CHINESE GIRLS

Some Chinese girls are delightful. Well, not so much girls as elderly ladies. Old women. Like the auntie who sometimes sneaks a surreptitious cigarette directly across from my building in the afternoon. She lives around the corner, and I suspect her kinfolk would be properly horrified if they "officially" knew she smoked. They probably do know, but she hides it from them, and they won't say anything. Mm, this sun is good. This ledge is good.
This Marlboro is EXCEPTIONALLY good.

The woman at the bakery who used to work at the dimsum place that closed a few years ago. She likes seeing me, I like seeing her. We exchange a bit of chit chat, but we don't know each other's names. The age difference is not nearly enough to call her "auntie" -- at least I don't think so -- and "elder sister" might be too familiar. Friend (朋友 'pang yau').
The place were she used to work was filled with old ladies.
Nice people. Good food.

And of course "auntie with the pistachio-hued hat". Who is out getting a morning walk early everyday. This time last year she would trudge down the block a few times, stopping halfway to turn around and head back up. She made considerable progress over these months, and now frequently passes when I'm at the bus stop on Van Ness. I believe she's now doing ten to twelve blocks every morning. She's very chipper.

This morning I was about the neighborhood having an early smoke. She was across the street, and we waved at each other. Sometimes I see her leave the building where she lives, other times she's on one of the side streets. I think she must be in her late seventies.

She walks better than I do. My arthritic knee and hip are a pain in the whatsis.
So I'm a bit jealous.


I suspect that all these old ladies have children and grandchildren who hate the smell of tobacco, and consider it a nasty filthy habit, like most Californians these days. Born here, educated in English, scant ability to speak Cantonese. But supportive of grandma getting out of the house and being active. As well as too intimidated (respectful) to reign her in.

It's probably both immensely liberating and very good for their well-being.
And at that age, who would object to the occasional smoke?

Some elderly Cantonese ladies have very nice smiles when they're happy.
Such as when they see someone they know and like.
There are a number of them here.



And so far, none of them have done that 'repulsed by the horrid odour hand wave' when I pass by with my pipe. This morning's bowlful was aged red Virginia with the merest whisps of Perique and fire cured Kentucky. Perfect for a brisk stroll on a sunny day.
A kind of old-school tobacco smell.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE SOUR OLD GIT DOWN THE BLOCK

There's a meme on the internet which has as its final text "I'm old and I know things". Which makes complete sense to us old guys, and "old" in modern speech refers to everyone over forty. Where "antique" as well as "dessicated and clapped out" and "rickety fossil" start.

Apparently I am old and know things.


That surprises the heck out of me. I'm just a slightly anal person with mild Aspergers and a curiosity about stuff, not particularly neurotic, and I research things that catch my interest.
Which, I will maintain, is absolutely normal.

Indeed I have done some peculiar things a little more intensely and in-depth than many people. In particular I have indulged my curiosity about pipe tobaccos and the equipment in which to smoke them. The interest in pipes is shown in this site: Briar Pipe Illustrations.
I've also smoked a lot of stuff.

These are clickable links that tell you some of the tobaccos I've tried: ASHTON PIPE TOBACCOS,  BAAI TABAK (The Dutch preference Maryland ribbon blends),  DRUCQUERS BLENDS,  CORNELL AND DIEHL BLENDS BY BOB RUNOWSKI,  ESOTERICA TOBACCIANA,  DUNHILL,  GLPEASE,  MCCONNELL,  MCCLELLAND,  PETERSON PIPE TOBACCOS,  RATTRAY'S VIRGINIAS,  SAMUEL GAWITH,  SUTLIFF A (aromatics),  SUTLIFF B (non-aromatics).


And of course, Erinmore Flake: My Dalliance With A trollop.

A fellow Dutch American (who likes Ennerdale FLake) would not forgive me if I neglected to link my opinion about the nastiest tobacco ever: Clan, by Theodorus Niemeyer. Which is in exactly the same category of heretical offensiveness as Molto Dolce, Cult Bloodred Moon, Mixture 79, and Hobbit's Weed.



I have not delved much into the subject of medicated footpowder.
That's an oversight I must correct at some point.
For the military readership.
It's important.

TOBACCO INDEX


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GETTING ALL JIGGY WITH IT; THE SPIRITUAL ASPECT OF PUBLIC DRINKING

Being, as you know, a very negative person and downright nasty, I am not looking forward to tomorrow, when Americans of all heritages and ethnic origins will engage in public intoxication, a great American tradition brought to us primarily by English-speaking rump hats.

Curvaceous wenches in zesty sex-slut leprechaun outfits.
College boys speaking in brogues. Corned beef.
People puking in brotherly droves.

