WHY THE UNITED STATES IS THE GREATEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD

There are precisely three reasons why America is the greatest country in the world. Only three, and they aren't what you would expect.


THREE REASONS:

We're nearly an entire continent, sort of. Almost.

We've got the Grand Canyon.

And we're China's biggest customer.


It certainly isn't education, health, housing, medical care, nutrition, low infant mortality, freedom, equal justice, or public good. Nor cuisine and culture. No, ideals and high morals aren't up there either, and we haven't been a shining beacon in years. Disneyworld and fastfood don't rank.

Nor is Texas a reason. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Realistic people know that we have sunk.

The rest of you are crazy.

And stupid.



Fortunately some of us live in San Francisco, where most of the rest of you aren't. Yes, you come and visit occasionally -- we know it's you, because of lumbering size -- but we take some comfort in a more varied and interesting cultural spectrum, a far better selection of things to eat, more bookstores per capita than many other places, and the fact that we are the very end of the known universe, far away Texas and Baltimore.

It ain't much, but it's something.



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THE VERY PICTURE OF HEALTH

Like a few other individuals, I am one that rare breed that hardly ever gets the flu. What that really means is that I probably get infected just as much as everyone else, but without manifesting any evident symptoms. About four years ago I felt ill on the cable car, and was fine the next morning.
Four years before that I had a fever for two days.

But that, basically, has been the scope of it.

Consequently I am quite insufferable.

I gloat in my health.

Neener.



No longer. For the next several months, or maybe just weeks -- or even only two or three days -- I shall be properly humble. Onset of flu Friday afternoon, in the middle of cigars. Miserable by nightfall.
Felt like death warmed over all day yesterday, weak and achy, and upon getting home went to bed after a brief insane blogpost. This morning I still felt nasty as all getout, but I headed over to Marin County nevertheless.
It would have been unfair to other people if I had not done so.
Probably the worst I have felt in years.
Dizzy, listless, feverish.

I couldn't even enjoy fine tobacco, believe it or not!
.
Both Friday night and Saturday night I slept fitfully.
Strange dreams, chills, and bladder breaks.
Today was altogether sickening.



Right now?

I feel fine. Not entirely over it yet, but heck, perfectly okay. My appetite is back, and I'm fighting an urge to go out for a drinkipoo. Go party with the crazy drag queens around the corner. See, they sing very well, and are great fun to be with. And they don't mind tobacco at all.

Haven't felt so utterly splendid in days.

Life is darn good, if you ask me.

Tomorrow gonna be neat.

Monday!

To celebrate, I think I will keep an eye peeled for random female charm, cheerfully alert to lithe figures and bright, bright eyes. And small hands. Especially small hands. Brilliant fine-boned women, oh yes.
Plus cups of hot beverage, and a baked product or two.
A long stroll with a loaded briar, aged Virginia.
Radiating the very best of health.

I shall ride the bus back and forth, glowing with vigour.
The very image of manly polish and vibrancy.
Which is my normal rosy state.


I hardly ever get sick.

Neener.




By the way: Everytime you enjoy a quality tobacco product, a tofu-snarfing angel dies. Usually in Berkeley.




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MALE AND FEMALE LINGUISTICS

It struck me the other day that men and women do not communicate very well. And that's largely because though we may speak the same language, we mean different things. A woman, for instance, will say "oh that purse is just darling", by which she means "surely you remember that my birthday is coming up soon". The man will think "what the hell, it looks stupid, I hope that it cost less than fifty bucks, I'll surprise her some time".
And: "did she have a birthday yet...., how old is she?!?"
Poor fool, it does NOT cost less than fifty bucks.
More like the price of a box of cigars.
Or ten boxes of cigars.
Padrons.

A woman will also exclaim "oh isn't she just precious" about another woman. Unlike her previous positive and loaded remark about the dreadful purse, what she really is saying is "good lord, she's dumb as a brick, please keep her the hell away from me".
The man, taking his good lady's words literally, proceeds to invite the dingbat to their dinner parties for the next ten years.
Because she's a precious person, and sisterhood is powerful.
His wife has so few truly precious friends.
He just wants her to be happy.

*      *      *      *      *

Shortly after the adorable little Asian American cigar aficionada came in with a male companion -- she bought several lovely sticks of excellent provenance, Nicaraguans, so I guess she's dumped the nimnoo she was seeing who believed cigars were unladylike -- three blondes waltzed in.
Unlike the aficionada, they were as near to braindead as I can tell.
Synapses exceedingly rare, scattered, and entirely off-target.
They spoke women-speak, like, darling!
Totally ding effing bat.
It was a trial.


For the benefit of my fellow men, here are some key phrases that may be utilized by women, with translations into normal speech. Like with all peculiar foreign languages, there's a nuanced approach, and different possibilities to take into account when construing.
More so if blonde and bourgeois.
Especially suburban.


"You can smoke cigars on the back porch, I don't mind."

Meaning A: We're probably going to get divorced within the year.
Meaning B: My mother is SO coming to stay with us.
Meaning C: You will never live this down.
Meaning D: Buy me that handbag.
Meaning E: We aren't going to have sex anytime this month.

"Oh I just love the smell of a good cigar!"

Meaning A: It keeps all other women away from you.
Meaning B: You smell like a rubbish dump.
Meaning C: Mom was right about you.
Meaning D: Can't stand it; handbag.
Meaning E: No sex this year.

"You can have the lads over for sports and pizza."

Meaning A: Their behaviour is a great source of material for my book.
Meaning B: The basement needs to be cleaned up soon.
Meaning C: I'm putting you on a diet, lardo.
Meaning D: An expensive handbag.
Meaning E: What makes you think we're ever having kids?

"Pipes are SO manly! You remind me of my dad!"

Meaning A: Me date YOU?!? You're off your nut! But seriously!
Meaning B: It's been twenty years but I still have nightmares.
Meaning C: Drooling and leaking. Do you do that too?
Meaning D: When was the last time you bathed?
Meaning E: You will NEVER have sex!

"A man with a pipe looks very intellectual!"

Meaning A: You look like a dried-up old lizard.
Meaning B: Damnation, you're a boring prick.
Meaning C: I'm not listening at all right now.
Meaning D: I know how to spell "ennui".
Meaning E: You have NO sex-appeal.


