect a man who grew up in a town known for cigar factories, smugglers, and talented criminals to be a good little weasel. Sometimes a cigar is more than just a cigar. It's a connection to a different world.

Admittedly one that reeks, and has stains all over it (like my bathrobe), as well as little deposits of ash, and a faint whiff of cow shit in the breeze, but it's a world with sunlight and forsythia, and at this time of year bulbs that come into bloom, as well as the first blossom buds on apple trees in back yards behind old brick buildings.

It is the time for strong coffee, and long jaunts into the fens south of town. Wildlife, and new growth. The hopefulness of gentle spring rain.

Maintaining one's sanity in this day and age requires the companionship of a turkey vulture, pipes or cigars, and coffee. Much as it ever was.
I pity people who lack those three great things.

Their reality is grim and terrifying.




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THE WAY THINGS ARE

Next week I see my doctor, as part of the follow-up from my treatment a year ago. And I expect he will ask me the usual questions, one of which is "Mr. Atboth, are you still smoking?" Well darn it, yes, of course I'm still smoking; my pipes and fine tobacco keep me sane. He will of course reprimand me, but at this point there are far greater dangers than enjoying a pipe three or four times a day. Do I need to mention one of them?

And, in fact, smoking on the streets of San Francisco ensures social distancing. The reek from the tobacco being burned guarantees that no women, children, vegetarians, and purists come anywhere near me.
Fastidious San Franciscans will avoid me like the plague.
Which is good. Perfect. Kindly keep doing that.
You are all potential vectors.

On the other hand, I'm walking more. Good for circulation, digestion, general mood, and a right leg that's been a pain in the nether regions for years.
Not being particularly social, these are the best of times.

Went through the pipe collection and added a few more to the rotation. Every walk means a smoke, and in the hours between walks, there may be toast with marmalade, a hot beverage, and a book.

One of the pipes back in circulation is one of the first pipes I restored.
A long Canadian, made by Comoy for Sutliff, probably mid to late thirties. Sutliff eventually became Grant's Pipe Shop when the original family left the retail trade and concentrated on manufacturing, being responsible for some good tobacco, as well as some pretty damned ghastly crap that was popular back in the day. Manager Ed Grant bought the shop.

Comoys made pipes for a large number of tobacconists.
But the shapes were recognizably theirs.

No, I cannot remember where I picked up that Corinthian. Despite it's age, and a few minor fills, it's a darn good smoke. The fills are barely larger than pinheads, and have turned quite grey. But they are scarcely visible. I worked on it in the mid-nineties, when the decrepit table in the kitchen was still in use as my workbench, before I repurposed it as a computer table, and a few years later got rid of it. The rim of the pipe was the most trouble, as the previous "occupant" had been very casual. Re-topped, re-bevelled.
Original stem.
It smokes very nicely, as the casual man had had decent smoking habits, and avoided fruity garbage. Meaning, almost certainly, that though he purchased a Sutliff stamped pipe, he avoided Sutliff tobacco.

And yes, I do associate this pipe with tea, and hot toast with melted butter and chunky orange marmalade. It's a comfortingly cozy pipe, with that delicious ancient briar that used to be somewhat more common. Like the other Corinthian which I mentioned a few months ago, there is a warm translucence to the lighter parts of the grain.

Sings with VaPers. And I remember it also performed superlatively with Balkan blends, such as I smoked habitually in the past.


"Mr Atboth, are you still smoking?!?"

"Oh heck yeah!"


Hot buttered toast tastes better on antique plates.
That's just the way it is.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SYNAPSES FIRING AT A MOVING TARGET

The only people out on the street early in the morning, when one might be enjoying a cigar on the front steps, are the insane and the donut-deprived. And for both types, it is a blessing that our donut-making fellow citizens are hard at work. At the donut purveyors, every one is equal. Probably also in danger, because "social distancing" is almost impossible there, or in the line outside, but on the same plane.

This blogger avoids donuts between four A.M. and eleven P.M. Donuts are what one snarfs for a late night snack when neither greasy pizza nor Pakistani appeal and one has run out of icecream at home.

We Dutch Americans invented the donut. You're welcome.


Sofar, no one has popularized a gluten-free OR chometz-free donut. Which is probably altogether a good thing. There is gluten-free pizza, but I have not tried it, and will probably successfully walk askance of it for the rest of my life. Chometz-free pizza is what you do with matzah during the intermediate days of passover, and reports are not favourable. There are reasons why matzah never caught on as a late night bar-closing snack.

No one actually dislikes matzah, and matzah brei is a nice thing, especially washed down with strong milky tea. I would recommend enjoying a cigar to follow, regarding which I am on the same page as at least three other people, but that is not universal.


Still, late night impulse shopping at a twenty-four hour supermarket seldom turns up matzah. Even in the weeks after the chag. One wonders why.
Naturally, at this time of year, one thinks of matzah.




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