There's nothing more American than Saint Patrick's day.
When, traditionally, I stay entirely out of bars, because some inbred fifth generation yutz invariably takes offense at my accent and tries to pop me one.


I fully expect the idiots in the second floor apartment across the street to throw a raucous party. If it goes on past ten a clock I'm calling the riot squad on them.


Saint Patrick's Day is meant for quiet self-reflection, austerity, and snakes.


All Celtic music sounds better with accordions and banjos.


Heathens! You're all heathens!



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IF YOU LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO, FORGET ABOUT GETTING VACCINATED

Three weeks ago 'City and County of San Francisco' sent me an e-mail telling me breathlessly that I am elligible for the vaccine. So I checked around, made phone calls, and investigated. The result? Zip diddly. Yesterday they sent another breathless e-mail. And, with the news blaring that vaccines were now open to "middle aged people" (defined as aged sixteen to sixty four years old), my hopes went up.


I need not have hoped. This is San Francisco. So nix, nada, diddly squat. Complete bupkes. According to California's state government, ten percent or more of the state's population have been fully vaccinated. I did not know so many of us worked for the state. San Francisco is patting itself on the back about how they've performed very well indeed.
Many people are on the public payroll.


Based on today's results, I am not likely to get vaccinated in this city until sometime in the next century. If ever. So I fully expect another one of their damned breathless e-mails, rather like the Nigerian Banker e-mails or the Irish Sweepstakes, with exactly the same depressing results, before the end of the month. And then again in April. And May.

Yesterday I met two more people who have experienced a Covid 19 infection. Sofar, none of the Covid veterans I've met have died, but it's only a matter of time.

Many of our politicians have been vaccinated. Bar tenders who haven't worked in months have been vaccinated. Street people have been vaccinated.


If you are not a politician, bar tender, or street person, you have probably not been vaccinated.

You probably won't be.

Die, mofo.




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SALTED COD AND OTHER FRAGMENTS

At giyara bajeh das minute ke bad, my apartment mate needed access to the internet on her computer, so I went into the bathroom to ponder life's great mysteries. Like why the stuffed turkey vulture (Sydney Fylbert) always wants to know if I ran into any corpses or cadavers on the way home and why I didn't just make any, good lord don't I realize that he's hungry? Whether the asthmatic street person two blocks away is an idiot, or if he'll actually survive long enough to get to his vaccination appointment two weeks hence. Will the electrician who's van is parked down the block stay in business till after this is over? And why is it so frikkin' cold?!?

Dingin la! Sejuk sekali!

I'm blaming the Republicans for this weather. Winter started when they were still in power.


Other deep questions:

Does Mary in North Carolina really need to stand on a footstool to scowl, or is that just so her husband Kaz can actually see the frowny lines on her forehead?

Why do I think more in scraps of other languages when it's cold?

Is Bergen Norwegen dialect really a work of the devil (as Cathrine Neslein Bugge avers in her groundbreaking essay "Bergens-dialekten Er Djevelens Verk") or is that a Neinorsk/Bokmal prejudice?
Cite:"Vi som fremdeles holder fast ved Gud ma smarest overtaler Bergenserne till å legge av seg sitt sprog av slutte å bekjempe Gud. Her må Kristne Bergensere gå foran i kampen. Gud velsigne dere!"


As someone who is able to read Dutch State Bible language, I am perfectly willing to assume that Bergen dialect ("Bergensk") is indeed the work of the devil. Those people should learn the Netherlandish tongue of the seventeenth century, that way they can converse in a civilized and sanctified language with the Christianized natives of northern Celebes, verkrampte Calvinist preachers in the Transvaal, and my ancestors in New York and New Jersey.
They'll stop taking heads when raiding enemy tribes.
And probably discover herring.

My ancestors in New York and New Jersey were godly people. One of them had twenty eight offspring who lived to adulthood. Probably because there was no television or central heating.


And naturally, one thinks of salt cod.



DRIED CODFISH
Klipvis, stokvis

The Vikings probably learned how to preserve cod for long voyages and sustenance during the bleak part of the year from the natives of Newfoundland a thousand years ago. That knowledge was transmitted to the Basques, Portuguese, and Dutch -- by imitation and osmosis -- which, accidentally, led to Europeans becoming the dominant hairy barbarians in much of the world.
Klipvis is cod salted before drying, stokvis is unsalted. Both types must be soaked in water before use. Those terms are often used for any fish thus preserved.
Dialectically, it is also 'labberdaan'.


One pound of salted cod, with potatoes, onion, and tomatoes, is dinner for four people.

HABERDINE WITH POTATO
[Labberdaan met aerpel]

One LBS Salt Cod.
One LBS potato (4 whites, or 8 reds, more or less).
Two large onions.
Four tomatoes.
A hefty squeeze of lemon juice.
A few cloves garlic.
Pepper, and a pinch of sugar.
Sherry or white wine.
Olive oil.