Obviously, not all women are like this. Some of them are much more like the lovely feminine cigar aficionada, who backslid so splendidly after avoiding cigars for several months last year. Thank heavens that period of her life is over. She really doesn't need some prissy noodge telling her to act more ladylike and abstain from cheroots.
Who the buggery heck does that ridiculous busybody think he is?
She's strongminded and has excellent taste in tobacco.
What a waste to let that go to waste.

Plus we understand clearly what she says when she talks, no interpretation is needed.

She speaks like us. She's a genius.

Welcome back, Suzie.

We missed you.




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BALKAN SOBRANIE: THE PERFUMED MEMORY

A few years ago my friend the Bookseller (who sometimes comments here styled as various types of 'amphibian') remarked that my blog seemed devoted to Balkan Sobranie. It irked him. He was far more interested in food posts and mentions of snarky Cantonese women, and there was not nearly enough of that. It was far too monochromatic.
Well, I like both food and snarky Cantonese women.
But beyond a certain point not much can be said.
Both of those things are very nice indeed.
And they are absolute necessities.
Which often go together.
That is all.

[Note of explication: good food is something you will frequently find in the vicinity of snarky Cantonese women. Because in addition to taking your ego down a couple of notches, they like nothing quite so much as scarfing down wonderful things tastefully prepared. That is why they can be easily introduced to French cuisine, Dutch raw herring, Indian curries, and Japanese raw fish. All of these things are excellent to eat, in the vicinity of Cantonese women. You may have to put your big ego on hold in the meantime, though.
They like tilting at windmills, and yours is a monster.]

Balkan Sobranie, however, is the subject of memories made golden and more diverse with each passing year. For the very simple reason that there is nothing quite like it, in a field awash with very similar tobacco mixtures.

It was invented a century ago by a fervid political activist from Odessa, who after spending time in Czarist jails and being contentious during the Bulgarian question, bailed out to England and became a tobacco company representative. Initially he commissioned a line of cigarettes featuring Balkan leaf, eventually he had built up enough relations with tobacco brokers and retailers that he devoted his energies solely to the company he had started. Dovid Rothshtein's obsession with Balkan politics can be seen in the names of his products: Balkan Sobranie - Original Smoking Mixture, Balkan Sobranie - Virginian No. 10 , and Balkan Sobranie - No. 759 Mixture.

[Respectively: white tin, yellow tin, black tin.]

There was also something called The Balkan Sobranie Flake.
The first three I have smoked; not the last one.
It came in a green tin.

Both the Original Smoking Mixture (white tin) and the 759 (black tin) were top-notch woman repellant; I did not realize that at the time.
But it explains much about my subsequent life.

[I used to be in a relationship with a Cantonese woman. My ego held up quite well, and I think that precisely that became a problem. Since breaking up with me she has had an involvement with someone whose ego benefits enormously from being taken down a peg. Sometimes she's like a cat chivying a rodent. Pat, pat, pat.... swat!]


The person who introduced me to the white tinned mixture was a tobacconist just off the Eindhovensche Weg in Valkenswaard, near the Hertog Jan College. I was fifteen, and I wanted something similar to a mixture which he no longer had (Balmoral Pijp Tabak) and which by now has probably not been available for decades. Opportunistically, but wisely, he suggested that I try this strange white tin with a badly drawn landscape on the label. Two peasant women and a line of carts heading toward a distant city.
He had tons of it. I think a travelling salesman had persuaded him to buy a truckload years before, and the refined pipe men of the area had refused to try anything which looked so odd and exotic.

It was a revelation. For the next two years, my face was wreathed in smiles, and my social life went down the tubes. Because, you see, it stank most marvelously. There was a great nose-feel to it, and from the first moist bowl to the last dried shreds several days later, it brought joy and a savage pleasure to my stunted teenage soul. While appalling all right-thinking people, and getting me thrown out of local cafes.

It was very lovely stuff.

Especially compared to the exceedingly nasty aromatics for which Holland is known. Back in the fifties Dutch tobacco companies ramped their foul experiments with vanilla, caramel, and fruit essences into overdrive, and wrecked the world of fine smoking by introducing several perfectly horrid concoctions which soon dominated the market and became the standards by which all other tobaccos were judged.
Women loved the sweet cloying fragrances, relatives did not object to the funk of cheap perfume, and their men had no taste. Between those two factors, the approved pipe smell fast became nasty and sweet.
Those were very bad times.

The names Clan, Sail, Amphora, and Royal Theodorus Niemeyer Tabaksfabrieken still fill me with dread.

[For some reason I am reminded of a Cantonese woman at a nearby pizzeria, with two male classmates. She was in heaven savouring every bite of cheese pie (dammit, I should've memorized the toppings for future reference), and they were somewhat pre-occupied with the ballgame on the telly. They may not have been idiots when not distracted by manly spandex botties.]

Most Dutch companies felt that ten percent Latakia (a dark smoke-cured leaf from the Levant, which adds a resinous sooty perfume while making blends smoke cooler) was more than enough. Balkan Sobranie white was fifty percent, and the black label was sixty percent.
It was exceedingly un-Dutch.


STINKY STINKY STINKY

One day the inevitable happened; my tobacconist ran out. And it was several weeks before he found another source. It did not taste quite the same, which baffled me. A year later when I returned to the States after sixteen years in Holland, what was on the shelves here was also different.
I didn't realize it at the time, but the difference was age. My tobacconist in Valkenswaard had been sitting on those tins for several years, and they were marvelously well-aged.

In fact, by that time it wasn't the same as it had been anyway.

Throughout the sixties and seventies there were minor changes; first Syrian Latakia was phased out -- solid tobacco houses often had a supply of various components to last for several years, so introducing Cyprus Latakia to the stockpile made for very gradual blend shift, the loyalists would not notice -- and by that time the Redstone family was no longer passionately committed to the field that their ancestor had exploited, OR to tumultuous Balkan and Russian political events.

[The original family name is variously given as 'Rothshtein'. 'Rotenstein', and 'Roitenshtein'; these translate easily into an Anglicised 'Redstone'. It has never been good to be too obviously Jewish in England.]

The famous Yenidje tobacco -- probably a trade name for Balkan leaf that David Redstone had invented, as it simply means 'new settlement' in Turkish -- was not available either, and several interesting blending Virginias were also a thing of the past.

Then Gallahers Tobacco Company in Belfast ended up with the blend, and over the next decade bollicksed it up so badly that it became no longer worth making. Before they did that I purchased nearly a hundred tins, of which, despite the interval of three decades, I have enough left to smoke only Balkan Sobranie for eight or nine months.

[It's all mine! No one is getting any!]

