I was full of it when I arrived.
[It was also breakfast and lunch. I had gotten somewhat distracted between early morning and late afternoon, and consequently had overlooked the fact that I needed sustenance.]
There were still several middle-aged degenerates sitting in the lounge, doing cigar-smoker-type things. Clearly, yowling at the television screen was part of it. Plus thumping. Extremely loud thumping.
Weak minds, strong cigars; a deadly combination.
The light flickered at the edges of my eyes.
Now dark, now bright again.
Vibrating.
Salsa picante hitting cerebral cortex.
A head-on collision.
The key theme for the meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club this past Thursday was commiseration. Profound commiseration. One of our members now lives on the East Coast, where snow falls in deep drifts nine months of the year, and the man-cave right under the rafters is unbearably cold and drafty, the weather is not conducive to smoking out of doors, and house-bound co-occupants of his living quarters out in the wilderness start screaming like buggered banshees if they notice even a whisp of pipe-smoke.
Possibly the only amelioration for our friend is Icelandic bee-honey.
It's crikey cold and dark, there is only fish to eat.
Strewth!
He might even gladly put up with the furry freaks in the cigar lounge, given a choice. It's spring in California, there are pansies everywhere, and we are wearing our gay kimonos.
Two tobaccos were mentioned in particular, one of which smelled like a middle-aged trollop, the other reeked ferociously of risky tart. There were also a few well-behaved flue-cured tobaccos present, including a very nice summer mixture by Nick, which prominently featured Red Virginia.
Jarred in 2013.
Naturally a tin of McClelland's Arcadia was also on the table, along with Peterson's Balkan Delight (peculiarly misnamed; it appears to have not a shred of Turkish leaf at all), and McConnel's Oriental.
[We were seated in between the Davidoff cigars and La Aroma de Cuba. Oliva, a fine Nicaraguan brand, was right behind us, along with Joya de Nicaragua, and Hoyo de Monterey. Opposite end of the building from the maniacs. Cigars unlit smell divine.
Cigar smokers in full burn, mostly putrid.]
We did not have an agenda, and consequently conversation strayed all over the place. Precisely like matches, tampers, and attention spans.
I felt strangely disconnected from it all, almost zonked.
Altogether, a schizophrenic experience.
Plus mildly tinnitic.
Meanwhile, giddy screams issued from the cigar lounge. I swear, those boys in there were having a mating frenzy over their ball game.
They disturbed our equilibrium.
In celebration of the season there was gefilte fish to snack upon.
I mention this because the copious quantity of salsa picante I had previously ingested was making me irritable and sensitive to loud noises. The energetic square dancing that the slope-browed yokels in the cigar lounge were engaged upon was giving me a screaming headache.
Shouldn't have eaten a substantial burrito beforehand.
I could've snacked upon gefilte fish instead.
Goes great with matzah.
So far this weak I've had avocado and matzah, Thai red curry with matzah, and, quite recently, peanut butter and jelly with matzah.
Matzah can also be dipped in salsa.
Gotta finish the box.
[A friend begs to inform me that matzah ALSO goes well with sprat. Which, like its close cousin the sardine, is small, wriggly, and high in polyunsaturated fats.
This is good information to know.]
Eventually the meeting broke up, with evidence of much bonhomie.
About an hour later I walked into the Occidental to give a friend a loaner-pipe, two pouches of tobacco, cleaners, a tamper, and advice on how to proceed with his first intro to an altogether pleasant habit.
Calmly we filled and lit our pipes, as the cigar smokers present lifted their voices in a fervid religious chant. The sportively garbed types on the television gave their utmost, as was made evident by intelligent commentary from the announcers and sundry hired experts.
Pipe-smoking can be as neurotic as you want it to be.
There is no hard right way, nor a wrong way.
It's a question of developing a feel.
There's a learning curve.
I can lend you a briar and some tobacco if you're curious.
When I got up the next day I regretted the salsa picante.
They probably don't have good salsa on the East Coast either.
Maybe our exiled member should build a greenhouse.
A small one, perhaps, next to the building.
When the snowdrifts melt.
To grow chilies.
AFTERWORD
About the only thing that matzah are really good for, by the way, is matzah brei. Which is easy to prepare, and can be eaten at any time, not just during Nisan. Break up several matzah into a bowl, add a splash of milk to soften, and klots an egg therein. Two if you're using enough matzah for another person. Eating matzah is a mitzvah.
Add a minute pinch of salt.
Heat up butter in a non-stick frypan till it starts to foam a little. Dollop the matzah batter into the pan, smoosh it a bit, and cook it till it starts to solidfy. Break up and smoosh again, by which time it should be set and slightly coloured here and there. Make batches rather than a thick lump.
Add a pat of butter to melt, and serve it hot.
A clot or two of sourcream on the side.
A selection of preserves to top.
Lots of strong hot milk tea.
And a cigar afterwards.
Oliva, series 'V'.
Maduro.
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