Soak the cod in several changes of cold water for a day or two. Drain. skin it, break apart coarsely, remove bones.
Dice the onions, chop the potatoes into chunks. Peel and seed the tomatoes, chop coarse. Mince the garlic.
Precook the potato for ten minutes in water, drain. Now gild the onion and the potato chunks with a generous amount of olive oil in a casserole, when the edges are starting to turn, add the fish and garlic. Agitate a little, then add tomatoes, lemon juice, a splash of white wine or sherry, water to cover, and a few turns from the pepper mill. Plus the pinch of sugar. A bay leaf or two would not be amiss. Neither would a handful of chopped parsley. Bring to a boil, turn to low, and let it simmer for half an hour. Take care that it not burn on the bottom.
The finished dish should be slightly soupy.
Remove bay leaves before serving.




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REALITY BITES

Some of my Facebook friends live in a different universe than I do. Which is one of the reasons I like Facebook, it keeps me grounded and in-touch with reality.

CITE 1:
Lovely bhatura, chana masala and gulab jamun combi. Only thing missing on this sweltering afternoon is a tall glass of chilled nimbu pani.

CITE 2:
I got a thing of lite Mayo because I felt guilty about cholesterol but it is gross. I found a use for it though - cleaning up sticky resinous stuff (follow with detergent).

CITE 3:
Doctors are warning people not to put frozen potatoes in their anus.


Taken together, these paint a picture of somewhere warm and sunny (perhaps too sunny), where food is treated in interesting ways.

A serving of chole bhatura would be splendid right now.

Hold the potato and mayo.




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FULL DAYLIGHT AND RAIN

Getting up on time this morning was no problem, neither was catching the bus to work. But in the quiet hours between those two actions, the effervescent madness, tension, and sense of urgency affected me. I forgot to take my daily medications while at the computer with my first cup of coffee. Consequently I was ill at ease and slightly uncomfortable for most of the day.

This did NOT impact on my conversations.
They were as sane and balanced as you would expect.

A rational man is not easily flapped or fazed.

"Right wing America has the hots for a cartoon bunny"
"No, that's just Tucker Carlson.
"It tells you something about Southern ideals of womanhood."
"Tells you that they're out of their minds there."
"It must be the climate."

That was while I was enjoying the first pipe of the day, in a pipe that has turned out to be one of my best smokes since I restored it a few years ago. A pleasing development, as the beginning was mediocre and unmemorable, and I wondered if I should bother having a new stem made. When one "redeems" pieces from the discard pile (too tarred and feathered, too clobbered and bitten through, and a of brand that means squiddly dot as far as collectability is concerned), it's always a crap shoot; will it be worth the time and effort? Will it return to a decent life and perform in a civilized manner? Will it eventually be something that one likes?

Some have not been so. Oh well, gave it the old school try.
This one is top-notch.


FURTHER LIGHT CONVERSATION

"Do you remember when my appendix exploded?" "No, should I?" "When I was recovering from surgery, they asked me three questions; did you pass gas, did you urinate, did you have a bowel movement yet?" "Should you really be talking about this in the presence of a lady?" "Oh, she's heard all of it already, in any case, what it seemed like is that I had died and gone to an English public school, where they worry about such things as regularity. Were they going to force me to take a cold shower next? It took me a day or two before I figured-out that they were just trying to see if the old fart was starting to function normally or were drastic measures in order." "They probably should've forced you into that cold shower. That would've done it."


"Where does one find "authentic" biryani in San Francisco? Anytime I've ordered it, it's some kind of fried rice dish. Not bad, but definitely not biryani." "You can't. Here it has to be homemade. Restaurants don't do it, it's always some kind of fried rice dish."


Second pipe of the day was in the hour leading up to lunch.

I can't remember the third pipe of the day. Around tea time, during a hectic period at work.
A retired gentleman confessed that the change from normal time to daylight savings had disturbed his routine. Everything was off. First cigar had been much later than usual.
I told him that it was only temporary. They would return his lost hour later, though without interest. It was like putting money in a checking account at the bank.

He asked if they'd at least give him a toaster for opening an account with them.

Unfortunately, it doesn't quite work that way.

TOBACCO INDEX


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EASTERN EUROPEANS, BRAZILIANS, PUNJABIS, AND OFFENSIVE OLD GEEZERS

Eastern Euries, Brazilians and Argentians, Punjabis and Gujus, and offensive old geezers; what do they all have in common? They don't know how to wear a mask over their noses. If they're adults (obviously the elderly bastards are), you'd probably assume that they would have wigged on to the fact that they breathe through their noses by now. Nope. That big beak is purely decorative as far as they're concerned, that's why it has to be shown.