In the years since I got word that Sobranie was being sold to Gallagher, numerous imitations have been invented. None of them are precisely like the original, many of them are absolutely stellar. Not wanting to rapidly deplete my stash I ended up smoking many other mixtures.
Some of which I have also stockpiled.

Greg Pease has made quite a number of lovely tobaccos.
Cornell & Diehl have done likewise.
And the Danes.

[Over two hundred tins of Greg Pease's mixtures. Mostly English.]

The basic premise for an English-style or Balkan blend is up to half Latakia (40 - 50%), up to a quarter Oriental leaf (20 - 25%), and the rest fine Virginias (25 - 40%), including some nicely aged stuff.
Sobranie in it's original form had over sixteen components, but necessity forced changes, and nowadays the number of varietal Turkish tobaccos and interesting flue-cured blending products is severely reduced, and much that was peculiar has been standardized out of existence.
The perfume cannot be recaptured.

What has regrettably stayed the same is the universal repulsion many women feel when confronted with the odour of Latakia. Which, to a man, smells divine. It is very strange.

[Experiment with this: Ten or eleven parts Latakia, Five parts Turkish, Four parts rubbed-out medium flake, Two parts red ribbon, One part black Virginia Ribbon. Real black Virginia helps carry the Latakia, avoid plain black Cavendish and similar oddities.]

As a teenager, it was always a victory when I had enough money for a tin of Balkan Sobranie. I would happily go toddling off to the tobacconist to purchase my tin, and either crack it open then and there to greedily stuff a pipe, or go around the corner to the youth club (Parsifal), to enjoy a long slow twilight reading, smoking, and drinking tea in the otherwise empty cavern, as Netherlandish dusk slid into a cold darkness with streetlights in the distance. In autumn it often rained, and bicyclists holding umbrellas would glide past, dead leaves would slither along the gutters, or flurries of water would blatter the pavement.
That smell of creosote, so evocative, so redolent.

Balkan Sobranie was a natural part of life.
Smoky, leathery, and luxuriant.
But only I thought so.

Civilized people at the Auberge Central or the Bellevue on the Market Square would protest if I smoked that, and several times I got kicked out of Jo Den Urste or De Swaen because the ladies (even if not a single representative of that species was present) found it offensive.
Go forth and stink elswehere, you heathen!

So naturally I did.

Yes, I like women. Especially when they are intelligent and opinionated.
Snarky, food-obsessed, and full of piss and vinegar.
I don't think they make those anymore.
They were always scarce.
Now more so.

In that day and age, as an overly informed American teenage transplant with peculiar pipe-tobacco, rather than a standard-issue Dutchman smoking acceptable shag ciggies or factory mades, the concept of connecting with the other gender was thoroughly ridiculous.

Oh, there was more to it than that, but multilingual, literate, and fond of stinky tobacco were the most noticeable factors.

Nowadays, when I have a snack and a cup of tea in Chinatown, I light up a pipe afterwards. I think the women who work at my favourite bakeries and snackshops think of it as an acceptable eccentricity peculiar to middle-aged white men who speak Cantonese, and I doubt that they are as rigidly fastidious as the people in Valkenswaard.
I'm smelly, yes, but all white people smell.
It's just something we do.


ICING ON THE CAKE

There are a few lesbian non-smokers I knew over in the East Bay. Due to involvement in political activism I had to associate with them frequently for several years. They loathed the smell of good tobacco, while finding nothing objectionable about the rank odour of marijuana, which makes me nauseous.
They also let fly stupid opinions about food at the drop of a hat; eating meat is as much a sin and a perversion as smoking tobacco.
Pipes are nasty, meat eaters universally brutes.

Balkan Sobranie would have sent them into a frenzy.
I am so glad I no longer know them.
They were very irritating.

But I wish Balkan Sobranie were still around.
The old stuff; not the Arango version.
It's fun, but not the same.

Imagine the smell.


I realize that I need to find a companion who rather likes peculiar middle-aged men and doesn't mind the fragrance of old-fashioned pipe tobacco. Someone who reads a lot, and avoids smelly unguents, frilly shit, and the Hello Kitty gestalt.

I've got a few extra pipes.
Suitable for a woman.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE OLD THIRD OF CARTAGENA

Over three centuries ago the Spanish lost a battle in Northern France. The anniversary is a few days hence. And that is the only reason for this post. I'm jumping the gun, because I remembered it this morning.

On the nineteenth of May in 1643 two armies met outside the walls of Rocroi in the French Ardennes.


From Wikipedia:
"The German and Walloon tercios fled from the battlefield, while the Spanish remained on the field with their commander, repulsing four cavalry charges by the French and never breaking formation, despite repeated heavy artillery bombardment. Enghien then offered surrender conditions just like those obtained by a besieged garrison into a fortress. Having agreed to those terms, the remains of the two tercios left the field with deployed flags and weapons."

The Spanish lost nearly four times as many men as the French.


Here's a marvelous movie clip.

ALATRISTE: ESCENA FINAL

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcMCVHJkSPA.]

War has changed quite a bit since then. How lucky we are to live in this modern age, when our knowledge of infections (particularly gangrene and tetanus) has made everything so much better.


Mankind is truly blessed.



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CRAZY WHITE WOMEN

The Real Housewives of New York City. And by real is meant totally fake. Through mischance I have been exposed to the show -- meaning that my apartment mate likes to watch trashy teevee before she goes to sleep in her room -- and, having no television preferences myself in this age that does not know Arrested Development, Absolutely Fabulous, The X Files, or I Am Weasel, I patiently come along for the ride.
Usually I read up on the American Civil War.
While absorbing the vulgarian behaviour.
One of them looks like a platypus.
They're all horrible people.

I suppose I should not take them as typical examples of blondes, in the same way that The Real Housewives of Atlanta give fat black women an undeserved bad name. Most people don't act like that.

Nor are they typical of New York.

Other than whining.


Now here's the frightening thing: they're more or less my age. My more misguided friends would advise me to court women like that. I cannot think of anything more repulsive than those slaggy rich bitches.

I have no clue why my apartment mate enjoys these shows; possibly it's because she likes seeing other women doing stupid things. It's a point of comparison, perhaps. And I note that all of them have bigger arses and hands. That too probably makes her feel good.
For her, it's cheaper than therapy.
I find it traumatizing.


If I spend too much time in the teevee room on my computer while she plonks away on hers during The Real Housewives from Hell, it almost always gives me a tight feeling in my head.
Post-traumatic stress disorder.
An internalized scowl.


Bring back Futurama.
And The Tick.



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SOME DANES ARE MEAN BASTARDS

Good lord, I do not know what possessed me. Perhaps it was a previous venture into degeneracy which went well, or maybe just a perverse desire to tilt against windmills. Possibly even early onset dementia, but whatever the cause or reason, it is NOT ever to be repeated.
Utterly a failed experiment.

It was unimaginably nasty.


A few years ago MacBaren mounted a two-pronged assault on the North American market. Untapped pipe-smokers, oh boy!

At the high end, stellar products under the HH line.

At the low end, the Seven Seas tobacco mixtures.


I did not realize quite how low they were aiming.


Just after finishing a splendid teatime repast at one of the cheap but stellar snack counters I favour in Chinatown, I lit up a bowlful of an aromatic pipe mixture from that estimable company. Yes, I gave it the old college try.
But holy crap! Whatever that sh*t is, it's vile!

The Danish foray into low-end American preference pipe tobaccos is quite possibly the worst comment on the average American smoker that can be imagined. After one quarter of a bowl I gave up. Emptied the soggy shreds into the gutter, and resolved never to venture down that path again.
I'm just glad nobody saw me. I must have looked green.

Green white men in Chinatown are sufficiently a rarity that comment would have been excited. Don't need that. Not after putrid dank fumes from a swamp infected with vanilla butterscotch pus.
My pins wobbled.


7 SEAS ROYAL BLEND, BY MAC BAREN
An aromatic mixture of Black Cavendish, Burley, and Virginia.

Whoever came up with this idea should be severely chastised. Draw blood, and please leave scars. Rancid butterscotch?!? Good frikkin' grief! Thank heavens it was a sample, just a small quantity of miserable pipeweed.
As a cheapskate penny-pinching Dutchman, it would have pained me to throw out more. Such a waste!
You Danes must be absolute spendthrifts.
And gamblers to boot.


I had in previous weeks actually ventured into headhunting heathen territory, by smoking several bowls of 1-Q, a modest little stinky whore by Lane Limited, which is one of the three most popular bulk-bag "house mixtures" in America. Mild, not objectionable, with a high level of honest satisfaction if you overlook the "bang-me-bubba" perfume. Along with BCA, and RLP6. Both of which are also unloathsome, if not actually to be taken seriously.
All three smoke moist, due to gloop.
That being a technical term.
Signifying 'gloop'.

Decent.

Seven Seas is not like that. It is quite disgusting.
And yes, it too is sodden with gloop.
I shall have nightmares.

Please note that whenever one smokes American-preference aromatics, it is advisable to nuke them six or seven times for eight second increments in the microwave to dry them out. Otherwise it's like handling soggy sphagnum. Because of the gloop.


Tea consisted of a steamed chicken bun, three little pork siu mai, and a jin deui, with a cup of coffee. Self-administered medical treatment following the experiment with the Danish daemon-weed was a hot cup of HK-style milk-tea and a 糯米紅豆沙燒餅 in a pleasant environment to calm my jangled nerves. Sometimes I am a very sensitive person.
A bowl filled with flake medallions after that.
A modest man of simple tastes.


臘味荳角煲仔

Dinner, which is on the stove now, will be a slow-simmered claypot dish consisting of yard-long beans ("kouseband") with fried tofu chunks, chilies, abalone sauce, preserved meat (臘肉), pinch of curry, pinch sugar, small dash sesame oil, chopped scallions, plus sautéed garlic and ginger.
It's a very simple preparation, which with minor modifications to render it quite tasteless, would appeal to Buddhists and vegetarians as well as many other Bay Area white people.

I'll probably smoke some Capstan before bed.
And stroll around the neighborhood.
I need to coddle myself.

TOBACCO INDEX


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PALEO DIET - A LOAD OF CODSWALLOP

According to some food "experts", humans are best suited to eating nuts, fruits, roots, and huge scads of nearly raw protein. They assert that grain products, dairy, and coffee, as well as highly refined white sugar, are the root cause of all the ailments that plague modern man.

To a very limited extent, I agree. American bread is by and large a horrifying composite of no food value whatsoever, somewhere in between sponge and cotton wool. As is the most popular dairy product in the U.S., that being factory cheese. And the less said about traditional American coffee and its bastard descendant at Starbucks, the better.


In the first four or five years after returning to the States -- I lived from my second to my eighteenth year in northern Europe -- discovering what the locals here considered normal bread, cheese, and coffee was an unending source of shock, horror, disdain, and loathing. Mostly loathing.
At that time, Berkeley was still horribly Midwestern.
Now it's just very Puritan about everything.

Fortunately I no longer live there.

Things have changed.

Sourdough is real bread, and there are many other good baked goods available in San Francisco. California cheese kicks butt. Both Peet's and the Caffe Trieste are bright spots in a howling wilderness of ghastly.

There's also Chinatown, and the Italian neighborhood, so good prepared food can indeed be had, despite the propensity of most people to scarf down tasteless garbage covered in ketchup.

And sweet 'n sour sauce. Y'all LOVE sweet 'n sour sauce.

From the moment I realized the culinary-predicament I was in upon my return, I have been fascinated by cooking, which has meant that in addition to being able to abstain from eating the weird stuff that so many Americans devour (just think about grilled cheese sandwiches made with wet packing material and compressed yellow sheets of fatty factory exudate, or "tuna and canned green bean casserole"), I could entertain myself.
While shocking concerned friends.
Tasty! And good!


The Paleo diet posits that we should NOT eat good food.
Instead, we should all eat fruits and nuts.
High-fibre, too. For our guts.

Paleo poo is good poo.


The premise of the Paleo Diet, as with most ridiculous modern food fads, founders on the omnivorousity and food-flexibility of man. As well as the fact that our ancestors, for several thousands of years, were sex-obsessed stunted little in-bred trolls, constantly bedevilled by parasites, chronic malnutrition, and filthy ailments in their groins.

[For more about ridiculous diets, see here: Best Diets Overall.]

They ate whatever they could steal from other humans, in between long bouts of unimaginably horrid sexual profligacy.

We are no longer quite that. Our food sources are infinitely better and more interesting. We're still substantially perverts, but we now have football and flexible rubber devices; sex has been substantially "solved".
And much as I like randy-nasty, this post is not about that.
Nor is it an argument in favour of vegetarianism.
There's nothing better than a nice roast.
Meat is good. Hot juicy meat.
Add some Béarnaise.
Lubricant!