Can you tell that I'm a little peeved?


Over the past few days I've had conversations with people who will refuse the vaccine.
Herewith a sampling, representative of modern society.


MICRO CHIP MAN

A person whom I know because of work is convinced that the vaccine will implant a microchip. Dude, I know your smoking history and I'll gladly tell "them" everything they want to know. And you're seventy six; "they" can easily run you down. Goodbye, it was nice knowing you (actually, it wasn't, because you're an idiot, but I'm being diplomatic).


I'M SPECIAL! I'M PURE!

Another person volunteered that she won't get the vaccine because she doesn't "do chemicals", and she used to have an allergic reaction whenever she got the flu shot. I know what she eats; she definitely does do chemicals. But she's relying on ginger, turmeric, cayenne, and apple cider vinegar (btw: she gets the flu very badly each year).


MY PRECIOUS BODILY FLUIDS!

This one is convinced that the vaccine will alter his DNA. Listen, buster, your wife is waaaaay past child-bearing age, what the heck are you planning? And does your wife know?


IT'S THEM! THEY PLANNED THIS!

Apparently people of a certain religious derivation finalized their dastardly plan, and this will lead to world domination. No, not the Mormons.


BILL GATES!

'Nuff said. This one is a moron.


I KNOW MORE THAN ACTUAL DOCTORS

"I'm in the healthcare field. No way am I taking it!" And I keenly wish to know precisely where this one works, so I can avoid that place like the plague. He's a blithering jackass.


IT'S AN EXPERIMENT IN POPULATION CONTROL

In your case, they should have started that fifty years ago.


THEY CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

Don't cross on red. Pull tab to open. Caution, hot surface.



At work, you don't always have a choice about the people who talk. So unfortunately I cannot say "listen buster, you are a fool and also an a**hole. You poison the air in your immediate vicinity just by being alive. Please shut up, for the love of dog shut up, shut the hell up".

Not getting the vaccine makes them more likely to die soon.
That's cool. I'm totally fine with that.



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THE MIND BUBBLES

After a day's work I am not the most sociable of men. What I want upon getting home is a hot beverage (caffeinated), maybe something to eat, and the freedom to read. I do not need overmuch conversation, or an alcoholic beverage. Understandably then, I view the drinkers down the street enjoying outdoor seating at a local bar with considerable jaundice.
Gentlepersons, you are all gigantic blistering idiots.
And some of you will catch Covid.

Yes, I know. It's Saturday night, and some of you wish to engage in procreative behaviours. Can't you do that quietly and alone?

My work necessitates conversation. It is frequently more content rich, more interesting, and quite devoid of procreative intent. Participants leave satisfied. No alcohol changed hands.


Sometimes smoking equipment and tobacco is involved.

The pipe shown here is one that I've had for many years. It shows up in the few photos of me in what could be assumed to be a social environment, though I am not visibly socializing. There is, in fact, scant photographic evidence that I have ever socialized. People with Aspergers syndrome do not feel the need to record their social encounters.
We were there. Isn't that enough?


The last times that I went to a local bar I would leave my drink on the counter, and go outside to smoke. A pipe can take up to an hour, depending on bowl size, and even smaller briars can easily occupy a half hour span. Clearly I was not there to engage in karaoke singing, procreative chit chat, or discussions of sports and politics with random strangers.


There was a time at the Edinburgh Castle on Geary street that I had gone into the front room to enjoy a smoke. A young lady came in after me, sat down on the couch, and started making suggestive small talk. Seeing as I was in a relationship at the time, and have never engaged in spur of the moment procreative acts, and certainly not with strangers, I brushed off her every approach. Finally she flopped out a breast and started massaging her nipple.
She asked "are you threatened by my femininity?"

No ma'am. Appalled.

I remember the event, but I cannot recall what her face or her breast looked like. Unfortunately I cannot remember the pipe or the tobacco either. It must have been an English blend -- what in England they call Oriental or Balkan -- because that was when you could still smoke in a bar in San Francisco. Which was before I started smoking mostly Virginias and Virginia and Perique mixtures. Seeing as the Edinburgh Castle at that time was full-tilt Scottish themed, the beverage will have been a single malt. Loch DenIb Qatlh. Or something.

I'm certain that I enjoyed the drink.


When having a glass of Loch DenIb Qatlh, do not add ice. Though a teaspoon of branch water is okay, as it redistributes the lighter elements (oils?) that cause an irridescence on the surface of the liquor. You don't want them to flee too soon.


Scotch whisky and Oriental blends both smell of terpeneols, which the smoke curing imparts to the product. Hence a similarity of fragrance, an overlap of the Venn diagram if you will. Which should automatically remind you of Lapsang Souchong tea, a hot caffeinated beverage.