In addition to having superlative dairy and vegetables, and many perfectly acceptable breads, California also has a sufficiency of morons and self-obsessed and badly-informed nutballs convinced that organic is best, tofu is god, gluten is a satanic plot by the big-pharma to make us all obedient slaves, and that the government and the food-industry are out to get each of them specifically. The amount of drivel spewed by many perfectly "normal" middle-class people convinces me that the only thing really wrong with the American diet is that it gives idiots energy and keeps them alive.
Which seems a senseless endeavor.

Quite frankly, what you lot in the rest of the country (Marin, Berkeley, etcetera) eat is downright appalling. Instead of reading crackpot diet books and listening to Doctor Oz or the Food Babe, try exploring the Larousse Gastronomique and a selection of fun cookbooks.


Stop being such a bunch of prissy poo-obsessed nineteenth century protestants!

And please, don't talk about your colons.


Better yet, cover a vat of tofu with bacon and ketchup, OR nuts and dried fruits, and stick your silly faces right down into it.
Till your heads explode.

That will allow the rest of us to take over the space that y'all so selfishly occupy, expand our possibilities, and diminish the competition for real bread, real cheese, real coffee, and, of course, Sriracha Hotsauce.


End the take-over groceries and restaurants with horse manure.



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Yeah, I woke up grumpy this morning. I am middle-aged, stubborn, and haven't a wife, children, or even a girlfriend. A solitary man, with only Béarnaise sauce and Sriracha to comfort me.
I've only had coffee for breakfast.
Why do you ask?



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AN EXCELLENT CUP OF HONG KONG MILK TEA

Several years ago a lesbian of my acquaintance made yum-yum sounds about the shapely teenage daughter of a colleague. Before she found out who the girl was. Now, far be it from me to begrudge another person a filthy mind -- lord knows I have one, and it gives me much joy -- but it does serve to illustrate that one must, above all, be extremely careful about what comes out of one's mouth.


There was a nice young lady sitting opposite me on the bus down to Chinatown yesterday. No, I have no idea whether she's shapely or not; her clothing was comfortable and baggy, and I spent the entire time admiring her very fine nose, mouth, cheeks, lips. Nicely sculpted lips. Out of the corner of my eye. Surreptitious. Sneaky glances.
Excellent peripheral vision.

A friend once said that I was born a dirty old man.
And that I've been getting better ever since.
As well as, vampire like, younger.


Saw her again as I was scarfing down a lovely charsiu roll, which was deliciously flaky, and a hot cup of Hong Kong style milk-tea.
I've been going to her dad's coffee shop for years.
Never even knew he had a daughter.


Two good things stand out:

1) I am far too self-disciplined to say anything culpable to a complete stranger, OR let anyone realize that my eyes are going into hyper-drive. See, my eyes are deepset, and unless there's a direct glance, I look exactly like the mysterious and poker-faced raccoon.

2) She was too self-absorbed or preoccupied to notice anything. I have reason to believe she had recently come from the dentist.
Don't ask for details, you won't get any.


I know where she got her features from.
It all makes complete sense now.




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A LOVELY PARTY FOR TWO

One of the regulars was in fine spirits when he came rolling in, as he had enjoyed a splendid Mothers' Day. Unlike his mom. And he couldn't wait to spill the details.

She's in the hospital at present. Due to her own stupid behaviour.
And it tickled him no end.

No need to worry, she'll be out tomorrow.

A much chastened woman.

Beyond doubt.


You see, the old lady doesn't like cash machines. Never has. She thinks that having to remember four digits, from a very limited selection of ten of them, all of which have their own significance and meaning, is just too much. Why, it's a horrible imposition, and as a free-spirited mystical womb-person in Marin County, she is beyond petty bourgeois slavery like that. That is something only males of the species are meant for.
Of which there are two. In the same house.
Her husband. And her son.

Yes, he still lives at home. As do many fine engineers.

He also does most of the cooking, because he likes to eat.

Apparently, edible food is ALSO a form of slavery.

Free people live on sunlight and teevee dinners.


Anyhow, for many years his mom has been in the habit of raiding wallets that menfolk casually leave unattended whenever she needs some ready cash. She always pays it back, but it's mighty inconvenient to discover when you're buying coffee at the local Starbucks that you have not a penny on you, because your mom felt like buying stuff.

A bit embarrassing, too.

Yes, I'd like to charge my venti.

No, I'm NOT just showing off my Platinum card.


Both he and his dad have repeatedly told her to stop doing that. Steadfastly she continues to borrow their funds. Every single scrap of paper currency in the captured wallet. AND she avidly examines whatever credit card receipts might be in there.

They're her men-folk, so what's wrong?
It is her privilege as a "liberating modern woman".
And she will NOT abide by the rules of a stupid machine!

Again, I stress that she always pays the money back (according to her son). But still. It's inconvenient. Irritating. An invasion of privacy and an attack on the integrity of one's personal purse.


At five-thirty in the morning she came sneaking into his room. Tiptoed across the carpet. Silently, deadly, stealthily. Gingerly in the dark, ever so considerate, and attentive to the fact that her son's girlfriend lying right next to him was a light sleeper. Didn't want to wake the girl up and freak her out, the more so as everyone was still pretending that the son was not bringing that woman into the house on weekends.

Then she stumbled over a shoe.

And fell against the dresser.

Toppling it with a crash.


Upshot: one broken toe. Wrenched ankle. And a cracked ulna, just below the flexor digitorum sublimis ( I had to look that up for spelling, as it certainly isn't a word-cluster I use every day).
Plus bruises and contusions.


Not many thirty six year old men can boast that for Mother's Day they took their mom to the emergency room to start the celebration.


And the money was still in his wallet, enough to have a fabulous brunch afterwards with his girlfriend. They had had a wonderful time. It had been delicious. Peaceful and dreamy, surrounded by platters of animal protein and various lovely buttery dishes!


As he explained while rooting around among the Nicaraguan cigars, mom was slightly sedated, and being held for a bit of observation. Several nasty bruises, and that broken toe. They may have to go in. Something like that. In any case, she wasn't coming home till Monday. His dad had gone up to the Sierras immediately after the family outing to the hospital, determined to have some quiet time away from his kin. Sometimes retired men need to be alone, and his dad deserved a few days at the cabin, with or without a bottle and a rod.