I don't know about other people, but none of this reminds me of breasts.

Breasts are good too.

TOBACCO INDEX


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CODDLED FINGERS

Yesterday was food-centric. It wasn't supposed to be, but after shopping in Chinatown my fingers were blue-grey (Raynaud's), so I went directly home. Cooking lunch warmed them up enough that they looked normal again. As you would expect, I'm keenly looking forward to the outside temperature minus wind chill etcetera being consistently over fifty seven degrees Fahrenheit. Preferably up to sixty, sixty two or three.

Later I went out with a thicker coat and gloves. Smoked one of my dad's old pipes.

When I got home, tea, and reading about food.
It's a consuming passion.
Forgive the joke.


Food is comfort. Food is life. Food is circulation in the fingers.



MASALAS FROM SEVERAL YEARS AGO ON THIS BLOG

There is a recipe for Parsi dhansak masala that's far more authentic than the commonly posted weird substitute.

This is Bawaji's Mom's Version:

One teaspoon Methi (Fenugreek) seeds
Half teaspoon Cumin seeds
4 Cloves
2 Cardamoms (green)
Half inch stick cinnamon
Six to seven dry red chilies (more like chile d'arbol than other)
One clove garlic

One and a half to two teaspoons dhana-jeera masala (add when frying paste).


My own version is as follows:

9 Dry chilies (Guajillo or New Mexico chiles secos).
Two and a half TBS coriander seed.
One and a half TBS cumin seed.
One TBS whole peppercorns.
Half a TBS fennel seed.
Half a TBS black mustard seed.
Half a TBS fenugreek seed.
Three Tej Patta (cassia leaves - omit if unavailable).
Three green cardamom pods, seeds only.
One black cardamom pod, seeds, only.
One three-inch stick of cinnamon.
One star-anise pod.
Nine whole cloves.
One Tsp. mace.




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SO NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN!

Walking around the neighborhood late, long after nightfall. There are few people about, even down at the bar on the corner where they have fire baskets for warmth. Three Mexicans across the street were having a cheerful conversation with beers and masks. Two women at the bus stop recognized me, we exchanged greetings.


好耐冇見 ('hou noi mou kin'), haven't seen you in a long time!
係啊，一年 ('hai ah, yat nin'), indeed, a whole year!


The last time I saw either of them was before lockdown, when I was heading into Chinatown to meet a friend. Whom I also have not seen for that long, but we keep in contact on Facebook.

I am sincerely glad to see that the two of them appear to be well.
Having wished them a good new year, I continued my walk.

Both of them work nearby, in the food service industry. Which has been hit rather hard these past severeal months. So I would imagine that they have become primary breadwinners for their families, but make considerably less than they used to, which probably wasn't much to begin with.


Many people I know are in that exact same demographic. Food industry Cantonese American. I'm glad to see that most of them are holding their head above the water, but I sincerely wish the "flood" didn't come up so high. Down from the high-end restauarants, which charge enough that only doctors, lawyers, and computer programmers can afford to eat there, the profits of the SF food-industry are not particularly good. It's a job, but realistically it's a lousy job. Especially at most ethnic cuisine eateries other than Sushi and French, of course.
Places where white Americans are accustomed to cheap food.
And balk at paying Caucasian labour prices.
Because, you know, because!

I rarely ate out with other people before the pandemic, as I prefer Chinese or Indonesian food, not every one's cup of tea, and my fellow Caucasians who have not been in the food service industry usually don't understand tipping. 'Surely ten percent on a chow mein tab is enough?' Actually, it isn't. That would be a buck, rounding up. Perhaps you should consider contributing a five dollar bill to the tip? If your bill came to less than fifteen bucks, no one is getting rich here, and your utensils have to be bussed and cleaned after you leave, the table has to be wiped and made spotless, and the next white person is probably a cheapskate, might even be a European who doesn't believe in tipping.

Before Covid I budgetted tips at Chinese restaurants and chachantengs at thirty to forty percent of the bill. Two or three dollars at bakeries and self service counters. Those people have to live too, and I wish to remembered as an all-right guy the next time I go there.
Rather than the usual cheap mofo who is rude and leaves a mess.
I am looking forward to being able to do that again.
Good people, atmosphere, and food.


Hardly ever did I eat Sushi or French food.
Too much bourgeois snootiness.
You pay for that.



AFTER WORD

A black woman at the drugstore complimented me on my pipe. She likes old school briars like that. She still has her grandfather's pipe, at home, where her parents live. If she's not opposed to tobacco and open to suggestions, I may eventually talk her into smoking it occasionally, and give her some pointers on suitable tobacco mixtures, keeping it lit and enjoying the experience, and the necessary cleaning, because a clean pipe is a happy pipe.
And pipes bring back memories and moods.