He was not entirely making complete sense at that point, because he and his lovely young lady had rather overindulged in the champagne during their meal, and had also had some cognac with their coffee afterwards. Now they both needed cigars.


Before heading back to the empty house for loud sex.


Best. Mother's. Day. Ever.


Due to mobility issues, Mom won't be able to raid his wallet for several weeks. At least until the toe and ankle are healed.
That definitely is worth celebrating.




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THERE ARE NO YUMMY THIGHS!

The problem with San Francisco is that summer weather is beastly. And summer came early this year. Instead of an extended period of warm weather, we have cold. Here it is, the very middle of May, and in other parts of the country warm zephyrs gently stroke the downy cheek.

Boston: mid-seventies.
Dallas: low seventies.
Detroit: mid sixties.
Los Angles: mid sixties.
Miami: low eighties.
New York: low to mid-seventies.
Sacramento: nearly seventy.
Seattle: mid sixties.
Tampa: mid-seventies.
Las Vegas: eighty five degrees.
Washington DC: mid seventies.
Woodbury, Georgia: mid seventies.

SAN FRANCISCO: 46 DEGREES!

And dropping fast.


You've heard of Raynaud's Phenomenon, haven't you? With Raynaud's Phenomenon, due to tension or more often cold weather, circulation in the fingers and toes completely shuts down, leading first to a drained whiteness in the affected areas -- what we may affectionally refer to as "scary Zombie hands" -- then, within ten minutes or so, cyanosis, which makes the hands look like they were fished out of the East River.

Per Wikipedia:
"It is a hyperactivation of the sympathetic nervous system causing extreme vasoconstriction of the peripheral blood vessels, leading to tissue hypoxia. Chronic, recurrent cases of Raynaud phenomenon can result in atrophy of the skin, subcutaneous tissues, and muscle. In rare cases it can cause ulceration and ischemic gangrene."

There is a lack of tactile sensitivity, and an unpleasant numbness.
Plus an icky sensation of tightness in the finger tips.

This can be alleviated by holding the fingers under the hot water tap, folding the hands around a nice warm beverage, touching a woman who won't slap you (or a man, if you are a woman), cupping breasts and gently twiddling pert nipples (sadly, no corresponding equivalent for women), or firmly clenching hands together between one's own thighs, then curling up in a fetal position and pathetically whimpering about the beastly! cold.

As I type this, I cannot feel the keyboard.

It's so buggery cold!


Again, from Wikipedia:
"Some refer to Primary Raynaud's disease as "being allergic to coldness." It often develops in young women in their teens and early adulthood. Primary Raynaud's is thought to be at least partly hereditary, although specific genes have not yet been identified.

Smoking increases frequency and intensity of attacks, and there is a hormonal component. Caffeine also worsens the attacks. Sufferers are more likely to have migraine and angina."

Smoking? Check. Caffeine? Oh heck yes.
And I am young at heart, at least.
But not a teenage woman.
Thank heavens.


I cannot feel the G*&amm3d! keyboard!


Where, I ask indignantly, are the warm zephyrs?!? I was told that there would be warm zephyrs! If there are any nice young ladies who wish to engage upon a mission of mercy, I should be keen to know. Please use the 'Letter Box' below, OR the comments field, to inform me.

Zephyrs!

In the meantime, I'm going to bed early. I've got a lovely down comforter, plus fuzzy blankets and stuffed animals.
Tomorrow is another day.




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I'M SMOKING!

Frankly, I can't stand pot. It smells bad, the claim that it is therapeutic is mostly a load of codswallop, and pot-heads need to be put on the special bus and driven out of town.

This, more or less, was the thought that crossed my mind when a friend mentioned a band of which you may have heard: The Grateful Dead.

For craps sakes, folks, that bunch of superannuated dopers had their golden age when patchouli was still in vogue! If y'all weren't zoned out of your minds on ganj, you'd realize that nearly half a century has passed since they started! What, you're amazed at how time has flown? Get your heads out of that smelly cloud of tetrahydrocannabinol, welcome to the real world, have some coffee!

And take a bath.


As you may have gathered, caffeine is one of my drugs of choice. Most pot-smoking degenerates I know abjure coffee, as well as tea. And have queer-ass ideas about tobacco, sugar, gluten, animal protein, dairy, digestion, and personal cleanliness.

I do not allow pot-smokers into the house.
Unfortunately I know a few.

They're "sub-functional".


The sixties were ghastly, the seventies even worse, and the eighties were probably the foulest decade in post-war history. That anyone wishes to recreate the energy of those dark times is, frankly, sick.


On the other hand, the nineties and two-thousands were pretty cool.


Snoop Dog, man, Snoop Dog!


Plus The Beastie Boys, Radio Head, and Nirvana.


Justin Bieber grew up on The Dead. All the dumb-ass Republicans you hate partied to their music, got wasted, and committed depravity with the drugged-out sisters of classmates while listening to Jerry Garcia.
Ronald Reagan, suicide, and syphilis were common results.
Damned pot-smoking freaks.

People who STILL listen to The Grateful Dead are mentally covered with acne. They regret never banging the high school cheerleader, or conversely not being the high school cheerleader. Sometimes, both.

Marijuana; it's the gateway drug to senescence.

Instead: Caffeine, nicotine, and cane sugar.

I'm a doctor; I can say these things.

Good morning, world.

Bath time.



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WE'RE VIRTUALLY THE SAME AGE! HOW REMARKABLE!

According to several clickbait internet surveys my real age is twenty eight. Although one site begged to inform me that I was sixty five, and another one in all seriousness suggested between 13 and 15.
Obviously I do not age the same way as you humans.
My species is extraordinarily long-lived.
A blessing and a curse.


Okay, now that you had a second or two to absorb that datum, it's time to remind you that age and fuddiduddiness do not necessarily correlate. Some people are old farts at twenty, others never grow up. Appearances may deceive.

One of the reasons I like hanging out in Chinatown on my days off is because when they see the silver in my beard they assume that I am worthy of some respect. It's very refreshing!
If you're looking up, it may seem worse than it is. Chinese people of my age never have any white hair. But white people such as myself, well, that's a different story.

[The beard is one of those typical well-trimmed circular bristle patches. Such as Sean Connery -- who genuinely looks like an elderly fossil, unlike me -- has. Other actors with similar facial fuzz: Malcolm McDowell, Hugh Jackman, and Vigo Mortensen.]


I used to think my beard was like Indira Gandhi, hanging upside-down, but then the white streak started invading the other areas.


Anyhow, because of that deceptively mature look, Chinese people will be polite and considerate most of the time. On the bus they offer me a seat (remember, the view is worse from below). It's very flattering.
Now now. There there. No need, no need. M-sai hak-hei.

I actually prefer to stand on the bus. Sitting puts my eyes at standee crotch or arse level. Especially in the old-folks seats at the front.


The person who has the other room in this apartment still looks like she's in her early thirties at most. When the light is right, mid-twenties. I will not divulge her age, but she's only nine years younger than myself. Did I already mention that Chinese people don't ever look their age?
When she wants to, she radiates "SO not-guilty".

Nope. Did not do it. Not me.
Don't know what you mean.
I had nothing to do with it.
I'm just a sweet little lady!


If I ever end up with another companion, presumably one of a suitable number of years (let's say plus or minus twenty-eight, seeing as all the wise clickbait sites with two exceptions postulate that that is my "real" age), problems may occur. If and when we're together people might assume that she's taking her college tutor out for snackies. How nice!
The contrast with my evident maturity will naturally make that person seem exceptionally young and innocent. Especially because I'll be studiously trying to NOT look like a wicked old geezer.

Me? I'm just a decent middle-aged man, altogether trustworthy.
Does this face look like it could even plot evil?
I did not take your coconuts!




My ability to look socially acceptable and plausibly blameless is much better than in the past. The neatly trimmed beard, plus the twinkle-eye reading specs, and my bright friendly facial expression, present an image of totally not-misbehaving forest creature. Someone whom you will gladly let lurk around your shiny things or secret stash of grubs.

I am not looking at your coconuts.

Honest.



AFTER THOUGHT



[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf670orHKcA.]


Good grief. I'm not THAT old!




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KINDLY SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU

Some of my friends wonder why I no longer post much about politics, or offer my brilliant (or insane) insights anent world affairs in this blog.
I do not do so for a very good reason: them.
One section of my friends subscribes to the theory that Obama is the be-all and end-all of evil, determined to impose a crypto-Muslim socialist United Nations choke hold on America, another (opposing segment) insists that Obama is actually a Fascist rightwinger hand-in-glove with the banking industry and the Christian extremes.


Please understand that in this context, 'friend' is used strictly to mean person whom I sort-of know, but whose sanity I sincerely doubt.


TWATS, BOTH VACUOUS AND JEJUNE

A few of them will always and eternally bring the subject of conversation back to the evil Muslims (all of them) who are plotting our downfall, funding terrorists, preaching hatred of the west, and sending their sons to fight in Syria.

Likewise, some of them constantly forward rock-hard evidence that liberals and gays are undermining the very fabric of American society, have un-American values, and are destroying our country from within.

Some have absolutely no good words for any man or idea to the right of Barry Goldwater.

Or to the left.

The internet has not made information more available so much as it has made insanity more prevalent.


"All Muzzies bad. No good ones. Kill them all, God will know his own."


In the past, voicing strong opinions about several subjects on this blog got me death threats and hate mail.

Real-life encounters with people who claimed that they were on the very same side were often marked by venomous accusations and indignant demands that I change my opinions to something more outré.
Forth-effing-whith!

Insults and strong opinions were screamed. Or sneered. Or whined.


"You're a Trotskyite race-hating homosexual!"


Some of those people accused me of being neurotic, heathen, liberal, Jesuitical, a neo-nazi, a communist. Besides being a very well-trained Christian critic of the Talmud, and a savage Christian-hating Jew.
An agent of the Jewish cabal that runs the world, as well as a pro-Arab infiltrator. And a Stalinist. Animal-hater! Vegetarian!

I no longer associate with those "friends".

Nor meet them for coffee.

They're nuts.



The past three years have been extraordinarily enjoyable. My free-time is taken up by reading (yes, also on the internet, but selectively and critically), heading over to Chinatown for snackipoos and hot milk-tea, an occasional pipe filled with good tobacco, and a spot of whisky now and then. My health is better, my manly figure trimmer and leaner, and my complexion now remarkably smooth and blemish free. The tentacles are almost gone, and my horns and tail have disappeared. No more bony armour plates.
Nor ichor and miasmas.

[PHOTO CREDIT: SPM / MM, et auctores antequam.]

Sometimes I listen to stirring war music in foreign languages.
Or ogle fair maidens wot never suspect a thing.
I do not regret absenting myself.



I don't actually have a dog in this fight. Whichever fight it is. I want to arm bears and bunny rabbits. And write about smoking and food.

Did I already mention that I wish to ride on a different planet? There's just too many smelly drunks occupying seats on this one.


Comments welcome.



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IN SAN FRANCISCO'S SAVAGE SUMMER

The other day I found out that a direct ancestor sired his first son when he was seventy years old. Which, you'll have to admit, is a rather late start. There were two more that followed. This datum contrasts nicely with another ancestor who had over two dozen living offspring, by three successive wives, only the last of whom outlived him.

Both men lived before television or even radio had been invented.
One imagines that zesty activities of a procreative nature may have been a way of staying entertained on long winter evenings, which begs the question what the late-starter did for several decades to stay warm and busy before the birth of his firstborn.

That may take a bit more research.


I notice, by the way, that the weather has turned summer-like. What that means in San Francisco is that by dusk it is blustery, after nightfall distinctly frigid. Quite beastly, in fact. The cold is horrid.
My right leg aches like billy-o.
Couple that with the fact that there is absolutely nothing on teevee, and you can see my quandary. As well as why finding out what my ancestor was doing for fun for fifty years plus is urgent.

I hope it wasn't parcheesi. Or whist.

Actually, neither is a likely possibility, as parcheesi does not seem to be mentioned much before the 1870's, and whist is akin to gambling, which my genetic stock is predisposed to disdain.

Long winter evenings in Upstate must have been frightful. Darkness, cold, dehydrated cheese, and bad cider. The stultifying company of uncles and aunts, or slope-browed neighbors who remembered one as a child. Sooty rafters, smelly clothes, and damp accommodations.
They probably had Bible-reading parties.

Without coffee and tobacco they would have killed themselves.


I've got coffee and tobacco.


In bucket loads.

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JADE HELM: THE TEXAS CLARION CALL

The more I think about it, the more I understand the United States' rationale for planning to attack Texas. Not only is the regime down there flirting with pernicious political extremism, but there is clear undeniable evidence that Weapons of Mass Destruction (toxic chemicals) are presently being developed for use against neighboring countries.
The world will never accept this.