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SF CHINATOWN NOT ELLIGIBLE FOR VACCINE

"Elligible: People living in the 94112, 94134, 94124, 94110, 94107, 94102, 94103, and 94130 zip codes who are age 65+ OR who work in the following types of jobs: healthcare, childcare, education, restaurants and other food service, transit, and emergency services."

So basically, most of Chinatown (zip codes 94102, 94108, 94109, 94111, and 94133) is NOT elligible. The word from city government (mayor London Breed and pals) to Chinatown may very well be "go screw yourselves", but they aren't quite putting it that way.
Because doing so would be bad for their political careers.
It might come back to haunt them.

Not entirely coincidentally, most of the people I care about live in those five zipcodes.
94102 (!), 94108, 94109, 94111, and 94133.

I'm not eligible either. Wrong zip code, and although I deal with many people in close proximity as part of my job, that doesn't qualify as "healthcare, childcare, education, restaurants and other food service, transit, and emergency services". And I'm not yet old enough.

None of the people at the (crowded) shops where I purchase supplies are.

Well, that's one load off my mind. We can all rot.

Screw you, San Francisco.




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THE TASTE OF EXILE: SURINAMESE CHAROSET

The Portuguese Jewish community of Suriname was established in 1639, in the settlement of Torarica close to Paramaribo. What with some things being a bit difficult at that time and place, adaptation spurred innovation. The charoset they made for Pesach naturally deviated a little from what Americans are familiar with. Sort of twixt mediaeval European and Tropic.
The varied paths eventually settled into a familiar concoction.
It was popularized for North Americans after the war.
Although it never really caught on.

And considering that charoset is, ab initio, a relic of hotter climes with which Ashkenazim would only be familiar if they visit Miami Beach or Tallahassee (which have a climate halfway between hell and Paramaribo, though wetter than Sinai), it might be interesting to experiment. Why not? Gotta make the crackers edible.

For reference purposes, because Pesach is not a family tradition (though it was for a few years something I experienced), here is a recipe for Surinamese charoset.


SURINAMESE CHAROSET

One cup each of the following ingredients: crumbled or slivered almonds, raisins, dried apples, dried appricots, dried bananas or dates. Two or three cups grated coconut. Half a cup of jam (cherry, apricot, or other suitable preserve). Four tablespoons sugar. One tablespoon ground cinnamon, half a teaspoon ground clove.

Chop and mix, put in a pan with water to barely cover, simmer over low while stirring till it resembles spackle or cement. Add a cup of dessert wine (though I would use something 'drier', sherry for instance), stir to incorporate, and refrigerate till needed.


Bearing in mind the huge differences, charoset on matza is analogous to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.


Now, for the bitter vegetable (maror), although horseradish or parsley and salt water is common, consider also using sopropo.

Bitter melon (momordica charantia) is called 苦瓜 ('fu gwaa') or 涼瓜 ('leung gwaa') in Cantonese, karela in Hindi and Urdu, peria or paré in Indonesian, ampalaya / palaya in the Philippines, and sopropo in Sranangtongo. It is a cucurbit. Cut it in half and scrape out seeds and pith, then slice, and soak in salt water to remove some of the bitterness.
Dress with a little pepper, olive oil and lime juice.
Your children will probably hate it.


It is available wherever there is an exiled group of South East Asians or Cantonese. In the Netherlands you may find it at Caribbean markets. Marvelous, cooked with fatty meats.


Paramaribo has temperatures in the high eighties for most of the year, and it rains a fair amount. It is quite livable, very diverse culturally, and malaria is no longer endemic.
Parbo Beer is the most popular beverage.



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HE'S SITTING OVER THERE!

What happens when you get a group of people, mostly Jews, with a decent number of Talmud Torah scholars, rabbis, and general Judean interests readers together? A Facebook group arguing first century common era liberation and communal politics, and how do we effectively fight the Romans ("Romanum ite domum!") while staying woke, cool, with it, relevant, and politically correct. In the context of whether Loretta CAN have a baby, acknowledging her right to do so, and is it okay to just ignore that other group's sacrificing of an unkosher chicken (we don't recognize their heksher) at an alternative all inclusive temple in the Galilee, should we send them a letter of approval drafted by a committee, OR do we demand that they be formally placed in cherem, and must henceforth be blocked, boycotted, blacklisted, shunned, and avoided by all of society. Censure, and a formal act of detestation.

Judean People's Front, People's Front of Judea, Judean Popular Front, Splitters™.
Mostly Sadducees. One Boethusian. NO Essenes!


"There are rumours of things going astray, and there is great confusion as to where things really are, and nobody really knows where lieth those little things with a sort of raffia work base, it has an attachment."


Romanes Eunt Domus

Namo, namabo, namabam, namem, namarem, Nachman.
Nama, namare, namavī, namatum.

So then, Romanum ite domum.

I'm blaming the Romans for this horrid weather.
It was cold in the middle of the night.
When I woke up to pee.



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AN ANTIQUE MINDED MAN

It is with sadness that I constate that many of my ancestors and related kin never knew the joy of noodles. Because their city, New Amsterdam, was traded to the English for thirty pieces of silver, along with them, before noodles had become Dutch food. That would not happen until the Hokkien Chinese had been long settled in Batavia, and the Malays, Javans, and Orang Belanda eventually got used to good cooking.

Noodles, in their Asian variations, have been Dutch food for over a century, but only really took off about seventy years ago.


In that same period that the West Indies Company gave up New Amsterdam, the Trịnh Lords won their long fight against the Nguyễn, and trade with the VOC withered. Had the Dutch at that time had foresight, we'd now be up to our necks in eagle-wood incense, fine cinnamon, and rice stick noodles.

My apartment mate on Monday brought home some chao mien. I feasted on some of it Tuesday for lunch. Tuesday evening she brought home Thai noodles in satay sauce.


毒寮

The Dutch should have thought to introduce the Vietnamese to Persian opium and decent tobacco. Then they would have gladly stayed within the VOC mercantile orbit, and ended up smoking good stuff instead of "poison from Laos" (thuốc lào; 'duk liu'). Nicotiana rustica, which makes you lightheaded while it rips your lungs out. Sadly very traditional. Opium, of course, has been widely outlawed almost everywhere for nearly a hundred years.

Apparently taking a hit of rusticana is marvelous for the digestion. A generation ago, many Vietnamese Americans, being mostly urbanites in touch with the modern world, customarily smoked State Express 555 instead, because both the pipe and the tobacco variety were unavailable in America, and huffing a bong was, generally speaking, frowned upon.

That was something I did not know at the time. But I happily bought the cigarettes, which were available at every noodle soup place, and smoked one or two as I lazily finished my glass of iced Viet coffee after lunch. And maybe had a second one.

You can't do that anymore. They've en masse switched to Marlboro Lights. Which are trash, but cheap, and they don't need to be smuggled in from Hong Kong or Vancouver. And you can not puff away indoors anyway, because Anglos have gone on a massive anti-smoking kick which infects nearly everyone who comes in contact with them.



After a meal, I find that it is enjoyable to have some tobacco.

Years ago it would have been a good medium Latakia blend, these days it's more likely a solid flake, or an aged Virginia and Perique compound. Last night during the rain I enjoyed a bowlful of Samuel Gawith's Full Virginia Flake. While getting wet. With an umbrella. Because even though she's of Chinese ancestry, my apartment mate has some very Anglo tendencies.
Like repudiating tobacco usage in all its forms.

She's never seen one of these things, which are not entirely uncommon in Chinatown where she grew up. But they're relics, in a way. Elderly immigrants recalling home by their use.

I do not know what the uncles smoke in them there. It's probably crumbled up Marlboros or Prince Albert. Nicotiana rustica is neither grown in California nor easily available.

Sam Gawith is not for sale in Chinatown.
Rather a pity, that.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE WETNESS AND THE CHEESE

Having lived in the Netherlands during most of my formative years, I should be used to the rain. And largely, rain does not depress me, but gives me visual comfort. Though it is mood-altering, and my emotional state is different during inclement weather. Also, I prefer to be indoors looking out. More womb-like. Comfortable.

I dreamed I was in our old house in Valkenswaard, downstairs in the front room. The sliding doors to the dining room were ajar, which was unusual. My brother preferred to keep them closed. The dining room was his study. His chess books were there. It was dark, velvety.
And someone I knew was coming down the stairs.

When I woke just before midnight I went out to the front steps of the building where I live now and had a smoke. It is cold, the street is wet. Somehow it seems more gloomy than home. There was someone still sitting in the bus stop down the block. A fairly mediocre place to shelter from the weather.


It has rained off and on since after tea time.

We do not get tropic downpours here.
And never typhoons either.



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IT IS VERY CALM THERE, YOU LIKE IT!

Sago and tapioca are not the same. Sago is used as the staple starch in the Eastern islands of Indonesia, in the form of breads, sago congee (bubog sago, papeda), and sometimes pancake-like things. Its is easily digested, not particularly nutritious, and boring. A habitual rice or bread eater will soon become tired of it and find it dreary, sometimes downright repulsive.

To make such a meal more interesting, birds eye chili peppers, shallots, dried fish, turmeric, and limes (limo kasturi) are used. Sometimes the side dishes are quite exciting and zesty. The same pattern, more or less, exists in the Sulu archipelago, where cassava (kamote) is commonly eaten.