Many natives of Texas are followers of a religious creed that promotes violence and misogyny, and untold thousands languish in brutal jails in that territory, while their undemocratic leaders run roughshod over any and all considerations of decency or civilized norms. They sneer at all universal values, and flaunt their depravities. This cannot continue. There are times when the Free World must stand up and fulfill its moral obligations.
The hour is now, that time has come, our course is clear.
We are a beacon. We must act.
Invade Texas.


Besides, they're sitting on our oil.


All true Americans support the sending in of ground troops and black helicopters. We shall impose democracy by force.


For truth, justice, and the American way.



Save the orphans of Texas.



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FIFTY SEVEN PERCENT OF REPUBLICANS

Nearly sixty percent of this nation's Republicans wish that Christianity be made the official religion of the United States. I have no problem with that. We are talking about my heritage, right? Which, even though we haven't been to church in generations, is a rigidly always-right-about-everything form of Dutch Calvinism. Because we despise every one equally.


No other version of Christianity is worthy.

Only hard-core Calvinism.

It's a blessing.


Not 'Presbyterianism', which is a despicable weak-kneed pantywaist creed; not 'Southern Baptism', whose adherents are all inbred sister-bangers from crap-holes like Texas, 'Bama, and Mizzipy; not Seventh Day Adventism, which consists entirely of whiny drips who were starved for attention as children. And Methodists are ab initio foul and moronic.
Heaven forfend that you might even mean Catholicism, Anglicanism, and Eastern Orthodox. Bunch of twisted dress-wearing constipants.

The ONLY version of Christianity worthy of consideration is Reform Dutch Calvinism. And I can assure you that all other sects shall go to hell, as their adherents are by definition the damned of the earth.
Besides being very silly.

In fact, if you turn 'Christianity' into the official religion of this country, it then naturally follows that my tribe (severe Calvinists, Belgic Confession, Canons of Dort, Psalter of Marnix van Sint Aldegonde, providential, non-Ledeboerian) have a license to hunt down and burn everybody else at the stake. Or, if sufficient firewood can not be found in a timely fashion, to rip out the guts of the heretics with dispatch, and possibly a chainsaw.

Whatever is most convenient at the time.


This is a prospect about which I am enthused.


Because in addition to being utterly perverse heretics, they are also practitioners of witchcraft.

Again, we're talking about Presbyterians, Southern Baptists, Seventh Day Adventists, Methodists, Catholics, Anglicans, and the Eastern Orthodox.

Mormons are not even Christians, merely the crawling maggots from Devilworship's rotting corpse. Torch them.

Well now.

A flock of unclean beasts.


CITE:
Republicans apparently have no misgivings about turning the United States into a Christian theocracy. The poll’s crosstabs reveal that support for making Christianity the official religion is strongest among Mike Huckabee (94 percent), Rick Perry (83 percent), and Ben Carson (78 percent) supporters.
END CITE.

Source: http://www.politicususa.com/2015/02/25/57-republicans-dismantle-constitution-christianity-national-religion.html.


FURTHER CITE:
The PPP survey also found that 2/3rds of Republican voters do not believe in global warming, and 49 percent do not believe in the theory of evolution.
END FURTHER CITE.


I need to point out that my own ancestral version of Christianity (which obviously is the only true version), does not dispute science, and is absolutely realistic in its view of the world.

Which my very reasonable loathing of those degenerate and debased other versions of Christianity merely illustrates.

Destroying them utterly is solidly founded in holy scripture.

Set their entire world on fire.

Burn them all.



By the way, Mormons, Baptists, and end of times apocalyptics, make my skin crawl. That by itself lends credence to my screed: what true Christians need to fear most is spiritual pollution from the dark side.
That being the churches of England, Rome, Luther, and the South.
Vast herds of gibbering daemon-spawn.
Mormons!




Also the official language will be Swedish. Silence! In addition to that, all citizens will be required to change their underwear every half-hour. Underwear will be worn on the outside, so we can check.


I like leprosy, Nancy, I like cholera.
I like all the major skin diseases.




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MANGO AND MUSTARD

My apartment mate has developed an affection for mangoes. Nearly everyday for the past two weeks she has been indulging in her passion, openly and rather brazenly sucking up the lush sweet tender fruit and pulpy bits, slurping the juice. This is disturbing to me, because while ripe mangoes are perfectly fine in their own way, the wise man knows that the best use for mango is to pickle it when green.


MAMIDIKAYA AVAKAYA
Andhra-style mango pickle

For each cup of chunked hard green mango, use four TBS hottest chili powder, four TBS fresh ground black mustard seed powder, and four TBS non-iodized salt. Plus one Tsp. fenugreek seeds.

Wash and wipe the mango pieces with a dry sterilized cloth. Remove the inner part of the pit and its membrane thoroughly by scraping it out with a spoon or knife. Be rigorous, as its inclusion in your pickle encourages spoilage. Put the prepared pieces in a large ceramic bowl.
Mix the chili powder, mustard seed powder, and salt. Coat the mango pieces well with this, rubbing it on and in so that the salt and flavour will penetrate. Mix in the fenugreek seeds, and six tablespoons of oil.
Turn with a clean scooper to mix well, ladle into a sterilize jar, and pour the remaining oil from bowl into the jar. Let it stand, loosely covered, for three to five days. When it is 'done', the oil should float on top.
It can keep for a very long time, but as there will be hard green mangoes again next year, that usually won't happen.

Note: to perfectly prepare the mustard seeds before grinding, spread them on a plate and microwave them for thirty six seconds. They will be warm to the touch, and will exude oil when ground in a mortar.
The mortar, of course, should be sterilized before use.

The best oil for pickles is pale sesame (gingelly) oil.
Which, you know, is NOT the Chinese product.
But any clean high quality oil will do.

Adding half a teaspoon of turmeric promotes keepability.


Enjoy it with a rice dinner.


Mango is 'mamidikaya'. One can also make avakaya with many other vegetables, such as cucumber or cauliflower. But by far most avakaya is mango, so the term is commonly understood to mean a mamidikaya pickle.
Many people add garlic cloves when making this, but I do not trust garlic in oil pickles; they lose bite and eventually taste peculiar.

豬腰芒

While wandering around Chinatown yesterday I spotted some beautiful yellow pigs' kidney mangoes (豬腰芒 'chyu yiu mong'), which are small, approximately the size of a hen's egg. One doesn't often find such.
I would have certainly bought them if they were green.
I woke up dreaming of mango pickle.




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