Because papeda is so dull, both texturally and flavour-wise, chopped ingredients and distinct chunks are prefered in condiments.

The "national" sambal of the Moluccas, tjolo-tjolo (katjule) is similar to Mexican salsas, being usually coarsely chopped shallots, birdseye chilies, green tomato, citrus juice, sweet soy sauce, and herbs (basil). Plus one ingredient commonly known as "grease-shit" ('tae minyak'). Which is left-over cooking oil from lots of frying, similar in concept to bacon grease in English working class cooking, or pepper oil for Cantonese food.

For charcoal grilled fish, the sambal is glopped on while cooking, and for most everything else served alongside.

[For most of my life I have avoided sago. Not so tjolo-tjolo.]



ZAMBOANGA TO JOLO

The Tausug and Samal on shipboard were accustomed to the motions, but the Tagalogs and Ilocanos got motion sick while the boat was still moored. Many of them did not make it to the railing in time. We were still waiting to leave nearly six hours after our "scheduled departure", and continued taking on passengers far beyond the alleged limit. Standard practice.
By the time we left, the "bathrooms" resembled a slice of hell.
The trip took five hours, a calm sea.
Lots of sick Northerners.

I was told not to leave the city beyond the port area (China Pier, Fishing Market), because the countryside was "unsettling". "Surely you mean 'unsettled'?" "Unsettling, present tense. There are many guns there." Filipinos are, in many parts of the country, more attached to their weapons than pudgy American macho men or Japanese tourists at the range.
Not all of them are freelancers, some are privately employed for that.

Necessarily I spent most of my time there walking around the neighborhood within a few blocks of the hotel, looking for food, and smoking my pipes.

The pipe above was one I had bought in Berkeley several years before.

In retrospect, it was not a journey I would make again. And I've forgotten most of the Tausug language in any case, because one seldom runs into anyone who speaks it here in San Francisco. Other than a few dishes, what I ate was unexcitingly popular (and very good) northern stuff such as could be found in Manila or General Santos City, very decent Hokkien Chinese food, or local snacks of improbable derivation. Plus pastries. Ensemada. Puto. Pan de sal, and pan de leche. Pan de koko. Sausage empanadas. And too much cassava.

I did make it to Bud Dahu (Bud Dato), Maimbung, and Talipao, but those were quick visits, and we heard gunfire a few times. It's green there, but the climate is not suitable for growing rice. You go to the Chinese shop for that.


Several weeks afterward, I made it to Port Holland on Basilan.
You can probably understand why I had to go there.
No, it doesn't resemble Amsterdam.



Tobacco is grown extensively (in Batangas, Ilocos, and Pangasinan), but finding good pipe mixtures (or any pipe mixtures) is hard. It became necessary to arrange for a friend with the airlines to bring it in for me.

By the way, I'm rather fond of Mafran Banana Ketchup.
But I've heard Jufran is actually better.
We'll disagree on that.



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GIMME SOME OF THAT!

Maybe it is appropriate that the video of a man over a period of several days feeding the seagull outside his top floor window gets interrupted by an advertisement for Sub Zero, Wolf, and Cove. I hate those ads. I shan't buy their products. Everybody in those ads looks healthier, more prosperous, and more bourgeois than me. And there is NO chilipepper OR sambal in any of their damned videos. Despite evidence of ethnicity, they look too white for that.
I also strongly doubt that those drips have even heard of fish sauce.

The seagull ate very well. Smoked salmon. Scotch egg.
Fish sticks, fish cakes, fish salad.

Such a happy bird.

What that seagull obviously needed afterwards was a cup of strong coffee and a smoke. Plus somewhere to warm his tootsies by the fire. At some point, I'm going to draw that, because the idea charms me. But this morning's illustration is something I drew yesterday, namely the squat bulldog pipe I've had since my late teens. First one I acquired.

I've always been fond of squat bulldogs. Clark Gable had nothing to do with it, I never saw the photos of him happily smoking one till a couple of years ago, but he looked incredibly content doing so. The acme of smooth and confident. Soigné.

It's a great tea time pipe, but I held off, and decided to smoke it this morning while out taking an early walk. After which dammit I now need somewhere to warm my tootsies by the fire. With a cup of strong coffee. I used to be able to hack this weather, but I think I've lost some of my teenage insulation over the years.

Shouldn't surprise anyone, because I haven't been a teenager for decades.

I fear that in some ways I resemble that seagull more than a juvenile human. I'll have some of what he's having. Smoked salmon, Scotch egg, fish by-products, and a yummy flaked smoked fish salad. And perhaps buttered toast to hold it all up.

Followed by coffee, and in lieu of a warm fire I'm going back to bed.
The down comforter is like a nest, I'll read a bit.
It's cold enough for that.

TOBACCO INDEX


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